Postcard from the Edge of the World

I'm standing on the rim of the world,

at the far edge of far, 

next stop Japan.

I am thinking of you.

The news is bad.

It is very bad.

But the view is beautiful

from here.

I send you

a small postcard

of hope

across the waves.

May it reach you
in time.

for   Kim's  prompt at Real Toads: to write a postcard from the seaside. I re-wrote a postcard poem from 2017 for this prompt. I had more hope the first time I wrote it. Smiles.

WHEN I COME BACK, I WILL BE GRIEF

source

When I lived by the lake 

- smell of cattails and weeping willow -
it was always summer.
I woke to the sound of water
slapping the side of the cottage:
my Grandma, watering things down
against the heat of the day.
Then she pulled the canvas awnings down
like sleepy eyelids
over the front windows.

Smell of sweet peas, peonies and pinks;
wisteria, mimosa.
Tall hollyhocks beside the hammock
where I dreamed away
summer afternoons.

I remember being

the only swimmer in the lake,

during an afternoon thunderstorm,

back then,

the air metallic,

pewter sky lowering,

rumbling, growling.

I was whole, then,
before the fracturing and distress
of living through my teens,

of growing up,

and men, and pain and calamity,

the rest of my life spent

reclaiming

all I had lost.

I will return to that wholeness
from whence I came, one day.
I will be cattails, 

standing dry, bent and broken
at the edge of the pond.
I will be wolf-pup, 

peering fearfully
from my den,
knowing, to survive,
I must elude
the predatory Two-Leggeds,

who are everywhere.

I will be deer,
fleeing the flaming forests.

I will be mother orca, holding
my dead newborn calf above the water
for three days, grieving,

unable to let her go.

I will be grief itself,
watching the world I love
burning itself up.

Puppy Dog Hearts and Hope

My friend Menina

I am made of puppy dog hearts

and soft silver moons,

blue skies and the song of the sea,

wrinkled dreams and

threadbare hope,

fatigue and

rich remembering.

I am made of ancestral stories

told by hearth fires,

ancient drumbeats, prophecy,

and visions of a

Rainbow Race, 

arising.

And i am made of

lost love and wolf howls,

tears and cackles,

forest wilderness

and birds singing

the morning in.

All of these songs

make their home in me.

I perch on the limb

of my inner tree

and sing them to you,

so you can see

how beautiful this life

has always been

to me.

I changed the last stanza of this older poem, and will share it with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where there is fine reading every Sunday morning.

The Word for Wilderness is Home

In the language of the original peoples of this land, there is no word for wilderness. The closest word

for wilderness is "home". They live upon the land -and with the land- not as a dominant species, as we mamalthni* live, but as part of the interconnected whole, which must provide for future descendants to the seventh generation. Each family is responsible for and to a territory, ensuring that only what is needed  is taken, with respect, the land then allowed to heal. Each tribe has its hahuulthi**, with its own protocols, responsibilities, and language, handed down over thousands of years.

People and land are one.

No word for wilderness

but "Home".

*mamalthni - white people
**hahuulthi - traditional territory


A very irregular haibun for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Wilderness

Distraught Sister Moon

source

Distraught Sister Moon,

I see you up there, pacing around,

wringing your hands,

"what to do, what to do, what to do?"

Down below, all hell is breaking loose:

bombings, shootings, drought,

famines, floods, melting icebergs,

forest fires,

wildlife fleeing in terror,

no where to hide,

dangerous people with bad hair

behaving badly.

I see you trying to efface your fullness

quickly, perhaps thinking

if you lessen your roundness

the populace can return to calm

under a slice of moon.

But when were we last calm?

Between the dinosaur era 

and Cro-Magnon,

was there once an age 

of hunting and gathering,

feasting and rejoicing,

before My Cave and Your Cave 

became issues and clubs
started swinging?

By your light, madmen and prophets collide.

By your light, poets seek truth and beauty.

By your light, we dream of a better world.

You have stopped pacing.

You like where this is going.

Okay, hear this:

By the Light of Your Silvery Moon,

on earth we dream, we dream,

we dream of peace.

I will share this poem, written in March of 2017, with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads. Sadly, things are even worse now, over a year later. I references the well known old tune in the last stanza. I remember how innocent life seemed back then. My Grandma would be horrified at what is happening now.

Sky Voyager

source

In dream, I am time traveling, 

winging through the  cosmos, 

my body its own spacecraft, 

nothing between my Self and all the stars, 

bathing in their friendly light, 

riding the vortex, upward hurled, 

traveling through Forever, 

awesome Sky-world.

Cosmic beings,
giant creatures green and blue, 

beckon me to join them,
this journey all the proof, 

(I always knew), 

that we are One, speaking a tongue
that needs no words, 

in a universe where we all belong,

each of us a note

in the universal song.

Then, as I waken, 

eyes open and for sure no longer dreaming, 

I see a painted mask, First Nations warrior, 

his face alive, suspended there before me. 

He looks at me, behind his paint and feathers, 

Medicine Man, intensely kind and wise, 

and, strangely unafraid, I do not hide, 

but hold his shaman's glance, beguiling, 

as he looks deeply, deep into my eyes, 

and smiling.

As I woke from this dream, his face hung, suspended, in front of me for several seconds before he faded away. His glance was so reassuring. I was ill then and my world was falling apart. I took his message to be that everything would be all right and it was, eventually. I don't often remember my dreams, but I remember this one.

I re-worked an old poem for  Brendan at Real Toads

One More Summer

My seventy-second summer,

and once again it is July;

so many blue-sky mornings, now, 

have I

awakened, with gratitude,

to the smell of earth

blessed by the sun,

the day already perfect,

just begun.

All my life, sky and clouds

have led me forth,

and kept me Looking Up.

All my life,

the beauty of All That Is

has filled my little cup.

One more summer

am I blessed with:

wave-top, skybird,

wind in the trees,

Sister Raven croaking hello

as she flies past

on the breeze.

One more summer
do I have

to hold the beauty fast,

slow down all the clocks,

and make it last.

for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Come join us on Sunday morning! It's a hoot!

MADIBA

The hills and the valleys of Muezo,

where you walked as a boy,

have gathered you home, 

Madiba.

May your people follow
in your footsteps,

ululating your name.

They laid you to rest,

home at last, 

at the end of

your long walk to freedom,

after the shining vision

that you made of your time
on this earth.

You followed
the dream in your heart,

nurtured for decades;

you achieved its reality

- and its justice -

for your people.

Your dance of joy

echoed in my heart,

the day that dream came true.

May the cry of the sacred ibis

and the respectful roar of the lion

sing through your soul, forever,

Madiba.

May the voices
of your people, singing,

all across the land,

croon through your long sleep.

With their clenched fist salute,

they honour you.

In one lifetime,

I am fortunate 

to have witnessed

greatness,

rising:

Martin. Bobby.

Barack.

And you, Madiba,

whose vision and integrity

never faltered,

whose shine

will never dim.

In honour of Nelson Mandela Day. And for Susan's prompt for Midweek Motif at Poets United: Greatness. We badly need another leader like these, to rise and lead North America out of the mess it is in right now.  It is going to take hard work to restore what has been destroyed.

I Choose Peace

In the clamour and the drama

the cacophony, the turmoil,

in the unrest and the anger

I choose peace.

The talking heads are in consternation

with each day's new calamity.

I can control only myself.

I choose peace.

I am watching a train

speeding to destruction,

no one at the wheel. 

I cannot make it stop.

I get out of the way.

I choose peace. 

There are those demanding

that I give what 

I do not have to give:

solutions and peace 

they can only find within.

Helplessly, I watch their 

flailing, angry choices.

For myself, there is 

only one choice,

and it has been hard-won.

I choose peace.

MOON RAVEN

Artist Les Herman

fineartamerica.com

Moon Raven,

lift me up on your bent wing.

Swoop me away

through the misty night

into the forest.

There we will commune

with wolf-ghosts and ancient trees.

We will sing with the spirits

ululate with owls

keen with all beings 

over our Losses

and send out blessings

and gratitude

for All That Remains.

Towards dawn,

having divested myself 

of my tears,

and having rekindled my hope,

let me curl up in the roots

of Grandfather Cedar,

pillow my head with moss,

pull pine boughs over my shoulders,

and escape to my haven of forgetfulness:

a dream.

A poem from 2014, to be shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where there is fine reading every Sunday morning.

Into Space and Sky

Philip Vorlicek photo

He lived in the city,

but longed for the wilderness;

captive in his condo,

his soul hemmed in

on every side.

One day,

looking up,

he saw an eagle 

soaring

between two skyscrapers,

and felt his heart explode

with the longing

to fly free.

Within two months,

he was living

on a small island,

his sweet cabin

looking out

across forest and ocean.

Content.

A year ago,

he passed away

in that small cabin,

once more

soaring 

free of his fetters,

into space and sky.

True story. My friend Matthew and I shared a love of and longing for the wilderness. He made many trips to visit me in Tofino in the 90's, where we stalked the sunset and communed with old growth.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: City

A WOLF FOUND ME

I did not find wolves.
A wolf found me.

On the island,
a small wolf-pup, 

was found alone, half-dead
in the March rains,
where he had been living
at the dump.

I took him home
and our wild journey began.

We saved each other.

Oh, he was wild!
Hilarious and cunning,
he made me laugh every day
for fourteen years.

I was never alone
when he was with me.
He opened my heart,
which had been so disappointed.
He filled it with his presence,
and the only unconditional love
I had ever known.

Devoted, his eyes never left me.

Ow-wooooooooooooo,
he cried, each time I drove away,
as mournful as if the parting was
forever.
Ecstatic noisy barks, on my return.
He would stand and try to hug me,
convinced he was a person.
And, in his gaze, I saw such knowing,
such intelligence, such intuition,
it was like a human in a former life
had found me again, this lifetime,
in the form of a wolf.

I recognized those eyes.
They saw through to my soul.

It was for him,
I sought the wild places every day,
for we both needed them
to survive.
It was for him,
(and me)
we always had to live
with space and greenness around us.
Our spirits resisted
confinement, longed for
forest, river, shore.

The saddest thing about wolves
is that they die.
Once a wolf has been your soulmate,
you are forever bereft,
once they are gone.

But, once, I loved a wild thing,
and his memory is what helps me
to go on.

NEVER ALONE

Picture created for me by The Unknown Gnome

Traveler has been traveling alone
for most of the journey.
Times, she sought a companion
to help ease the passage through difficult terrain.
But none could stay the course.
Each turned off at the nearest byway.

Traveler grew accustomed
to making her way alone.
A wolf companion stayed by her side
for fourteen years, the truest companionship
she had ever known.
His turning was involuntary;
they both mourned greatly.

Solitude was emptier once he had gone.
But in time, traveler began to realize
she was never truly alone.
All around her was the ghost of a big black wolf;
he walked invisibly by her side.

There were trees breathing peace to her,
birds on the wing who companioned her eyes
through the heavens,
reminding her to keep Looking Up;
the moon bathed her in silver
and spread its canopy of stars for her alone;
there were wind-voices singing secret love-songs
just for her, and wave-tops lapping shores
of forever beaches,
where each one knew her name.

Alone is never lonely, as long as you love the wind,
Traveler says now, reflecting.
When you stand in an old-growth forest,
when you watch the butterflies flutter by,
when you look into the knowing eyes
of a small red filly,
you are surrounded
by loving friends.


A poem from 2014. Revisited. Shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, hosted by Mary, where there is good reading every Sunday morning.

Of Hummingbirds and Blades of Grass

"Every blade of grass has its Angel

that bends over it and whispers.....

'Grow. Grow!'"

The Talmud

"Peace is every step."

Thich Nhat Hanh

The ringing phone

brings stress

and lamentations,

situations even a mother's heart

can't fix.

The pressure in my head

reaches critical mass,

as I steady the firm trunk of me

to withstand

the pitch and toss

of shifting earth.

I place my feet carefully,

for peace is every step,*

and I must not fall.

In those moments,

I listen to the sweet chirp

of hummingbirds at the feeder,

gratefully drinking

the day's sustenance,

blissfully living

the present moment,

unaware

of the tumult

humans create

for ourselves

everywhere.

Perhaps our fear and worry

about tomorrow

is our greatest obstacle

to peace.

I walk along the beach,

witnessing the waves' 

eternal journey to the shore.

Sky and clouds lift my eyes,

reminding me to

Keep Looking Up.

Silence fills up 

all the space inside.

I wrap it around me

like a healing cloak. 

We need only live 

this single hour,

take the next step,

do the 

next right thing.

There is a larger landscape

than the one we see*,

a soul journey

each of us

must make alone.

With every step, 

we choose:

angst, fear, turmoil

or

peace, trust, hope.

Love, and let go.
Love, and let go.

In those times

when you are walking

through a barren wasteland,

filled with fear,

feeling so alone,

let me be
your Talmud Angel,

leaning over

the solitary blade of grass

that is your life,

and breathing: 

"Grow. Grow!"

for Paul's prompt at Real Toads: Peace Is Every Step.  How do we maintain our peacefulness when our world, or that of someone close,  turns upside down?  A timely prompt for me right now, as I try not to be toppled by a loved one's distress. (My doctor is doubling my blood pressure medication by the week, lol.) I am grateful for the waves, and their eternal journey to the shore. Their song soothes my tattered and weary soul. The Talmud Angel closing I borrowed from a poem in 2010.

* I am trying to find who said the landscape quote, as I have forgotten - Camus? I will keep looking.

Lady Liberty

CNN /  John Moore / Getty Images

I  cannot enjoy my liberty

with you at the border,

incarcerated,

your children removed,

because you fled

danger and death

seeking a better life.

The cries of your children

haunt my dreams.

Their terror hurts my heart.

What we do to one,

we do to all:

other humans,

other species,

the earth:

ourselves.

The day of political

and climate refugees*

has arrived.

But, until rich white men

are the ones who

march across deserts,

famished, thirsty,

homeless, desperate,

I fear humankind

will not change course

in time.

“Bring me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses, yearning to break free” – and we will take away your children, put them in cages, and detain or expel you. Never did I think such things could happen in North America, “the land of the free”. Yet here we are. 

* Climate change could create 150 million climate refugees by 2050.

(source: The Guardian)

For Susan’s Midweek Motif prompt at Poets United: Lady Liberty

The Forest's Song

I am fortunate to have this forest

within walking distance

If one were to join in

the forest's song,

one would need to attune

to the heartbeat of trees,

thrum the roots and connections

across the forest floor,

decipher the patter

of raindrops on lichen,

of sunlight on salal,

find the key that opens

the ancients' door.

One would learn to echo

the osprey's call,

the cry of the tern,

the seabirds, all.

One would sing down the sun

at the close of day,

blissed in a world

where we all belong,

if one were to join in

the forest's song,

and stop singing the song

we have gotten

so wrong.

Found in drafts and shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Everything Is Alive, and Listening

source

The stone in your hand, warm from the sun,

is alive, having traveled such a long journey

to fit into your palm.

Everything under the sun 

is as happy to be alive as we,

dolphins, leaping with joy in the silver sea,

whose squeals turn to pain and terror

when the death boats come hunting,

and the seas turn red.

Trees talk to each other, hold rooted hands

under the soil, all across the forest floor.

They whisper to those of us Two-Leggeds

who listen.

The mighty beings  quake
at the screech of the saws,

roots parting reluctantly from the soil

as their majestic bodies topple.

Everything in the world is alive,

and listening.

Water, too, is alive,
its molecular structure changing
in response to the love,
hatred, peace or discord

we beam at it.

If a drop of water changes structure
from dark to light,
in response to love,

should not the dark hearts of men
respond in kind?

The wild creatures feel all that we feel,

joy at being alive,
building their nests,

raising their young, but they also

feel fear and pain, the struggle to survive,

grief when they lose their kin,

gratitude when, tummies full, night falling,

they have survived another day.

That rock in your hand, warm from the sun,

having made its long journey

to this resting place:

place it back on earth, in testimony

to all that passes, all that will remain.

Found this in my drafts folder, written some time ago.........My heart is listening, these days, to the cries of mothers and children, ripped from each other's arms.