Poetry, memoir,blogs and photographs from my world on the west coast of Canada.
Tuesday, April 23, 2024
A Poem for Your Pocket
Monday, April 22, 2024
Blessings
Gathering of Allies
photo by Marcie Callewaert Photography
I'm in the middle, front row, raised fist,
cane, blue plaid shirt
Sitting in a rocking chair in the sun
Giving treats to passing dogs; their smiles and bright, happy, glowing eyes warming my heart
Cherry blossom scent on the breeze, small hummers drinking deeply, so thirsty after the long winter of anticipation
Thinking of yesterday's rally of Tla-o-qui-aht and allies, showing up for Mother Earth, celebrating how Wah-nah-juss was saved from clearcutting 40 years ago, when the First People Just Said No
Remembering passionate early mornings on the blockades, how alive we felt back then, making change, standing on the road for the trees
Turning off the bad news; turning on morning, and birdsong; recalling waking in the night to see a full round Grandmother Moon, golden and smiling in the sky, and looking right at me
Watching a juvenile eagle making random circles overhead, breathing in all that is peaceful and hopeful, beautiful and sun-kissed, all around; nothing left to wish for but more days just like this, sitting in a rocking chair in the sun
Except a world healthy enough to sustain the young eagle, and all of earth's young ones, into the future
A list of blessings for Shay's Word List
Tuesday, April 16, 2024
Poet In Search of a Poem
on Possibility
and Promise.
one's heart
No Solace at Lost Shoe Lake
vividly picturing that long-ago settler,
desperately slogging the muddy slough -
bitter as his shoe was suctioned
off his foot, and gone,
a catastrophe unlikely
but, alas for him,
too true.
of the rocky miles ahead
circling his brain like blackflies,
his journey
caught between disbelief
and dread.
No solace for him
for a hundred miles
at least.
as I walked the lonely shore,
without my beloved
grinning
big black beast.
Sunday, April 14, 2024
Bird
as I sat in the sun,
of white cherry blossoms.
What manner of bird was this?
sent their chatter into
such brief furore?
the brief raucous uproar. Perhaps
had fallen asleep
on the branch
just in time.
While there are magpies elsewhere in BC, they are not in evidence in Clayoquot Sound. But as this was all imaginary, as I rocked in the sun, I had a bit of fun contemplating what might have caused all the ruckus. I identified strongly with the senior bird, needless to say. Smiles.
Tuesday, April 9, 2024
Seeing Double
Kwiisahi?is
Brave Little Hunter
Photo by Zeballos Inn
How to hold this April morning,
on the West Coast of Canada
in my one human
overloaded brain?
The cherry trees in bloom,
rhododendrons opening their pink buds,
blue sky, the eternal waves,
beauty as far as I can see
while, elsewhere on the planet,
bombs fall, children hide among
the rubble. I fill my porridge bowl
while innocents starve
and the disconnect,
among those who govern
with power instead of humanity,
between their agendas and
the horrors of reality,
creates a two-level existence:
the one I am living
and the one I am all too aware of
across the globe.
Meanwhile,
one small orphaned whale
circles the lagoon in which
she is trapped
while humans take too long
to set her free.
Everywhere, the innocent are suffering,
our hearts too full of grief
to bear the pain.
It is a schizophrenic existence these days. April out my window is beautiful and blooming. On this side of the window is the daily news, horror upon horror, no enlightenment, no relief anywhere. And the small whale is still alive, but tenuously so, while rescuers contemplate their response. They are doing their best, but time is of the essence, as they know. The most hopeful plan is helicoptering her out into open ocean, and containing her in a net until her pod - hopefully - swims by, then releasing her. I would prefer them lifting her close by her pod and releasing her, but this has been ruled out. It will be traumatic for her, there is little doubt.
It has now been seventeen days since her mother died. She is diving for longer periods and still calls for her mother every fifteen minutes. We don't know if she is eating.
I am trying, with my entire will, to keep her alive until rescuers can get her out of the lagoon and set her free. Surely we can get ONE thing right in a world that has apparently lost its collective mind. One small whale, alive, is not too much to ask.
Monday, April 8, 2024
Traveling Through Time
traveling
traveling
all the way back
at the very beginning
of time.
seventy-three years gone,
pinks, sweet peas
and hollyhocks
out back.
And roses twined over the arched trellis
out front, where she'd swing
on the gate, late afternoons,
waiting for her parents
to come.
and the loud, ticking clock,
how safe she felt,
to dreamland
in the one place on earth
where she was never afraid.
Friday, April 5, 2024
Surrender
To Be Dazzled
I happened on the prompt from NaPoWriMo at Kim Russell's blog : how a trio of things would observe the same emotion. It was a fun exercise and I loved the prompt poem, The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip and the Dog, by Alicia Ostriker, as well as Kim's wonderful response.
Wednesday, April 3, 2024
These Days
Brave Little Hunter
Photo by Zeballos Inn
Traveler's heart is
split in two with grief,
half of it swimming
around and around a lagoon,
where a small orphaned orca calf
is trapped,
grieving her mother.
that believes in life and loves this planet,
is losing hope as, in almost every instance,
human beings around the world
seem to have lost our way.
is that we learn from the animals
how to live:
simply,
truly,
respectfully
and gently
on Mother Earth.
Brave Little Hunter
will soon swim free
with her pod.
Tuesday, April 2, 2024
Looking for a Miracle
I don't think we'll get a big one, any time soon: that the world will put down its guns and bombs, humanity will be woke, and leaders rendered sane, coming together to slow the climate crisis.
On March 23rd, Spong, a mother orca, pregnant at the time, was beached in a small lagoon near Zeballos, when the tide went out suddenly and left her stranded. Her two year old calf was with her, calling to her mom as she thrashed and tried, with the assistance of First Nations and other villagers, to right herself. Sadly, she was on her side when the tide rushed in, and she drowned, despite everyone's best efforts. All this time, the orphaned whale the natives named kʷiisaḥiʔis (Brave Little Hunter) has been circling the lagoon where her mother last was.
One small whale is haunting my thoughts and will until she is safe. It will be a double tragedy if she does not survive. Orcas are an endangered species, only 73 of them left here on the coast. On April 2, her pod was located. Time is of the essence. I hold my breath until the brave little hunter is with her grandma.
Monday, April 1, 2024
Smoke
I Always Knew
I always knew I loved the sky.
I walked through seven decades,
head tilted back and grinning
at the great blue bowl above.
I didn't always know
I loved the sea, but,
once I did and moved there,
my soul found itself
at home.
I have always loved the forest,
especially old growth:
fat, friendly grandmother trunks
breathing peace.
The wild ones and I walk
softly there,
with gentle hearts.
I have always loved
the trees.
I have always longed for
the wild places,
a cabin in the wilderness
with no other manmade structure
within sight.
That cabin lives within my heart.
I walk the trails and along the shore
and am well content.
I have always loved
the wild ones:
intelligent eyes, free hearts,
trying to survive
this world of humans
who have forgotten
to be kind.
Springtime, baby animals,
blossoms popping
through the earth,
days lengthening into evening.
I have always
loved the spring.
A response to Marjorie Saiser's "I Didn't Know I Loved". I have always known.
Thursday, March 28, 2024
Octopus
Meet Kali,
a captive baby octopus,
who spent her whole short life in a barrel
because the public aquarium
had no tank for her.
As she grew,
each time her captors took
the lid off the barrel,
she thrust herself
upwards,
tentacles reaching up and out,
increasingly desperate
to be free of the barrel,
she, whose rightful home
was the deep blue sea.
Finally, staff adapted
a glass enclosure for her,
as best they could,
and watched her day of joy
as she explored
its every inch.
But they had failed to
tightly seal around a pipe
and octopuses are masters
at escape.
Next morning, they found her
dead on the floor,
a high price to pay
for one short day
of joy.
I just read Sy Montgomery's Soul of an Octopus, an Exploration into the Wonder of Consciousness. The author befriended ocopuses at a research aquarium, and also dove to see them in their natural habitat in the ocean. But the story of one baby octopus was distressing.
The book is a fascinating study of these intelligent creatures, but I grew more desperate as I read for her captors to get her out of that barrel. Animals suffer in captivity; it is their nature and birthright to be free, and whatever humans gain from learning about them in captivity isn't worth what it costs the animals. We should study them respectfully in the wild. Or leave them alone.
Tuesday, March 26, 2024
Traveler in Spring
After the dark winter,
Traveler's heart leaps
at tiny snowdrops and early daffodils
popping through the earth.
Her heart expands
like the buds on the ancient cherry trees,
slowly beginning to open.
Traveler smiles at daylight
arriving early in the eastern sky,
and days lengthening
into evening,
a little more each day.
The cycle is familiar, and dear -
and yet still feels like a miracle
every year.
This is Traveler's 76th spring,
the light creeping into her heart,
which feels as buoyant
as the spring morning,
and shining out through her eyes
at such a beautiful world!
For my prompt at What's Going On - the Coming of the Light. Here in the western hemisphere, especially along the coast, winters are mild and spring comes early. The ocean where I live is a whale highway this time of year, as the gentle giants swim past on their way from Baja to the feeding grounds in the Arctic. Some of them stay here through the summer. The herring spawn occurred last week, turning the edge of the sea a beautiful turquoise. Wonders abound!
Monday, March 25, 2024
An Un-Fairy Tale
Saturday dawned uneasy,
as a mother orca,
hunting in a small bay,
got beached when the tide
ran out.
First Nations and villagers
rushed to help her,
pouring water on her,
hoping she would swim out
when the tide returned.
Her small calf swam
nearby, calling and calling,
her tail thrashing in response.
She fought hard.
Sadly, she died.
A First Nations man sang
to her spirit, in ceremony,
to thank and bless her,
for the wild ones are all relatives
to the People of the Land.
On Sunday an orca-shaped cloud
appeared in the sky,
a message from the spirit world,
to say she was transformed.
Her calf is still in the bay,
her haunting cries
being broadcast out to sea
in hopes her pod
will return for her.
Her cries for her lost mom
are breaking our hearts.
A reunion with her pod is
the best ending
to this story.
Any other outcome
would make this tale
too sad and sorry.
Photo by Amanda Provencal of Port Alberni
Let's combine our wills and manifest this baby out into deeper waters where her pod can find her. Because of the tides, and the narrow passage she has to navigate, there is only a 30 minute window when she could, if she knew how, swim through to open ocean where her pod can be found..........but she will not be able to manage this herself. People are watching and hoping but action needs to be taken. They are considering lifting her out on a sling with a helicopter which will be traumatic but likely the only way to save her. As she was orphaned on the 23rd and it is now the 30th, I think they should stop watching and take action. If she doesnt make it, I am not going to be okay about it.
Wednesday, March 20, 2024
Song for Solstice
in the lengthening light,
Tuesday, March 19, 2024
Three Lives
The tabby stalks
as stealthily as a leopard,
panting,
through the tall, winter-yellow grass,
her eyes glowing,
alert for the smallest movement.
She is dreaming of mice
and ready to pounce.
There is an old woman
sitting in thin late-winter sunlight,
watching the cat, thinking of
a snow leopard in the Himalayas,
as elusive
as her long-vanished dreams.
There is a blue heron,
standing one-legged,
looking out at the western sea,
like its cousin, the flamingo,
in her more brilliant plumage,
the width of a continent
and a warmer shore away.
Three lives in late winter,
anchored by one foot
on the ground,
with minds all
far-travelling.
Smiles. Brain is tired today, some nonsense for Shay's Word List.
Girl Power
If I were to write a heroine in action,
who would it be?
Malala,
at gunpoint,
a girl with a book, saying bravely
"Here I am",
and staying who she was,
no matter what.
Or it would be Greta,
age fifteen,
a small girl on strike for climate,
who refused to stop,
igniting a movement
across the globe,
waking the adults up
from our long sleep.
Or, before them,
there was Jane,
whose love of animals
and dreams of Africa
took her to the chimps of Gombe,
so she could teach us that animals
have all the feelings and emotions
humans do - love and grief,
fear and pain, joy and sorrow -
and that they need us
to help them live.
Saturday, March 16, 2024
Things We Carry On Our Journey
We carry earth-grief, for how we have treated the earth, and for how, in her distress, the earth is letting us know we need to change.
We carry broken hearts, for how inhumanely man lives with man: for wars, for bombs falling, for terrified people being displaced, injured, starved and killed.
We carry distress and compassion for the many non-human beings who are silently suffering, dying and growing extinct on our watch.
We carry outrage, our sense of justice unable to comprehend the outrageous behaviour of deranged "leaders", who would annihilate the world to prove they are the strongest. And those who enable and fanatically support them, against all reason.
We carry memories of earlier years when, in our innocence, the world felt like a safe place. We mourn for that lost time, and that gentler, kinder earth.
We carry small joys - spring blossoms, the loving eyes of dogs, a cup of coffee imbibed sitting in the sun - for the two eagles drifting on the wind curents, circling overhead in early afternoon - for those deep delights and everyday gifts and comforts that remind us that, in the midst of global horrors, life is good, right here, right now, and we must never take it for granted, because, in a single instant, everything can change.
We carry gratitude - for the journey, for the many gifts, both given and received, for the spirit guides who helped us along the way; gratitude, for the beauty and generosity of the natural world, for those trying to heal and save it, for the gift of life - this day, sun-blessed and peaceful, this moment, my heart saying a silent "Thank You" to Whoever is listening.
Tuesday, March 12, 2024
Wayward Hope
The animal world is vanishing;
the planet is heating up.
Does anybody care?
or emissions;
world leaders are too busy waging war.
When will we collectively
face the fact
that we are in deep shit?
Through a Child's Eyes
How does a child process
bombs falling,
their family fleeing
through the rubble and gunfire,
no safe place,
no food,
their parents desperate
- or dying -
living outdoors in all weather,
ill, injured, starving,
no hope of help or rescue
while the whole world watches?
How does any human heart
process suffering
this deep?
for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? : The Children
CNN reports that 1.4 million people, twice the population of New York, are crammed into Rafah, (less than 25 square miles), where they fled for safety, but are now under fire. Children and women make up 70% (25,000) of the 30,000 killed since the October 7 attack on Israel by Hamas. Civilians do not want this war. Children are starving and suffering intestinal diseases due to lack of sanitation and access to clean water. They are living without shelter, medical care or safety. Contributing reasons and political responses aside, the sheer inhumanity of what is happening to ordinary civilians there - especially the children - weighs heavily on my heart. No one wins in war.
Friday, March 8, 2024
Trees
and so I go, stepping into
a world of green,
knowing I am seen.
the land holders,
never fall.
What to Hold Onto
What do I hold onto,
when nothing is certain any more,
when the news is full of war, suffering,
displaced civilians, starving children,
wildfires, floods, extreme weather events,
whole towns bombed into rubble,
or falling into the sea.
What do I hold onto,
when icebergs are melting,
coastal towns are flooding,
rainforests are not rainforests any more,
in drought half the year,
and the wild ones are endangered
and disappearing.
What do I hold onto
when we, ourselves, are endangered,
the climate crisis accelerating,
while world leaders are too focused on war
to pay attention.
What do I hold onto
when half a country prefers deranged leadership
to stability and experience, decency and moral values.
When democracy itself may be lost
and human rights we fought whole lifetimes for
are being stripped away.
I once lived serenely, expecting life to continue
much the same way, day after pleasant day, and,
for a time, it did. The change came with a shock
that turned my hopefulness into alarm, then
into disbelief that people with intelligence
could be making such an enormous investment
in a fool's folly.
What I hold onto, with all my heart:
that others feel as I do, who long for
a better world of social and environmental justice;
that Mother Nature is always there, with her
forest trails and seashore, her small creatures and
green growing things every spring; with her
struggle to survive in spite of all we do to her.
I believe in the blue sky, in the earth, in trees,
in the Bigger Story, beyond this horrible chapter
we are living - that one day, this, too, will pass,
at whatever cost to we who are living now,
and those who follow. That one day, humanity
will remember to be kind, respect our connection
to each other and to All That Is. That we will stop
the warring and the division, once we experience
its full horrors (as we seem to be doing now),
and usher in a thousand years of peace
so humanity and the earth can heal.
Thursday, March 7, 2024
14 Reasons to Remain Silent
Journey and Lunabella
who are the reason one CANNOT remain silent,
because their future matters so much.
Because in all of the rhetoric that batters us daily,
no one is listening or trying to come to some agreement.
Because humanity has lost its way and may not find
its way back until it is too late.
Because I have great-grandchildren who will live
that reality, and I won't be here to help them.
Because the horror of war and the toll in human
suffering is too overwhelming to find words for.
Because my heart, that once dreamed
the transformation of consciousness would
happen in time, has retreated to a state of
resignation and lost much of its ability to hope.
Because the only way I can find solace and to cope
with all that is so wrong is to walk in silence in
the forest, or in contemplation along the shore.
Because we poets bathe in words, yet often
live our outer lives in silent observation.
Because the climate crisis is accelerating
and everyone is so distracted by war
we don't realize there is a bigger war going on,
between nature and corporate greed, that
we won't survive unless we lower emissions
DRASTICALLY and NOW.
Because like the rest of humanity, we wait
for world leaders to inspire and lead us
and no one is shining that brightly.
Because we are in need of heroes and
the news is full of un-heroic speech
by those invested in attacking our rights
and freedoms.
Because my heart is breaking for this
so-divided world and nothing can change
unless we all come together.
Because fascism is rising across the globe,
even in places we never dreamed it would,
including the home of the brave and
the land of the free. (Just watch those
rights and freedoms disappearing.)
Because we can't change or reason with
fanatical and fundamentalist thinking, and
therein lies the problem.
Because humans tend to learn
the hard way.
A gloomy point of view but, alas, it's where we're at.
Tuesday, March 5, 2024
Pancake Man
pacifistic tears.)
We do the best we can,
so on we go.
Some nonsense for Shay's Word List. Can you believe you can google "trump pancake", and something pops up?
Eight Lessons in Training a Goshawk
First, I had to become invisible,
so she could learn to accept me.
We sat the difficult, patient,
excruciating hours together,
her hooded, at times, for calmness,
my eyes averted,
until she could be with me unmasked,
without fear.
II
Next, I had to make her hunger,
so when I offered food
on my extended fist
she would come to me.
This was a dance that took some time
to choreograph.
III
I did not know,
until she laughed,
that goshawks were capable
of play.
IV
We walked the hill to the field in dread,
her on my arm,
she because she was terrified,
I because I feared
she'd fly away.
V
The hardest thing to learn
was trusting
she'd return.
VI
It took many fails a day
for a week,
her falling, hobbled,
to the ground,
angry and glaring,
and then we got it right -
she flew right to me.
VII
In the brambles,
her first time loose,
caught by the bracken,
her yellow eyes
looked to me
for rescue. Trust.
VIII
I thought I was training her
to be a goshawk,
but she was teaching me
to unite my wild and human parts,
until my spirit rose
from its bed of grief
and flew.
for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: 15 Reasons
Sunday, March 3, 2024
This Poem is a Tired Grandmother
who put serving the people
before political ambition
and partisanship,
Friday, March 1, 2024
Tell Us a Story, Grandma
in her five room wartime cottage,
which likely cost around $7,000.
Grandpa's Ford Fairlane was listed at $1900
in the 1950's.
Bread cost 12 cents,
a dozen eggs were 60 cents,
(equivalent to $6.40 today,
according to google.)
Beans were three cans for 25 cents.
to string, tucked into a top drawer.
She wasted nothing,
having raised five kids
through the Depression.
Minimum wage was 75 cents an hour.
And people lived on that.
I brought in five paper bags of groceries
in 1966, that cost 11 dollars.
of what capitalism and corporations
- and greed -
have done.
of family ghosts,
her eyes twinkling.
My eyes are sad.
What stories
can I tell my grandchildren
and great-grandchildren
about this world
of war, distress and struggle
that we have made?
Wednesday, February 28, 2024
Bamboo Memories
sitting on the porch swing,
listening to the clack of the
bamboo wind chimes
which made me think of Africa.
of an afternoon,
just being,
just loving.
Happiness.
so many years,
to keep the wolf from the door -
And what joy
was ours,
those fourteen years
that will never be enough.
But I had known you
in other lifetimes,
and your eyes recognized me
the way a human would.
I was a wild spirit
trapped in an aging body.
We limped along together,
towards the end,
me ever aware,
as your footsteps padded beside me
on those late evening walks,
that one day
they no more would.
I pine.
Monday, February 26, 2024
It's Not Just a Walk on the Beach
It's the beach I longed for
for half my life,
so now I walk it saying
"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"
It's the forest I stood on the road
to save in 1993,
yet in 2023 the trees are
still coming down
and the climate crisis
is accelerating.
full of busy little boats.
of Wah-nah-juss
every time I see them:
beloved guardians
of the village.
It's where musicfest is held
every summer, everyone dancing
joyously, from white-haired crones
to little girls twirling
ecstatically
in their pouffy dresses.
It is the living of my dream,
along the western sea,
waves and forests here
since the beginning of time,
where the wild ones live,
and my spirit is both
at home
and fully free.
Friday, February 23, 2024
Small Bird
This is not the best we can do.
Small Bird, teach me your song.