Frogs In a Pot

Humanity sat like frogs

in a slowly warming pot of water

for so long, while strident voices

on the periphery, trying to warn us,

were silenced or ignored. Or fake news

said climate crisis was a hoax.

(Now they say the government

has a "weather machine".

How crazy can this get?)

Tonight, on the tv screen,

an environmental scientist

explains clearly: because of global warming,

the warming of the ocean and

the burning of fossil fuels, we are reaching

the point where climate events

exceed our ability to adapt, recover

and be resilient.

What is it about humans that we only listen

when it is too late?

When meterologists burst into tears

on-screen, methinks we have waited

far too long.

I have a sense of foreboding, watching the news, as storms ravage the southern US, as right wing crazies cause so much misinformation and distress, as wars escalate across the globe. No solutions in sight. Governments divided, instead of working together for the people, though the Democrats try as hard as they can. No strong action to reduce emissions. Leaders who prefer war to negotiation. Right now, I sit in a peaceful place on the planet. But AT ANY MOMENT, this all could change. Earthquake, tsunami, a leader elected who would love to play nuclear war...........it is a sad night on Planet Earth. And sadder by far for those who fled their homes, sitting in shelters, waiting to see if they have a home - or town - to go back to. How many times will this be repeated before we join together to cool this planet down????? I have now been writing about this for forty years. What we feared back then is happening now.  We need to elect leaders who understand the scope of this problem and who will deal with it.

Noodles On the Menu

 I had a fake funeral
for my unrealized hopes.
Mr. Right didn't arrive,
only a bonehead
with bags he never bothered
to unpack.
Last I heard,
he got arrested
(like his development.)

I experimented, at first,
with solitude,
then grew to love it.
Peace is strangely instinctual,
and one can enjoy it
even when noodles
are the only thing
on the menu.

A strange ditty the popped up from Shay's Word List.

DANCING FOR THE TREES

Wild Woman remembers

dancing on the earth,

a hundred women

spiral dancing

to the beat of the drums

at the blockades of '93.
It was magic!

Primal, pulsing woman-power,

faces radiant, joyous,

powerful with love

for Mother Earth,

dancing for the trees,

in defiance of the Machine

whose voracious jaws, agape,

threaten to devour

everything

loved,

necessary,

sacred.

Ululations,

wolf howls,

little girls with

honest, determined eyes,

rainbows painted

on their faces,

teens on the cusp

of young womanhood,

mothers, sisters, grannies,

grey-haired women,

wise with living,

all deeply rooted

in the earth,

united in the passion

of this moment

on the road,

a hundred women

dancing on the earth,

for the trees.

This is Sally Sunshine,
now in the spirit world.

I am writing here of the Woman's Blockade. But all summer, thousands came to join us on the road. These were the most passionate hours and days of my life, the summer of '93, gathering before dawn on the road, the smell of smoke from the campfire, people sleepily arriving from the Peace Camp, the low beat beat beat of the tom toms. And then the big trucks pulled in, huge, intimidating, and the official would read out the proclamation to clear the road. Some of us stepped back. Those who volunteered to be arrested that day remained standing or sitting and were carried off bodily, to cheers and tears.

The protests received world wide media attention, creating national support for the protests. The clearcutting of the old growth was stopped and a Land Use agreement was eventually reached. 34% of the Sound is protected; 21% is under special management; the formerly 80% designated for resource extraction was reduced to 40%. But that is 40% too much for most of us.

The fight continues to protect Clayoquot Sound's ancient forests.

For my prompt at What's Going On : Magic.

War

 

On the tv screen, sirens are wailing.

Tall glass buildings are lit up
against the darkness

 like crystal palaces.

They are dazzling,

waiting for the bombs to fall. 

I remember a night sky,
even more radiant,
many years ago,

on an island where the only light

was from the bonfire. The stars

were arrayed across the heavens

in the millions. I had never

seen so many.

How many centuries will it take

for us to choose bliss

instead of bombs?

When all is rubble,
will there be anyone left
to look up at the stars?

for Shay's Word List: The Silent Patient As war escalates, this old heart is tired. When will humans learn bombing places into rubble will never bring peace?

On Hair and Feathers

 

My hair rides my head
like a protest.
It goes its own way
         and refuses to be tamed.        .
Wild Woman's sense of fashion has been,
at best, mixed: jeans

and wolf t-shirts, running shoes, frizzy curls.

Looks I admire tend to the wild side:

dreads, long grey pony tails and beards on men,

on aging women, that certain look, au naturel,
that sets us apart from the
twin sweater-set crowd
with their tight and tidy blue curls:

kinda alternative, unconventional,

still Being Who We Are.

As we pass, we exchange smiles,

and toss our manes.

I met an old hippy over in Coombs.

We recognized each other
by our unruly hair.

He told me in Haight-Ashbury,

back in the day, he wore

Puss In Boots leather waders,

with buckles, right up to his thighs.

Those were the days, my friend.
Why did they ever end?

I so admired them, back then,

those paisley/patchouli hippies
on Fourth Avenue, serenely

living outside all the rules,

while I lived my cramped, married-woman,
beaten-down existence

just one block over.

But soon enough, I was free,

chewed my leg off to escape the trap,

bought my first pair of jeans,

grew my hair long,

began to live.

My running shoes carried me far,

through ten years in Tofino,

among other refugees from the 60's,

heart and hair equally wild,

completely whole,

drenched in joy and sea-spray.

Now I consort with trees, wolves,

druids and dying things.

I drape myself in old man's beard,

wear moss slippers and clothing made of bark.

As Old Woman of the Woods, I come into my own,

talk to owls and decorate my hair

only with feathers.

For Susan's way cool prompt at What's Going On? Hair as a symbol of rebellion.  
My hair has never behaved. Smiles.

Where Poems Hide

Somass River in autumn, Port Alberni, B.C.

A poem hides in given words:
vine and web,
and one sees ivy climbing a stone wall,
a fat red spider in a web dotted with dew.

A poem dances across the page,
words like leaves tossed by a phantom wind:
orange
red
yellow,

like sandpipers at the edge of the sea,
moving together as one,
like a row of poppies,
nodding their ponderous heads.

A poem can be enchanting
with fluttering wings:
a grackle, suddenly at the feeder,
a pheasant, startling upwards
out of tall grass.

A poem can be quiet:
a silent room where a grandmother
remembers her first kiss.

The scent of smoke
on an autumn afternoon
takes an old woman back
to walking home from school
in the long ago,
past piles of burning leaves:
orange
red
yellow.

for Shay's Word List: Autumn - my favourite season.

 

One More Day

 

My beautiful granddog Smokey

While I live at a snail's pace, the world

whirls by: burly men revving engines,
too impatient to stop at stop signs,
so they roll through. As I hobble

across the intersection, one roars right behind me,

so close the wind moves my jacket.
He will get there four seconds sooner,
irritated and bothered,
not having learned to rest a moment
and enjoy seeing his fellow humans
passing by.

I am the Observer now, watching the world careen:

wars, escalating tensions, everyone focussed on

outrageous rhetoric  as the climate crisis
carries on warming, burning, flooding -
nature screaming at humankind

to wake up: our house is burning down.

My days are slow but the weeks fly by.

Everyone is busy living, all are exhausted,

midst the uproar coming at us on our tv screens,
the very opposite of peace and tranquillity,
which can be found outside,
in the forest, by lakes or rivers,
or the glorious sea,
or even out front in my rocking chair,
basking in the sun.

Each morning I wake up and think: one more day.

I am grateful. I know there is a due date

when I will be returned to the earth and the sea

and the sky I have loved so well.

One more day to watch bees buzzing

around my flower garden, to pat doggy heads,

give them treats, and see them smile their doggy smiles.
One more day to sit in the sun

as this busy world slowly turns itself 

into the oranges, yellows and reds of fall.
A gift.

for Sumana's prompt: The March of Time at What's Going on. Time is marching in quick-step these days, even though my own pace is slow.

Traveler on Choices

 

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud

was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

Anais Nin

Sometimes when the

worst of calamities happens,

all that we can choose

is how we rise.

Those are the days of fire and ice

that hone us,

push us to make the leap,

and make us wise.

Dear fellow voyager,

if you are clinging

to the very end

of the very last branch

on the tree,

in fear of falling,

just rest, and trust

life's cycle.

All will be well,

and help will come

to thee.

Remember, Traveler,

this is the soul's journey.

If we lock ourselves away

too high a price

we'll pay.

Safety can in time

become a prison.

We sometimes travel blind

to find our way.

At first you think

you'll never trust another,

for he might wound you

like the last, who was untrue.

But in the end

you're likely to discover

the only one

you need to trust

is you.

Despite ourselves,

that early sun will warm us,

and slowly we'll unfurl

those icy leaves.

We have to grow.

To stay the same will harm us.

We're at our best

when we

the most believe.

A bud may wish to stay closed

for a season.

If it fails to open, it withers

on the vine.

Unfurl your bud.

Come out to meet

the sunshine.

Expand in the warmth,

dear little bud.

It's time.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Choices. Traveler has learned a thing or two about choices. The phrase "too late smart" springs to mind. LOL. This poem is an updated version from my Traveler series.

Old Frog Makes Hash of Haiku

Old frog falls in watery pond,
reviving briefly.

Old frog sits in sad stupor -
finally thinks of word:
Consolation.

Old frog ancient enough
for hazy dimness
to be forgiven.

Old frog swimming
with the young fry -
glub glub.

for Shay's Word List - to write bad poetry -  a fun prompt, and easily managed, lol.

 

Sunflower

photo by Chris Lowther

You are lifting your face
to the sky,
like a sunflower
after the long winter.

Oh, the joys of peacefulness
and silence,
feeling safe after pain,
a balm to heal
old wounds.

One can never regret 
the journey,
once it has brought us this far,
to where we remember
to look up at the stars,
and to rediscover
how to dream. 

for Shay's Word List, and for Jae

PRAYER

When my heart has no words,

when there is too much to pray for

and not enough hope

in the world

to right all the wrongs,

When wildfires are burning

as the climate naysayers say nay,

I walk my speechless heart

into the forest

to try to find my way.

Each tree

a living prayer,

offering balm and breath

to the soul-weary.

Each birdcall a note of hope

in the planetary song

humankind has

gotten wrong.

When my heart has

only tears,

and there is too much to pray for

and not enough faith
in our leaders

to find my way,

I let the trees pray for me,

Breathe their peacefulness

into my being,

Listen to all

they have to say.

Each tree

a living prayer,

each human adding either

dark or light

to the planetary plight.

for my prompt at What's Going On?  How we find balance in a chaotic, divided world. I am fortunate to live in a rainforest (though global warming has changed its weather patterns drastically, and we now experience drought), and beside the sea. A walk along the beach washes all worries from my brain, and all is peace and beauty, as far as I can see. But there is beauty everywhere, and any tree or body of water offers the same magical properties to those who seek their peace.

WALKING ON THE WINDS OF MORNING

 

Traveler walks

on the winds of morning,

gentled by the soft mist,

attuned to the music

of the spheres.

Tiny birds alight

on her shoulders,

then lift off, twittering,

to follow her passage,

branch to branch,

through the sleepy forest.

She is Sky-Woman.

Though her feet are planted

on the earth,

her eyes never leave

the sky.

There are footsteps

softly padding along

behind her.

She does not turn

to see who comes.

She knows.

He is invisible,

but she knows those perked ears,

that arching tail,

that long black snout.

Walking on the winds of the morning,

their two spirits touch

through the veil of mist.

Their two hearts

are never

apart.

Remembering Marcel

This is my high school friend, Marcel, and I - Class of '64. He was gay in small-town Kelowna, and was teased mercilessly by loud, laughing, obnoxious boys. I was his defender, and the kids said he "followed me around like a puppy."  After high school, we lost touch for many years, then I tracked him down through the internet and we resumed our friendship. One night I got a phone call. Marcel, who had had a sad life, had committed suicide, leaving a letter for me and a phone number for me to be notified. I wrote this poem in the days after his death, and read it, through tears, at his memorial. Too soon, to lose him again.

You were always waiting for me

on the corner of Elliot and Richter

in the snow, all those dark sub-zero

bitter weekday mornings,

in the crystal dead of winter

long ago,

under crisply winking stars

fall in beside me,

our steps crunching across the frozen snow

towards the lighted school

where you would play my champion,

towards the lighted school

where I would play

the fool.

We need not speak;

you were just there to guide me.

You supported me and loyally you cared.

Through all those years

you walked, silent, beside me,

so full of all the words

I could not speak so left unsaid,

brittle with so many tears

I knew not how to shed.

Your presence along the deep abyss

that I was skirting

was a comfort: you, the only one

to see that I was hurting,

you, the only one to see

who I was really meant to be,

hiding behind the gay bravado,

the laughing eyes, the laughter,

you saw me shining, then

and ever after,

all my life long,

you've always been

my friend.

Perhaps your presence

kept me from the chasm,

my pain hid deep

behind my thousand smiles.

You knew I needed help

along those so-precarious miles,

and up that hill of pain so steep,

you were someone who would

my painful secret keep.

You were so loyal,

you asked for nothing,

but it is true,

that in those years

that burned us deep,

I was your defender, too.

When other boys taunted you

- beyond your years,

so sage, so wise -

till angry tears stood,

smarting, in your outraged eyes,

frustrated at living in a world

so cruel,

I would fall in beside you

as we walked away

from yet another day

survived in school.

I lost you for a long and lonely time,

went looking for you many years ago -

you, the one who always made me laugh,

you, the only one from those sad years

who "knew me when"

and who was still my friend.

I needed to thank you

for always standing by,

be your friend better

than I could be back then,

when you watched me

breaking my heart

over silly boys who decried me

while all the time

someone who cared

stood right beside me.

One day your name was there

on my computer screen;

it was so good to finally

make up the lost years

in between.

But, Marcel, you left too soon

and suddenly.

This time I thought

that there would always be

more time to tell you

all you mean to me,

especially how kind you are

and rare,

how clear you see,

how loyally you care.

We still had so much

friendship left

to share.

Once again, as if the years

had never intervened,

there you were supporting me

behind my winking screen,

making me laugh as I did you

with tales

all too ludicrous and true,

because laughter after pain

is what we always knew.

I took for granted

this time you would always be

at the other end of an email,

never lost again to me.

We never had the chance

to meet again.

If we did I knew your face

would be the same

because your heart was,

throughout all the years,

unchanged.

We did not metamorphose;

from those young ghosts

our spirits rose

and we became

more truly who we are:

delightfully deranged,

two solitary souls who are

wicked awesome

strange.

I still had a hug to give you

in this lifetime,

wanted one more time

to look into your eyes.

You left too soon

but this I surely promise:

Marcel,

you'll always

be a friend

of mine.

I have to believe that one day

I'll be crossing

a clear and frozen

landscape all alone

until I reach the

far and distant corner,

just past the morning star,

the corner where you are

just waiting

to fall into step beside me,

your presence in that moment

not denied me,

to support me through

that last stretch of the journey.

Once more

I will be

Heading Home

with you.

Marcel,

back when you loved me then

so true,

I'll bet you never dreamed

that it would end up

me and you.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: School. 

This is an old poem, as when I think of those school years, I remember Marcel and his quiet, loyal friendship, that never wavered.

Marcel with Paprikas
when he knew he'd be leaving.

Overcoming

 

source

Some days are harder than others.

The heart grows tired of carrying its weight.

It needs a gentler song.

These are the last three things that happened:

I chopped veggies for a stir-fry.

Summer rain tapped on the skylight;

I watched the droplets sliding down.

You didn't call.

I love stories about overcoming:

light over darkness, rising

above circumstance.

These days,
midst all the far-right rhetoric,

all I want is a story about kindness:

helpers working to assist refugees,
cease fires - please! -

animals being rescued, sunflowers

sprouting in unexpected places,
their sunny faces

a symbol of never

giving up.

My heart has been faltering.

It needed a cup of tea

and six or seven sweet
and caring words.

And the other night,
I heard them, on TV:
Hope,
enough to put into a poem,
a green tendril taking root
in rocky but receptive ground
and thrusting
- joyfully! -
towards the sun.

I feel the energy
of a new day,
dawning,
as our leaves unfurl
and spread across
the land.

I can't help it. I'll never get over
needing hope in order
to live.
I'll never not need
the watering of our roots
with unity, fairness
and justice,
all of us
turning our heads
to the sun once more.
What a big deal it is -
to feel ready to
believe again.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Overcoming

I am impacted by the surge of energy in the USA, loud enough to drown the dark rhetoric of the far right. I dare to hope in this particular Overcoming: darkness into light, fear into the promise of a kinder, more just tomorrow. The contrast could not be clearer.

An Existential Aardvark Moment

 

source

An aardvark filled with ennui

entered an antique store to browse

on the first of September. He was a

cool customer, an inherited-wealth

stable-genius type, who expected

those who served him always

to be on sheepish tippy-toes.

Spying a glass globe on an old desk

streaked with shellac, he pondered.

Did he need another Thing

for his staff to dust? Would it

lift the malaise afflicting his snout

which was tired of the tedium

of sniffing when there was

nothing new left to pursue?

Adding to his torpor was

the sexual confusion that plagued him.

He felt strange desires that must be quelled

because his parents were Republicans.

It was an existential moment.
If he were brighter,
it might have been a turning point.
But, no.

The staffers were holding their breath.

Would he buy the $500 globe,

even though it was not gold-plated?

The aardvark sighed, turned,

swishing his spiney tail, and ambled out.

There was not a Thing
that could make
his tired heart
begin to sing.

And he had no tools
to understand what would.
An unfulfilled aardvark
on a September afternoon.

for Shay's Word List

Dark

 

When it's full dark, no stars,
a small girl needs a Care Bear
for company.

One moves gingerly
in the dark,
for there be scary things
under the bed
waiting to grab
succulent, just-right
small feet.

Outside the window,
in the stately oak,
a fretful crow
mumbles a mournful
lament.

What is possible
for a pretty child
in the wounded dark?

Some questions
we don't want
answered.

But luckily this child,
though her blankets and curtains
are faded,
has a grandmother whose face
is as loving and kind
as the moon's,
and she drifts off to sleep
safe and happy.

The words for Shay's Word List took a dark turning. Sigh. My poor head. So I added a stanza so we could bear to read it.

August in Tuff City

 

Totem carved by Joe David and gifted to the town.
District of Tofino photo.

RV’s are everywhere,

all summer,
in our small village
of two thousand souls.

They lumber along our narrow streets

like huge carnivores,

in search of elusive parking spots

in which to graze.

At the two four corner stops,

tourists cluster, indecisive,

trying to decide which corner to visit.

Drivers wait, some patiently, some not,

for them to choose.

Folks are everywhere in August.

CoOp cashiers are polite, efficient,

but their eyes are glazed.

The other day there were
five THOUSAND transactions -

and still the clerks remain
pleasant and wonderful.

Finally, September will come.

Smiling faces will come up the hill

to the CoOp,

gather on the corner

by the Post Office,

catch up on the news;

observe the weather,

the touch of coolness

as the season slowly turns.

“I’m so glad fall is coming,”

I say to the clerk as I buy my veggies.

“Oh, I KNOW!” she replies fervently,

and we share a smile.

We wait all summer for its end,

when the town returns to us

once more

and our local life

resumes.

The familiar buildings

invite us in,

to linger over produce,

make of our small purchases

a social thing.

Our pace slows;

we can see each other now.

We smile as we pass.

“Beautiful day!”

“Oh, it is!”

Down the hill on First Street,

(we have four side streets

and two main,

in our downtown core)

the water shines in late-summer sun.

Clouds wisp along Wah-nah-juss;

small aluminum boats putt-putt

across the harbour.

The village soon will be
ours again;

we embrace the fog,

the coolness,

ready our rain gear,
our boots,

anticipate the wildness

of winter waves.

Tuff City basks and smiles

at season's end.
Its young people bicycle gayly

along the common path,

surfboards attached to the sides

of their bikes.

Seniors gather at

the seaside with
mugs of tea.

Shorebirds flock
along the beach
resting up for

their passage south.
Dogs run in and out
of the waves
with loopy grins.

And I am grateful

for it all:

each little thing.

Its beauty fills my heart;

it is the song I sing.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On? - August

We Get to Choose

 

An illusion conspired

by pathological power figures

and fake news, or

a return to solid values -

we get to choose.

When all the rules

of decency are broken,

it's time to unify,

not quibble

over lucid words

finally being spoken.

An escapee from reality,

his own fixed point,
reincarnated from the 30's -

self-worth puny

but self-importance grand -

his babble increasingly

unhinged and picayuney,

he speaks gibberish
no sane person

can understand.

Two paths stand before us -

dark and light.

Now strength has risen

more than equal
to the fight.

Two paths lie before us,

win or lose:

go back to chaos

or forge ahead -

we get to choose.

for Shay's Word List. 

I am enjoying the current political situation in the US with great relief. I am aware that there are already plans in place to interfere with the election. (I cant understand why such illegal action is not preventable by law.) It is good to feel hope again, and to trust that the response will be more than enough to turn the tide.

WHEN YOU LOVE A WILD THING

 

"...you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, ...[i]f you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."

— Truman Capote (Breakfast at Tiffany's: A Short Novel and Three Stories)

When you love a wild thing,

you're rekindling your kinship

with the wild.

Every cell in your body

remembers

when you once ran free

upon the land,

when you lived the Old Ways

we once used to

understand.

Part of you remembers

when you hunted the deer,

and part remembers

when you were

the deer being hunted.

Both sides know fear.

The part of you

that catches your breath,

your heart quickening,

when that old grey whale

turns her ancient eye on you,

is the part that recognizes,

but can't put words to,

the message in her

mournful song,

about this planetary home

where we all

belong.

I gave my heart to a wolf-pup,

his eyes intelligent

and true.

He loved me more

than anyone

I ever knew.

He remained wild,

but left both

wilderness and sea.

In order to be with me

he relinquished

being free.

And when it came

his time to leave,

he tried so hard

to stay.

Since he's been gone,

it's like the wilderness

itself

has gone away.

Now, when I walk,

yes, I'm looking

at the sky.

I'm listening

at each full moon

for his lonely

cry.

I walk the length

of his favorite river

with tears

that we're apart.

But I'm glad

I loved a wild thing,

because he

fortified

my heart.

I'm linking this one for my prompt at What's Going On on Wednesday - It's Raining Cats and Dogs. I am looking forward to meeting some furry creatures this week! It will be fun! Come join us!

WHEN YOU LOVE A WILD THING II

When you love a wild thing

your heart becomes wild too.

You gallop together joyously

along deserted beaches

to the roar of the waves

with an exultant song

of freedom in your heart.

You track through old growth forests,

padding gently on the mossy floor,

alert for other critters

in the bush.

You walk the beach

to the moo of Lennard's Light,

in fog so thick that others' voices

are disembodied spirits

that emerge, startled and laughing,

when you get close.

When you love a wild thing,

your heart soars with eagles

and is tethered to the land

only by love.

When you love a wild thing,

the bond of devotion

runs deeper than any human

you have ever encountered

was capable of.

And when you lose a wild thing,

your heart resists

its return to
being tame.

 I am revisiting a couple of old poems, written for my beloved Pup, for my prompt this week at What's Going On - It's Raining Cats and Dogs - where we are sharing poems about our furry loved ones or spirit animals.

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,

wildfires,

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?

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

(perhaps in vain)

we dream,

we dream,

we dream

of peace.

for Truedessa's prompt at dVerse: Dreaming Up a Poem