It's Wednesday, and This Is What I Know

 

source

To be truly radical is to make
hope possible rather than despair
convincing. - Raymond Williams

Dropping bombs will never succeed
in de-escalation or peaceful resolution,

(how many deaths will they need

for what they call "victory" ?)

no matter how much the military industrial

complex spins its words.

Still, it is good to know,
all over the world people are

longing and working for peace.

Charting the acceleration of the climate crisis

year after year will not by itself lower emissions.

Denial may feel comfortable; but hard times

lie ahead and no one is immune.

I have to remember that
everywhere, activists are working hard

for Mother Earth.
We have the power and the means,
if we unite, to change the trajectory
on earth towards
social and environmental justice.

Capitalism is unsustainable,

its price too high to pay.

A few are obscenely rich, while all 

other beings struggle to survive.
The old system is collapsing.
A new one can be born.

Eventually, if we don't blow it up,

the land itself will teach us

how to live sustainably.
But, before that, everything
- everything -
will change.

When a large segment of the population

fanatically adheres to false information

and devotion to a deranged (alternate?) "reality" star,

democracy is at risk, and common sense,

critical thinking, ethics and integrity 

have left the building.

Surely, we won't go back down

that road again? I beg my American

neighbours: please vote well.

As the world turns, I have to wonder:

does humankind always have to learn

the hard way, even with all the information

available?

If so, at least one day, 

I have to believe
we'll find a better way.

It's Wednesday, and this is what I know:

we need to show up 

for Mother Earth, and all her beings.
Sometimes even a poem

can be a voice for peace.

When we send compassion and light

out into the world, it transmits an energy

that might just reach someone

who really needs it.
The truth is, governments won't act
until we force them to.
We need to make our votes
and voices heard.

"They say money rules,"

my friend told me years ago,
with some chagrin,
"and it bothered me until I remembered
that  the spirit liberates."
He gave me a bumper sticker
with that phrase on it.
It rode my blue Toyota for years.
Live in hope, my friends.
It's Wednesday, and this
is what I know.

for my prompt at What's Going On? It's Wednesday and This Is What I Know. I like the quote up top - it is much harder to make hope possible rather than despair convincing in today's world. We can only try to keep moving towards a healthier and more peaceful earth. We have the knowledge and the power to make it happen. 

Confluence of Quiet Hearts

 

digitaltrends.com

There are many worlds:

a woman on a beach, who has lived

for seven decades; the dog who poked

his long snout into her pocket,

nosing for treats; the dog's guardian,

smiling as he walked him away;

an eagle, landing on the topmost scrag;

somewhere, far out, whales, 

making their journey north.

I have survived some things:

pain, loss, betrayal, abandonment,

fire, rejection, heartbreak,

a beloved's death.
Love, laughter, big magic,
gifts, gratitude.

Back then, we sang Blackbird

in the dead of night. How I loved

your blackbird heart.

This is a way of surviving:

we remember - the laughter, the hope,

the pain, the tears, the huge leaps

that changed our lives, the story,

like a river, flowing to the sea,

that caught us in its current

and buoyed us along.

There are many worlds:

this one is quiet, a heart in retreat,

turning from the chaos and crisis

of the world into this quiet room,

tapping out a message to whoever

will find it: drink in the beauty.

Hold onto peace.

Inspired by "Confluence of Rivers and Mouths" by Laren McClung. The italicized lines are hers.

Willow Weep

 

It wasn't failure, all those things

that didn't work out. It was living:

stumbling, learning, starting again.

We didn't make it much more than a year,

but the love did: the memory of you above me,

on that hillside among the yellow flowers,

your dark eyes, blue sky behind you,

the picture perfect clouds.

You visited me in dreams after you died,

telling me you understood that when

I told you I would love you forever,

I told the truth, even though
we never spoke again

in person once we said goodbye.

In dreams, we were together again

and this time we knew it was love,

as we had been

too fear- and sorrow-filled to believe

all those years past, that long-ago summer

full of weeping willow and your dark eyes,

a love that danced forward, then stepped back,

two souls who had no idea how to trust

that anything could last, those songs
we left unsung, a time

when you, and the world, and love

and I were young.

Inspired by "Failing and Flying" by Jack Gilbert.

ON WOMEN AND SHOES

Puss N Boots from Shrek

I know about women and shoes,

but I seem to be missing that gene,

so any poem written by me

on that topic

has to be about not-shoes.

What I wear on my feet:

Crocs, for slipping on easily

to run in and out,

calf-high mud-boots

for heading to the barn

in rainy weather,

a battered pair of running shoes

with clunky laces, that have to be

wide enough for comfort

- rather like a flat-bottomed boat -

which I replace every few years,

give or take, when the soles wear out.

I have a daughter who wears

a fascinating array of footwear,

including combat boots for Kicking Ass,

cool strappy things for dressing up,

anything from platform heels

to fitness shoes, and all that lies between.

She did not get her sense of style

from me.

When we go out, beside her

tall, beautiful elegance,

I feel like the frizzy-haired

Witch Down the Lane,

in my baggy sweatshirt

and scruffy jeans.

Yesterday I met an old hippy

over in Coombs.

Our laughing eyes

recognized each other.

(It must be something about

the Frizzy Hair:) )

He told me

he was in Haight Ashbury

Back in the Day,

that he wore thigh-high
leather boots, with buckles,
in which he promenaded
like Puss 'N Boots himself.

Back in the Day, I wore polyester

and pushed a buggy

with three little kids in it

inside the strait jacket

of a conventional marriage.

I didn't fit,

with my big unwieldy

unconventional spirit,

that kept bumping up against

the edges and confines

I was kept in,

till the madwoman finally

burst out of her prison

and was no longer mad.

In those days, while I pushed my buggy
mile after desperate mile,

I watched, with awe and envy,

the benign, coolly-dressed and

totally FREE-spirited beings

wandering smilingly

up and down Fourth Avenue,

wondering how they learned

to be so free.

I just missed that freedom bus

by fifteen seconds,

pushing my buggy along

a parallel street just one block down.

When I broke free, I remember pushing

my giggling babies in that same buggy,

hippety-hopping down the hill,

all of us laughing,

heading us all

towards a happier life.

I made up for missing the 60's

later, in coffeehouses in the 80's,

and in the Land of 
Aging Hippies in Tofino

in the 90's.
My shoes were never magic,
but they lifted me out of the desert,
over the mountains to my new world
in Clayoquot Sound,
and that was magic enough
for me.

My spirit never tried

to stuff itself back

into that little box

again.

The only magic shoes

that ever spoke to me were Dorothy's,

on that journey she made

away from and back to herself,

where she found she had always

had the power inside her,

her home within,

where she had started out.

This lifetime, my shoes

have walked me through

some of the most beautiful

landscapes in the world.

All I ever needed was a pair

that fit, that can carry me

into the wilderness I love.

A pair I kick off at the door

when I come home tired,

slide back into every time

I'm heading out.

How many more pairs

and pathways are there left me?

There's no knowing, but there's one thing

I know for sure: when music

from those years calls to my spirit,

I can still kick them off

and dance a lick or two

across my empty room.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On? Magic Shoes.

Promise

 

Grey skies in Tuff City,
sky weeping
gentle rain...
some sweet tiny roses
on my desk
bring the promise
spring
will come again.

The Rainbow Bridge

 

They say the rainbow bridge

is where you are and that, one day,

when I cross over, you will

meet me there.

What a reunion that will be!

You used to stand upright

on your back legs

and try to hug me like a human

when I returned from being away.

Such joy!

There were times when it seemed

you were a human soul

in a wolf's body, the way

you looked at me, the way

you tried to talk, the way

you made me laugh.

Such a long time

you have been waiting

for me. I think of you there,

that celestial bridge,

all the doggy faces

waiting for their humans,

as you all waited so faithfully,
when you were alive,

for us to come home, 

open the door,
and come inside.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On? Bridges. The prompt posts Wednesday morning. We hope you join us.

Talking Feather

 

To be truly radical is to make hope possible

rather than despair convincing.

Raymond Williams

from This Crazy Time by Tzeporah Berman

This is a poet who struggles

to impart hope

while being all too aware that

we have passed the tipping point

and hard times lie ahead:

hotter temperatures, drought, wildfire,

hurricane-force storms, floods,

Siberian winters,
melting poles.

This is a poet who blogs for peace

while bombs fall everywhere

and fascism, hatred, and division

are on the rise.

This is a poet who sees democracy

on the brink of being lost, as

lies, misinformation and

worship of a demagogue

have turned a segment of the population

into unquestioning fanatics who

cannot be reasoned with. 

See the blank look in their eyes;

hear the feverish words.

Be afraid for the future.

This is a poet who used to be

so positive it was annoying,

who now has too much information

to impart false hope, whose voice

must stay authentic, even when

(especially when) the news is not good.

This is a poet who tries hard to believe

that, one way or another, humanity

can still get it together, leaders can

lead with courage and integrity

and the world can come together

to face the climate crisis, 
exercise diplomacy and social justice

instead of war -

but deep down knows the trajectory

is much more likely

to go the other way.

This is a poet who wants
to believe the best,
who fears the worst,
whose hope is that
Mother Earth
will somehow survive
and teach whoever 
is still here
how to live.

Sigh. When First Nations come together, the person holding the feather cannot be interrupted while speaking his truth. I felt the need of the feather this morning as I struggle with the world situation, finding it hard to find words of hope, much as I don't want to depress everyone. However, the noon news had some young people who recently spoke at a climate summit, who spoke very hopeful words about humans coming together to find positive solutions to all the challenges. And, as always, I stay grateful for my life and everything outside my window in this beautiful place on the planet.

When All Else Fails

 

T.J.Watt photo

At dVerse,  the very cool prompt is to take the first line from one poem of each month in 2023 (January to November) and create a new poem. I wrote mine as a "found" poem, as my lines are not always a single line, but rather a sentence on two lines. But all first lines. I have done this exercise before and am amazed how a theme emerges.

In the dark times, we light candles.

(She was a reluctant hero.)

Through gates of wisdom we,

most hopefully, step.

This is what the heart does: it hopes

that everything will be all right.

We are at the precipice in a world

spinning out of control.
I am a small inconsequential speck
in the vastness of the universe.

Walking in earth shoes, I do not
have to venture far to feel Mother Earth's unease.
It is distinctly odd to live in a rainforest
that is no longer a rainforest.

(After an oil spill, the mist is filled
with the spirits of all the animals
who have died.)

When all else fails, I go to the shore,
step onto the sand as if 
it is a new country.

(I save my love for what stays -
the ancient forest, birdsong,
the roar of the sea.) 

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/01/in-dark-times-we-light-candles.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/02/reluctant-hero.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/03/the-land-of-bones.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/04/this-is-what-heart-does.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/05/at-precipice.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/06/black-dogs-and-buddhas.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/07/walking-in-earth-shoes.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/08/odd-little-things.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/09/the-animals-of-climate-change.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/10/when-all-else-fails.html

https://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2023/11/letting-go.html

As If the World Depends On It

 

Out my window: my small world,

sky, clouds, forest, beauty. Inside

my small rooms: peacefulness,

gratitude, comfort.

I turn on the bigger world with the morning news:

bombs, hatred, division, suffering.

Suffering I can't change or ease.

I can't change the world, the poet laments,

so I practice opening my heart, walking

down the street heart first.

As if the world depends on it, she means.
Because it really does.

I can do that, too: hello, beautiful brown-eyed

friendly dog, nosing my pocket for a treat.

Hello, small brave white plant, who came

from nowhere, suddenly blooming in my yard

in winter. Hello, forest trail, home of the wild ones

whose presence I feel hiding in your depths:

Hello, wild ones.

Hello, world, that wants we humans to wake up

and stop all the pain. Who needs us to dream

a better dream: of green abundance for all,

of no bombs falling, of people being fed,

of no animals suffering. Hello, world.

I am only one small voice, singing the song

of my people: Give Peace a Chance.

Respect Mother Earth. 
Love one another.

Because the world depends on it.
And so do we.

Inspired by the poem "Because" by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. The italicized lines are hers.

Being a Tree

 

Ask me how I learned to Be a Tree.

My children taught me
I needed to

thrust my roots down deep,

stand steady and firm, a  trunk
growing down

the middle of me. Yet

to keep my branches loose:

strong enough for leaning on, flexible

enough they did not break.

Ask me how I got so tired.

It is not just my challenging life

I lived. When you have children,

you live theirs right along with them,

lie awake at night, worrying,

help all you can.
Even the strongest trees
grow weary, and old,
and then become nurse logs
to support more life
when they die.

Ask me how I grew more silent

through the years:

they had to find their way

themselves. The young can't hear us,

anyway.

Ask me what the trees have taught me:

to endure, to breathe peace,
to pray,
feet planted firmly on the earth,

arms reaching for the sky,
as year by year, my life
on Planet Earth
goes by.

for Mary's prompt on Wednesday at What's Going On? Parent-Child Relationships.

The Quiet

 

source:Orlando Florin Rosu

In old age, the quiet came

to live in my bones. It crept in

as softly as a cat padding across the floor,

and took possession of my heart.

I stopped talking, listened to the peace

of no words, no sounds, other than

the hum of the refrigerator
or the heat pump.

Observing the human herd,
I marvel at the need

people have to be
talking, talking, talking.

I sit on the sidelines and watch;

I have little to say that
I have not already said,
and no one listens anyway.

Words are not solving

the world's big problems,

clearly. Too many of them

are making things worse.

In old age, the quiet came

to live in my bones; it set up camp
in my heart.

It is peaceful here, so peaceful

I rarely venture out into

the cacophonous world.

Inspired by Ada Limon's poem The Quiet Machine.

MY HEART GENTLY WEEPS*

 

National Mall protest 1967
photo by Bernie Boston

Images from those times
flicker across the screen:

evolution, liberation

we were making the world new.

The music of those days

sings through my wayfarer's soul,
takes me back with a lump in my throat,

and my heart gently weeps*

for those long-gone hopeful days.

We came so close.

We thought we'd change the world.

The elders scoffed at our message,

and our music, but our hearts
were true.

Flower children, daisies in gun barrels,

Peace and Love, smiling hippies,

bare feet on Fourth Avenue,

patchouli wafting out the open windows.

The music of my youth

sings through my wayfarer's soul,

takes me back, with a lump in my throat,

and my heart gently weeps*
for those long-gone hopeful days

when, day by day, I sang the song

that was mine alone to sing.

* After the song by the same title. For my prompt on Wednesday at What's Going On? The Music of our Youth.