Bamboo Memories

 

I remember
sitting on the porch swing,
listening to the clack of the
bamboo wind chimes
which made me think of Africa.

How we'd sit there,
of an afternoon,
just being,
just loving.
Happiness.

I worked hard for
so many  years,
to keep the wolf from the door -

and then I let him in!
And what joy
was ours,
those fourteen years
that will never be enough.

You were disguised as a wolf-dog.
But I had known you
in other lifetimes,
and your eyes recognized me
the way a human would.

We both wore disguises.
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 still pine for you.
I pine.

For Shay's Word List: Shakespeare bats clean up.  

It's Not Just a Walk on the Beach

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 not just an old growth forest.
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.

It's not just the harbour,
full of busy little boats.

My eyes caress the curves 
of Wah-nah-juss
every time I see them:
beloved guardians
of the village.

It's not just the village green.
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's not just Tofino.
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.

For my prompt at What's Going On? : It's Not Just a Cup of Tea - which will be explained better on Wednesday. Smiles.

Small Bird

 

Do you feel it? That sadness, riding along

under the surface, as we go about our days,

smiling, chatting, straightening up things

in the yard that the wind toppled over.

How could we not be feeling it, that

sinking of the heart as we watch the news,

humans suffering the unthinkable horrors of war

- civilians, who arent even waging war, yet

suffering like soldiers.

It feels schizophrenic - two realities existing

side by side - spring coming to life outside

my window, puppies, beach walks,

sitting out front in the sun; and war,

bombing, starvation, limbs blown off,

desperate mothers trying to find food

for starving children.

This is not the best we can do.

And why are they flying to the moon

when earth is in such distress? When 

money is needed to protect the world

from fascism, to combat the climate crisis,

to house the homeless, to care for

the mentally ill.

Do you feel it? That sadness?

I envy the birds, busily making their nests,

busily hopping among the branches,

settling into their new home with satisfied chirps.

The birds, who own only feathers,

are so much happier than we are.

Small Bird, teach me your song.

CALM WATERS

At mid-life, aware of the many ways

we have failed ourselves and each other,

we find words of apology, ask forgiveness

for our lack of wholeness.

But, when we are older and wiser,
once we have healed,

have come to terms with what was, understood

why we did the things we did,
out of our ignorance

and pain and lack of self-worth -

after we have learned to apply compassion

to ourselves, as well as those who hurt us

out of their own inadequacies -

we surrender to all that cannot be re-lived or remedied.

Words spoken out loud are measured, now; silence

is our friend, as we watch the cacophony of life

all around, become the observer, reserve judgment.

We may wish to dream back all we have lost,

but we keep living forward, farther and farther

from those old heartbreaks. Sorrow has taken root

in our hearts, tears we did not know how to shed

back then flow easily, over every small thing.

We now understand our grandparents' tender hearts,

now living in our own chests.
(Too late smart, my father said,
with his wry grin.)

Too late to do it all again, only better.

Too late to say I'm sorry I knew so little
for such a long time.

We are floating on a surrendering tide,

that is drawing us inevitably
out to sea.

The boat I sailed through stormy waters

is battered now, and drifting,

grateful to have reached
calm waters.

 

Colour Me Green

 

Blake Randall Photography

Colour me green
like the weeping willow
drooping her long fronds
into the lake
when I was a child; green
like the garden I grew
as a young mother to feed
my hungry children; green
like the old growth forest
I stood on the road to save
in 1993. Colour me green.

Colour me green, like
the log train trail where
my wolf-dog and I walked daily,
missing our west coast rambles;
green like the big maples
in our yard, green like
the grassy kingdom he ruled
until he died.

Colour me green, like the forested slopes
of Wah-nah-juss, like the Tonquin trail,
like the moss in my yard, like
the sea grass at Wickaninnish,
green like the sea itself in certain
lights and seasons.

My heart was purple when I was young,
and then it was sky blue. But now,
as I grow ever closer to the earth,
as I bend to delight in small
fairy gardens, in baby trees,
and wildflowers,
in the wee beings that
cover Mother Earth in finery,
- now and forever -
colour me green.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Colours Passing Through.

An Adamantine Heart

 

Skye, my sister's horse

Are those ghosts or angels
shimmering in the foggy meadow?
A dappled horse watches
benignly from the barn.
To her, either are welcomed in
as friends.
Humans wreak havoc,
yet nature remains kind,
showering us with beauty
to the end,
paying our wanton heedlessness
no mind,
as if, to our lower natures,
she stays blind.

I went searching for love,
first with candle, then with lighted lamps,
a disorder I finally healed
with blessed solitude,
years of peace
where none dared
to intrude.

Remembering the joy
of hearts flying the stars,
then the wounded wings
and sudden plunge from sky to earth,
the longest fall of all,
I set down roots
from others far apart,
and grew apace an adamantine heart,
that has a secret hidden door within 
so only animals and happy fools
can enter in.

for Shay's Word List - I used eleven of the words, including the bonus word.

Coming Home

 

In my dream,
I drove down the laneway
behind my Grandma's house
on Christleton Avenue.
I pulled my car into the space
where my Grandpa
always parked
his brown and white
Ford Fairlane.
He was a Ford man,
swore they were the best.

His parking spot
was the other side of
the flower garden,
where an aromatic blend
of sweet peas, hollyhocks and pinks
sweetened the summer air.

To the right was the weeping willow,
and the hammock
where I swung lazily
on summer afternoons,
my nose in a book.

In the dream,
I pulled right up
and parked,
feeling like I was
coming home.

It is a little eerie to have such a dream at my age. But if I find myself there, on the Other Side, I will indeed feel right at home.

Navalny

 

source

Navalny
takes his place
among those willing
to give his life
in the cause of freedom
from tyranny, oppression,
corruption and deranged power,
along with Gandhi,
Martin Luther King, Mandela,
brave warriors for social justice
and democracy.

How such courage
terrifies the bullies!

They silence the man
but not his message.
The people rise,
hearts inflamed.
The thugs respond
the only way they know -
with violence.

His spirit is such
a strong and shining thing,
they have to snuff his light
for fear it illuminates
their darkness.

The old power systems are fighting their death knell. People are tired of suffering because of old white men. When they silence an activist this brave, they light a fire in ten thousand hearts. Time for the old corrupt hearts, the old money/power structures to make way for social and environmental justice. Away with their dark hearts. A better world is waiting to be born.

I don't include President Biden in the above - he is elderly (as is his opponent), but he has moral fibre, a lifetime of experience and knows how government works. He is definitely the more qualified candidate, between he and his opponent, who has no interest in democracy or the rule of law.

No Time to Make Things Pretty

 

This is no time to make things pretty:

the world is askew; democracy is in peril,

the climate crisis continues apace

and no one sees the danger. Human beings

are trying to survive bombs, displacement,

starvation, lack of every basic need.

This is not the time to write poems

about the sunshine and blue sky 

out my window, the beauty of the harbour,

clouds wisping along the slopes

of Wah-nah-jus, waves calling to me

from Na-na-kwuu-a.

But, there are a few things my heart knows:

still and always, the mothering earth

under my feet grounds me, gives me

a place to stand, where I belong.

My head may be worrying about

another year of drought in a rainforest,

the way the world continues in denial

of what is surely to come, or that

some of our leaders are actually deranged.

Yet my heart still leaps at daffodils

emerging from hard packed earth,

how they butt their heads through
the hard crust and

reach for the sun. We are excited, here,

to watch the first salmonberries bloom,

the bears waking up from their long

winter nap, buds on the trees promising

a sea of cherry blossoms in April.

Humankind has lost its way.

Suffering on earth has reached critical mass.

And yet, here is Mother Earth,
in spite of us,

doing all she can, season after season,
year after year,
to keep us alive.

Inspired by This Is No Time to Make Things Pretty by Maya Stein. The italicized line is taken from the title.

Aubade

 

Early cloud-streaked sky painted pink,

and I remember waking to the weight

of your snout on the side of my bed

that morning.

I heard your urgent whuff, twice,

but didn't open my eyes

because you were gone.

But then I rose, and realized

it had been you, after all,

come to say goodbye at the very moment

they fed you into the flames.

Our hearts so fused, of course

you'd come. You never wanted

to leave.

Rivers of tears, a loss too deep for words,

that still remains, all these years later,

waking every morning to your absence -

you, who were such a huge presence,

you, with a spirit always
too big to kill. 

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On  on Wednesday: Aubade: a morning love song, a feeling of love and loss. Of course it's Pup.

February

The earth is stirring; brave crocuses

and stalwart daffodils poke up their heads,

shivery, in response to thin February sun.

It is too soon for lilacs or violets.

The shrubbery is still in late winter's grip,

longing for rain that does not come.

An invisible bell tolls the changing

of the seasons, each year a miracle,

each year eyes gladdened
by small, poking buds,

my heart singing itself into

one more season in the sun. 

for Shay's Word List, contemplating T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland. I used six of the words.

Forever Young

 

We were so beautiful then; we didn't

even know how beautiful we were,

the power we had as young women,

turning heads as we sailed by, oblivious

to all but our passage.

We were so beautiful then, shiny

and shimmering, full of hope and dreams.

How we laughed! How life held

so much joy: music, guitar riffs

in the coffeehouse, our hearts unfolding,

recognizing our time
had finally arrived,
blossoming, lifting off,

taking wing.

We were so beautiful then, though

we didn't know it, that

we would look back one day

at this time in the sun, our faces,

our friendships, the music, and song -

everything golden, captured,

in my mind's eye, like a photo

of happiness, pinned to a clipboard,

where we remain forever young.

Inspired by the poem "Weren't We Beautiful" by Marjorie Saiser.

CLAYOQUOT SUMMER 1993

                                  

Grandmother,

I can feel you near me

as I dance and sing

with this group of women

on the road.

We mourn man's treatment

of the earth

as, at the same time,

we celebrate

our power.

We have a voice

and we will use it.

Our drumbeat is

the heartbeat

of the Earth Mother.

After all the untold years

of pain and tears

that held me down,

I have risen

as an eagle

seeks higher ground,

no more earth-bound.

I have found my voice

and I will sing with it,

laugh into tomorrow,

feel my strength,

my peacefulness

and my joy,

along with love and pain

for Mother Earth.

Grandmother,

now that I am

a grandmother too,

I can hear you.

I wrote this poem at work in Tofino in the summer of '93. Early that morning, I was on the road at the blockades at the women's gathering to stop the logging of Clayoquot Sound. We did a spiral dance on the road. We were joyous,  dancing for the trees, and for life, and a future for all beings. My heart burst with passion as, one by one, people were arrested for standing on the road for the trees. I could not risk arrest as I had kids to raise and I had to keep my jobs (three or four at a time, at those days of struggle.) I reluctantly went from the road to work that day, and the poem came to me as I fulfilled my tasks.

Sally Sunshine

How I longed to be at the Peace Camp that summer, on the road every morning. But I was there on the mornings I could be there, and the women's blockade was the most passionate morning of my life. Nothing filled my heart like standing on the road to protect the trees.

Tonight I am watching Fury For the Sound,  a film about the women of Clayoquot in the summer of '93. 856 people were charged that summer,  and many were jailed for their participation that summer. Some grandmothers spent months in jail for standing on the road to protest the clearcutting of the ancient forests.  Children and the elderly took pride in making that stand, fighting for a future for the beings of the earth, who need trees to live and breathe and stay shaded from the sun.

Here we are, so many years later. Clearcutting continues. Wildfires occur now every spring, summer and fall, Tofino's rainforest is no longer a rainforest, as we have drought much of the year. Hardly any intact old growth forests are left on Vancouver Island. Talk and log continues because Money Rules. And politicians want to keep their jobs, so no hard decisions are made. I weep as I watch the film of our passion in 1993. Those brave people stopped the clearcutting of Clayoquot Sound for a time,  but we have watched, these past years, more and more trees fall - to housing, to development, to what they call "Progress". As the planet heats up.

Dispatches From the Edge of Hope

Fellow traveler,

across the charred landscape

of our broken dreams,

I bid you safe passage,

(a safe journey, a safe return,)

a door open wide

on arrival to shelter you,

cool water to drink,

sustenance

and rest.

Apocalyptic skies,

falling embers,

blowing flames,

have overtaken the road

most traveled.

See the burned-out cars

alongside the road.

See the creatures

with burned paws and hooves

limping beside us,

dead-eyed and stricken,

innocent victims of human folly.

Where are we going?

Forward, only forward

into whatever comes next.

I can only offer a blessing

for your travels.

(A safe journey, a safe return.)

May all beings find

a place of safety in which

to weather the storms ahead.

May all beings find

that welcoming door.

(A safe journey, a safe return.)

For Mary's prompt Wednesday at What's Going On? Safe. 

While I feel totally safe in my peaceful rooms, in my sweet village, the global picture, between wars and an accelerating climate crisis, with its wildfires, extreme weather, and flooding, keeps me all too aware that anything can change at any moment, wherever we are. In troubled times, we have to carry our sense of safety within, like a turtle inside its shell. Wishing you all safe travels.

Poet In Search of a Poem

 

If I was granted a wish,

it would be a visit with the wild ones,

a coyote, perhaps, or a fox,

or - especially - a black wolf, smiling

his brown-eyed smile.

I would tell him how many poems

I have written for him,

I would pick a bouquet of weeds

and wildflowers, to take home

in his memory.

A dreaming friend said he appeared

in her last dream. When she told him

I miss him, he threw back his head

and howled his lonely howl.

It seems a poet always winds up

singing the blues in her poem.

Why is it that
art is so often sad?

This tapped itself out from Shay's Word List prompt. I used eight of the words.

Colliding With the Light

 

Watch what happens, says the moth,

batting its wings against the light,

faltering and dying.

Even the moth seems to have

an inborn instinct to self-destruct,

opening my inner eye to why we keep on

doing the same thing when we know

it is costing other beings on earth

- and even ourselves - to die.

Bombs are falling, wars are escalating,

and governments are not legislating

lower emissions, while the poles silently melt.
As if, if they keep their focus solely

on the darkness, they can avoid 

that final collision

with the light.

Earth Mother

 

source

I feel quiet settling into my bones

in the midst of this churning, agitated world.

Is this inner peace or exhaustion?

I can control nothing but my breath,

my preference to stay peaceful,

while riding my waves of grief 

for a world spinning off its axis

with suffering and injustice.

I retreat.
I turn inwards.

I mourn. I breathe:

breathe in all the turmoil,

breathe out such peacefulness

and good will as I can muster,

a prayer for an earth mother, ill

because we are so many

and our enlightened ones so few,

yet

a mother who still wakes radiantly

each new morning, showering

her gifts on those who are attuned to magic

and those who cannot see, alike,

a mother who knows she can give the gifts,

but not control how or if we receive them,
or whether we use them for good or ill,

a mother whose children have
taught her surrender well,

but still a mother who wants herself
and all of her

wide and wondering world
of beings

to live.

Hope

 

On St. Brigid's day
we emerge from our warm houses
like sleepy bears,
blinking at the light.
I find baby crocuses have pushed up
early in the yard,
the sky promising sun
after the rain.

And soon
- the miracle amazing me
each year -
it will be spring,
and warm again.