A Poem for Your Pocket

 

When I'm looking for light,

I read poems.

When I'm fleeing heartache,

I write them.

Maybe I look out my window

and see some small puff-ball clouds

slowly moving across my morning sky,

or two eagles, circling,

wind-surfing the thermals.

This is your poem.

I want it to speak to

that part of your heart

that has walked many miles

to reach it.

Perhaps you don't read poetry,

thinking it a country of no resonance

for you. Perhaps, if you give it a try,

it will surprise you, connect

with a feeling, a shared experience.

Maybe you will do a mental double-take,

realizing that words can dance,

sometimes - albeit infrequently -

so nimbly across the page,

like young Jack leaping the candlestick

all those many years ago.

This is your poem.

If it bores you, no worries.

This poem's feelings cannot be hurt.

Like the tired heart

that composed it, it has seen enough pain

to not need to go down those roads again.

Keep this poem

in your heart's pocket,

and, one day when I am gone,

come back and find

me in it

once again.

for my prompt at What's Going On - an open link to celebrate April Poetry Month.

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

Poet In Search of a Poem

When life has worn you into

an unthinking shell

without words

and you sit, blinking into space,

in a place of No Thought,

tap the lifeline

of poetry

that lifts your heart

out of its everyday concerns,

into the realm

of midnight moons

and hungry ghosts.

Look up into the raven sky

and chart the silver moon goddess

as she trails mystery

like a gossamer cloak

across the heavens.

Poetry

remembers that life

is more than bread and worry,

that it is beauty and aliveness

and gilt-edged miracle.

It is the suspension of disbelief

and the fastening of one's heart
on Possibility
and Promise.

It is the lifting of one's eyes

above the "raveled sleeve of care"

to remember music,

the dance of language,

love,

and the silver shining sea,

forever ebbing and flowing

upon a shore lined

with old growth,

and then fastening
one's heart

and vision

and belief

firmly

upon that.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On - What IS it about poetry?  The quote is from Macbeth.

No Solace at Lost Shoe Lake

 

source

I looked for 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.

I imagine his chagrin, thoughts
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.

No solace for me
as I walked the lonely shore,
without my beloved
grinning
big black beast.

for Shay's Word List

Bird

 

Source: Getty Images

I imagined a gathering of magpies

in the tops of the alder grove,
as I sat in the sun,

breathing in the scent
of white cherry blossoms.

There was an outbreak of loud chattering, 

all bird voices speaking at once.
What manner of bird was this?

What new song were they

trying to sing? What alarm
sent their chatter into
such brief furore?

I imagined a murmuration,

a stupefaction, of small noisy birds.

As their voices crescendoed,

then subsided and grew still, I pondered
the brief raucous uproar. Perhaps

the loudest among them had won

the fattest worm. Perhaps an elder bird,

dignified in tophat and cane,
had fallen asleep

and toppled off his perch.

Hopefully, his bird-folk had caught 

and steadied him firmly
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.

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.

for Sumana's prompt: April. 

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.

Traveling Through Time

 

An armchair traveler she is now,
traveling
traveling
all the way back

to those soft sweet summers
at the very beginning
of time.

These days

all her running is done in reverse,

spooling backwards through 

the Land of Memory

to that wartime cottage,
seventy-three years gone,

flowerboxes at the windows,

wildflowers and weeping willow,
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.

One did not need valerian then;

the silence and peace indoors,
and the loud, ticking clock,

put that small child to sleep

through long hot midday hours.

She remembers well
how safe she felt,

and cherished, the comfort of

her grandma's big, womanly body

next to her in the bottom bunk

as she drifted off
to dreamland
in the one place on earth
where she was never afraid.

for Shay's Word List: Spill Simmer Falter Wither

Surrender

                                      

by Lucy Campbell

The medicine of surrender is

giving up the idea of what might have been

and accepting what was, what is,

while leaving the door of the heart open,

with acceptance, for what might yet be.

It means recognizing,

possibly a little too late,

that while we thought

we were driving the boat,

instead, it was taking us on

a most unexpected journey,

one of surprise and amazement

at where we landed up,

yet knowing,

in the end, it is exactly where

we are meant to be.

The medicine of surrender

means weeding out what does not

serve our souls

and following our heart's true instinct,

which will inevitably return us

to our authentic selves,

and take us home.

Inspired by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer's The Medicine of Surrender.

To Be Dazzled

Deer at my sister's farm,
nibbling birdseed under the feeder

To be dazzled, said the old woman,

just look up at the sky, and watch it change,

hour by hour. Or gaze at the sea, dark blue-green

with white-foam caps 

on every wave.

To be dazzled, said the crow,

look in the dump for a toss-up of silvery,

shiny objects, too much wealth

for one small beak. Then choose,

and go home feeling rich and happy.

To be dazzled, said the fawn,

look into my mother's soft doe eyes,

so tender, as she bends her head low

to nibble new spring grass, and I bend mine up

to drink her warm, rich milk.

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.

These Days

 

Kwiisahi?is
Brave Little Hunter
Photo by Zeballos Inn

These days,
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.

The other half,
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.

Traveler's wish
is that we learn from the animals
how to live:
simply,
truly,
respectfully
and gently
on Mother Earth.

And that the
Brave Little Hunter
will soon swim free
with her pod.

Looking for a Miracle

Photo shared by Bay Cetology

I'm 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.

I'll settle for a smaller one: that an orphaned baby orca will be reunited with her pod in time to save her life; that lost dogs will be returned home; and abused animals will be rescued and, finally, learn what being loved is.

The Big Picture is daunting, with a planet in freefall. Leaders grapple over toxic power, and turn a blind eye to corporate destruction of the natural world, and the suffering of human and non-human beings in the name of the great god Money.

I'm grateful for the Smaller View: the blue sky I have been in love with all my life: a Sky-Show every minute! The eternal waves rolling in, as they always have and always will, on the shore and forever in  my heart.

My joy is the beauty all around: sunflowers and sea stars, poems, books, candles, and soft fuzzy blankets; newborn foals and mother ducks, and the warm, smiling eyes of well-loved dogs.

Under the great bowl of sky, already so many miracles: small as a tiny cell inside our amazing bodies; vast as the universe with its many galaxies: sun, moon, planets, stars in their mystical orbits.

Under this same sky may there come, one day, a miracle: a thousand years of peace, when the bombs cease and people turn to helping and feeding each other; bending together to pick up the rubble, using the fallen bricks to lay the foundation for a better tomorrow.

While we wait, please, Universe and Whoever is Listening, help one small helpless whale reunite with her grandma. That will be miracle enough for me.

***

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.

 

Researchers and First Nations have been trying to encourage her out of the lagoon but the difficulty is the narrow opening only has enough depth half an hour a day for this to happen and the baby can't manage it. They talk of lifting her out in a sling by helicopter, and reuniting her with her pod, where she has a grandmother. But they seem to be waiting till that is the only option, given the trauma. My maternal instincts say they are waiting too long. Once she is in distress everything will be harder for her. She tried to eat a bird last Saturday so she is hungry and is too small to hunt a seal which is her normal diet.

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.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Miracles

Smoke

 

She took down the book from the shelf;

it was bookmarked with a crushed flower.

She remembered the heartbreak of forbidden love,

that lasted for such a brief hour.

He was a Russian composer;

and she was just sweet seventeen.

Her inner wildness, so far lying dormant,

was suddenly plain to be seen.

Her father, outraged and pompous,

issued steam from his ears as he spoke.

"State your intentions!" he ordered,

and the Russian disappeared in the smoke.

for Shay's Word List.

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.