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Tuesday, April 30, 2024

Silence

 


When the world walked two by two,
and she alone,
silence felt lonely.
And so the universe set her the task
of embracing solitude.

She began to observe
how people seemed to need
a lot of talk and noise
to know they were alive.
And so she listened
more deeply,
to the hum of the planet
and the music of the spheres,
the way the night sky
seemed, almost, to sing,
and to Grandfather Cedar
breathing peace
straight into her heart.

She tuned in to the voice within,
wiser than any outer voice,
but one it takes far too long
to learn to trust.

At some point,
silence came to live inside her,
a vast, interior silence
where there were no words,
no thoughts, no worries,
a time when the sound of the sea
washed all away,
leaving behind only
peace, presence,
and joy.

And now she knows all about
the silence from which
all music comes.*
It is her dearest friend.
Through it, the beautiful
symphony of life
plays like a mellow clarinet
on a summer afternoon,
warm and golden, counterpoint to
the full brass band
of daily existence,
all inter-woven and living
mellifluously together
in her heart.

*Mozart said: The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.

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

Monday, April 29, 2024

Fever Dreams

 


I learned at the cinema to dream
how my future would be, back when
life was as cold as a convent in mid-winter,
back when fever dreams were mortal sins,
back when my experiment in being a mystic
went all awry.

It all turned out so differently from what I'd dreamed.
I said this to a friend last week, adding
"I never could have dreamed it
the way it's been,"
and she shook her head in wonderment,
with big eyes, having read my memoir.

I had a fling or two, with no finesse. I experimented
with domesticity in prison garb and broke free
like an alligator on the run from men with spears.

Nowadays I've turned the volume low. I take pills
that don't remedy the pain. I've learned that
only dogs know how to truly love.
I'll never make my earlier mistakes again.


Ha. Shay's Word List took me down an unexpected path. I love when that happens. It was the cold as a convent that got me going. 

( I scooped the Fitzgerald quote above Shay's poem and changed it a bit to fit mine - I haven't read her poem yet, of course, as I didn't want to be influenced.) But the alligator line made me think of her. Smiles.)

Tuesday, April 23, 2024

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 memory,
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.

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



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

 


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.

Sunday, April 14, 2024

Bird

 



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.


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.


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.


Monday, April 8, 2024

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


Friday, April 5, 2024

Surrender

                                      


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.

Wednesday, April 3, 2024

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.

Tuesday, April 2, 2024

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

Monday, April 1, 2024

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.