Baby Swallows

 

Baby swallows
emerge from the nest
under the eaves
they never dreamed
they'd ever have
to leave

to perch for a few hours

rallying the will
to heed the call the wild world
has instilled.

How big the sky must look
to baby birds.
Their claws seek perches
that feel safe, and cling,

yet

in every birdy heart
the song of freedom
sings.

They make

a cameo appearance
before they fly -
that mighty leap
into a world of sky.
Not knowing where
they go,
they lift their wings
in trust,
as all young growing things
forever must.

Fly, little birds.
The sky is beautiful,
and the world is big.
You'll find wonders
everywhere you roam,
and many tall trees
in which to make
new homes.

Meanwhile, 
to remember,
I place you

in this poem.

For Sumana's prompt: A Cameo Appearance at What's Going On.

These babies have been vocal and active at my friend's floathouse, as they ready themselves for flight. Each spring, another generation of baby birds, parent birds flying back and forth frantically trying to fill all the open beaks. My friend lives in an enchanted spot.

The Poet, at 2 a.m.

She wakes from dreams within the dark
thinking of how things should have been,
amazed at how they missed the mark,
so close to Mystery unseen.

Thinking of how things should have been
was not the way they were to be,
so close to Mystery, unseen,
love was easier, temporary.

Not the way things were to be,
though the sweetness was so real.
Love was easier, temporary,
love too frightening to feel.

Though the sweetness was so real,
two hearts too afraid to trust,
Love, too frightening to feel,
easier to part as lovers must.

Two hearts too afraid to trust,
she wakes from dreams within the dark.
They parted as most lovers must,
amazed at how they missed the mark.

for Shay's Word List - based on the poems of A.E Stallings, whom I have not encountered before. I read one of her pantoums and challenged myself to attempt one.

Cuckooville

 

The right is furious, seriously annoyed.

A new broom has arrived to kick some ass.

Cuckooville with an unhinged reality show host

president may not come to pass.
I have to hope that justice and

democracy will prevail at last.

We were held hostage to a demented dream
of dictatorship. Our spirits sank.

They wanted to burn all the books

in the library, send women back to 1950,
oligarchs grinning, pockets stuffed,
all the way to the bank.

All his puppets kissed the ring - a band of crooks.

(I'm not too shy to say I never liked his looks.)

PTSD - Post trump Seriously Dumped -
(we live in hope.)

They may hang themselves metaphorically

if we give them enough rope.

Polar opposites - the red and blue.

Since he'll never leave politely,

don't let them lie and misconstrue.

Democracy is on the line -

we get to choose.

For justice to prevail,

Cuckooville has to lose.

LOL. Not politically correct but I am too filled with hope to not Go There. It feels so good to have hope again.

for Shay's Word List

I Remember

 

I remember when we thought
we'd change the world:

the civil rights movement

the women's movement

Kent State/Viet Nam -

"Hello, no. We won't go!" -

flowers in gun barrels

Make Love Not War

and

Give Peace a Chance.

Love and hope were in the air.

The times, they were a -changing everywhere.

Our leaders and our hopes fell

one by one: Gandhi, JFK,
young civil rights activists,

Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy,

and John Lennon, with his song of peace,
silenced by a gun.

How heavy our hearts, as hope grew silent

and the world went another way.

The times, they were a-changing,

where corporations ruled, Profit Before Planet,

and Mother Earth and all her creatures

are the ones who pay.

Our hearts leaped when Barack Obama
appeared:

a visionary with heroic qualities to his name.

He reminded us what it was to dream.

The times grew bright till
the end of his tenure came.

Then a toxic angry cloud covered the land.

Where kindness and civility have gone

I will never understand.
Democracy under attack,
hard-won rights and freedoms
going/gone -
the far right is singing
a very scary song.
There is Truth and there are

"Alternate Facts," Project 25,
and fake news:

a dictatorship or democracy:

we get to choose.

For now a bright light surfaces again.

With Kamala our hopeful spirits rise.

The pendulum swings

from dark to light
to our amazed surprise.

The times, they are a-changing,
folks, once more.

May they change to the vision

our freedom-loving hearts
 are more than ready for.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On : Changing Times

I had written a much gloomier poem until Kamala Harris announced her candidacy. I haven't felt this hopeful since Barack Obama ran for office. She is brilliant, warm, honest, real - and strong. It's good to have hope again.

If the World is Ending

 

If the world is ending,

come walk with me into the forest.

It has been this verdant, this silent,

this peaceful, for millennia.

The angry voices do not enter here,

where humans are respectful guests.

This is home for deer, raccoons, owls,

eagles, small scurrying creatures.

Stealthy cougar, big black bear

and shy, elusive wolf move invisibly
through the trees,

curl up in the vacant bowls of ancient cedar,

evading us, as we have taught them

we are to be feared.

See the tiny mushrooms, banquet

for fairy folk. Breathe in

the color green: fern, salal,

old man's beard, lichen,

moss soft and plush
as a princess's pillow.

If the world is ending,

walk with me along the shore.

Hear the waves singing

their forever song.

This much beauty feels like prayer,

even if the prayer is only

an expanded heart and "Thank You."

If the world is ending,

sit on a log with me.

Gaze into forever and watch

as the huge, golden-red fiery sun

goes down.

source

This poem was inspired by the title of Patrick Ramsay's poem "If the World is Ending."

Eaglet Elegy

 

Small eaglet,

when you fell from the nest,

kind people came

and loved you as you grew.

You were happy in the summer sun

till, unexpectedly,

(and oh, we could never, ever
 be ready for this),

you spread your wings

and flew

into the Otherworld,

where loving spirits sing.

We hope you knew

how much we loved you

and how the memory of you

is now one more of the many
golden gifts

you bring.

I wrote this for my prompt at What's  Going On : Elegy. But posted another choice as my link.

Strangely, as happens in life, I had this prompt ready two weeks ago when, just last week, a young boy I looked after for years when he was small died suddenly in a boating accident. He was the sweetest boy, now in his early teens, and everyone who loved him is just devastated. 

Grief Can Be a Sunflower

 

Grief  can be the sunflower delivered
by a smiling friend,
that inexplicably begins to die that very minute,
leaves drooping, head tucking under its chin,
giving up, leaf by wilting leaf,
because the world is broken, and too hot,
its roots too tightly packed
for water to reach its faltering heart.
Grief can also be the bouquet of cut sunflowers
I bring home from the CoOp
and put in the tall green vase,
to cheer me as I add one more loss
to all the others, and remember
that the world, though suffering,
is also beautiful.

Grief becomes everything with age,
laced through the heartbreaking beauty
that is this world, this life, and death, all passing,
the shine, the wonder, sunrises, sunsets,
laughter and tears and love come and gone ~
earth grief for a planet in distress,
and our culpability/inability
to restore what has been lost

loss upon loss, the heaviness,
us learning how to plant our feet
and strengthen our shoulders to bear it.
Not giving up like the sunflower,
setting our roots down deep,
strengthening our stance,
accepting pain is the price of being fully alive:
gratitude for all of this life and love -
the richness of it! The gifts.
Joy woven through the sadness.
Sadness woven through with joy-
gilt-edged, and fraught,
and yet still remembering
how to dream.

Then I went to the beach and let the waves sing their song of forever to me. An elderly and rather chubby bassett hound turned himself upside down on the sand, paws in the air, snout lying flat on the sand, totally blissed out. It made my day!

Elegy for the Wildlands

Mother Earth,

your clearcut slopes in winter
bleed mud and tears.
In summer,
wildfires roar across the land.
My cousin walks out at night
to embers falling
from an apocalyptic sky.
Grass crackles underfoot.
Water sources dry up.
Leaves on trees and bushes curl,
thirsty, as are all the wild ones
in this burning world.

Down into the valley wander

displaced bear, cougar and wolf,

who are shot for intruding

into "our" territory,

though their perplexing plight is

how far we have encroached

into theirs.

And yet, life struggles on:
two baby orcas swim through warming seas,
where not enough salmon remain
to feed them. Like many
on this earth, their tummies
are never full,
yet they swim on,
in hope and trust,
for swim they must.

My heart is heavy

with how badly we have

ravaged you,

razed the beauty of your wild lands,

hunted to extinction

your beautiful wild creatures.

We have even endangered

the inoffensive butterfly.

What manner of species are we?

Yet the loons still sing softly at Loon Lake,
though algae, pollution and plastic
line its banks.

The trees still hopefully

bring forth their buds

and miraculous bounties,

the animals still try so hard to live,

no matter how badly

we have husbanded

the bountiful earth

that was given to us

with more than enough

to share,
if only we care.

Our souls know

we should be much better than we are.

The planet spins,

strangling in our emissions.

Our hearts grow as polluted

as the coral reefs, the fish in the sea,

the hunted whales,

the sky above the billowing

industrial smokestacks.

My heartsong is an elegy
all day long.

Even as I watch the peaceful loons,

hear their beautiful and hopeful song,

in my heart, with pain,

I fear, already,
so many innocent lives

are going

           going

                 gone.

for my prompt at What's Going On - Elegy.

I just watched a beautiful film by Jennifer Abbott titled The Magnitude of All Things, which records the grief of many, including her, across the world who see the impact of climate change on the natural world. Her sister's death from cancer opened her eyes to the grief of so many of us for the losses we bear witness to on a global scale. Nature and humanity are not in balance and the only ones who can change this are us. The more-than-human beings on earth are waiting for us to understand what they (and indigenous people of the earth) have always known - we are all connected. We share the grief and are not alone.

The message is actually hopeful because what we love, we try to save. And what we save, saves us.

A Candle for the Dead

 

In ceremony, I light a candle for the dead.
So hasty was his leaving, I was not ready -
his face ashen, now, his spirit having fled -
so hard to find my footing, make it steady.

So hasty was his leaving, I was not ready.
I sing a lullaby to him, ring little bells.
So hard to find my footing, make it steady,
I build an homage, an altar of sand and shells.

I sing a lullaby to him, ring little bells.
We had adventures when the lad was young.
I build an homage, an altar of sand and shells,
remembering when our journey had just begun.

We had adventures when the lad was young -
his face ashen, now, his spirit having fled -
his song unfinished when it had just begun.
In ceremony, I light a candle for the dead.

A rhyming pantoum for Shay's Word List. This past week, a young teen I cared for when he was small died suddenly. For six years, when he was little, we walked forest trails, bought treats and then went home to colour together. He told me "You're like a grandma to me." He was only fourteen and so suddenly gone, it is hard to assimilate. And extremely sad.

SOLITARY STAR

Solitary star

is it cold up

where you are?

Through bare and brittle

winter branches

I can see you

sparkling clear,

shining your brightest

just before

you disappear.

The rooster is

softly crowing

in the barnyard,

a sleepy sound,

reluctant in the chill.

My wolf-dog pads,

silent and old,

beside me.

The day is coming

when he no more will.

Nine white swans

in formation

now come gliding

almost noiselessly

winging overhead.

Noses pointed west,

they're heading towards

the water.

Nine swans,

and yet they

mate for life

it's said.

Now daybreak crests

the silver-peaked mountains,

lighting the frozen rooftops

etched in ice.

Tall cedars turn

from black and

towering giants

to green again,

their beauty

beyond price.

I breathe the essence

of this winter morning,

wood-smoke on the air

as starshine fades.

My windows are lit up

and, warm and waiting,

is the cozyness

of this little home

I've made.

I feel the blessing

rich with

all life's worth,

just to have

another day

like this

alive

on Planet Earth.

I wrote this poem in 2010, in winter, when I was still living in my little trailer - Pup's kingdom. I loved that little place and this poem came to me while I was walking Pup along the road, looking in at the glowing windows, happy with our little home, but very aware that soon he would no longer be walking beside me. Sigh.

A Web of Friends

Much the way Grandmother Spider

sits in her corner,

diligently spinning her web,

to see what morsels

she might catch,

one day I tossed a line

out into a wider web.

Tapping on the keys,

I began to weave

my life

with words

that slowly

brought you to my door:

connections that I never would

have dreamed,

a window into the online community
of poetry and friendship,

that opened

a whole new wonderful world

to me,

and, at the same time,

brought me home.

 The web, and all of you, dear friends, has enriched my writing life beyond belief, bringing me friends from all over the world. I gratefully take this opportunity to thank you. It means more than you can ever know that people are reading my words. Especially now, when my pen has lost much of its former fluency. (I am grateful to still be writing anything, though, and will continue.) My friendship with each one of you - these most amazing connections - means all the world to me. And you know me best of all, because you read the words from my heart.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - About Friendship

Pink Rabbits and Too Many Candles

 

I thought to make a cake

for my birthday, full of sugar,

with candy all around the edge.

I opened seven packages of candles - seven!

And sat there, amazed, at the journey

I have made, chasing that pink rabbit

in a circle, then circling back,

until someone took pity

and handed me a compass

that helped me find my way.

Raven pointed her feathery wing

up over the mountains, and so I came

into the land of dreams, walking

like a somnambulist through beauty

that seemed too magical to be real.
And yet it was, and is.

I send you a cupcake of wishes,

wherever you are, and a complimentary

mug of tea. And when next you spot

a pink rabbit, I hope

you'll think of me.

for Shay's Word List - which sent me into a bit of a sugar high! I didnt really open all those candles. Just a token few, one for each decade. LOL. What a jouney this life is. I kinda love it.

The Land of Bones

Through gates of wisdom we,

most hopefully, step.

It is time for the dream of our life

to be coming true,

for the being of all that we truly are

to flower.

Why wait?

Time is fleeting, faster

by the hour.

I passed through the valley of elm and ash,

their branches entwined to form a protected path.

At the end of this path is the portal

to the land of bones.

I have the feeling

I am not alone.

Internally, I am shown,

where my journey lies.

I must cross this littered landscape,

with a seer's eyes,

find and pick up

a backbone, a wishbone,

a funny bone and

a hollow little bone*--

only the ones that are my very own.

Perched on a quaking limb,

a single prodigious egg sits in a nest.

I hear it crack, and then my quest

is blessed.

A thousand cranes lift up, into the sky.

I am granted the gift of Wonder,

and put it in my pack.

There be spirits here,

and there is no turning back.

Raven sits before me, huddled on the path.

She speaks a single gobble-cry,

turns into Flight

without a sound.

Her flight path has teachings in it

for who we are:

citizens of earth,

grounded, yet sky-bound.

When she lands on a topmost scrag,

she points her wing into the forest dark.

I quake, but have no choice,

my inner guide informs.

When I pass through Night so dark,

I emerge into the morning light

transformed.

It is frightening:

Nothing will ever be the same again.

It is liberating:

Nothing will ever be the same again.

When Raven calls to you,

and points her feathery wing,

listen closely for the

message she will bring.

*Indigenous people believe these are the foundations of our being: backbone for strength, wishbone for dreams, funny bone for essential humour and a hollow little bone, for trust and faith in the Great Mystery.

It is also believed that all women came from the elm, all men from the ash.

I happened upon this poem today, remembering how I felt when I wrote it in 2015, living landlocked, longing for the sea. Two years later, I returned home.

Mea Culpa Will Never Be Enough

There are people who live in a world of Us and Other,
on a different frequency, unable, unwilling to hear

that coming together works far better, and more kindly,
than division and vitriol. But their eyes wax fanatical,
and  there is no reasoning with the determinedly
and thoroughly indoctrinated. (In their heart of hearts,
do they believe their lies?)

There are people who sell their souls for power and privilege, who fawn at the feet of wanna-be king  toads, kissing the ring of their mob boss, afraid to offend and be cast away like so many others have been, and as they themselves might be, one day.

There are those with gentle hearts who grow more silent as every year passes, at finding ourselves in such a world, whose sense of justice is offended daily by all that is wrong.

We may open a window, breathe in the morning air,
be grateful for the blue sky, the trees, the wild ones, but our heart stays weighed down by a planet in crisis, by governments' wilful negligence in allowing corporations to destroy Mother Earth, at those too busy fighting each other in wars, and through partisan politics, to fight the even bigger fight,which will be extreme climate events the likes of which we are only beginning to see, at a pace that accelerates with every passing year, as the planet's cries of distress grow ever louder, and are ignored.

The world needs visionaries. Instead, fascism is rising all over the world. Can democracies not see that its loss will mean corrupt power and privilege for the few at the top and untold suffering for all other beings? Have we forgotten all we once understood, values men fought and died for, human rights once fiercely defended, now falling to fundamentalist ideologies?

On behalf of the wild ones who are going extinct in ever-increasing numbers, and the millions of refugees already displaced by war, famine, drought and climate crisis, to the hillsides bare of trees, sliding down to cover villages below, and land annually flooded or lost to wildfires, I say :

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.
I apologize for my kind,
knowing no apology, no attempt to redress the wrongs
or restore what has been lost, will ever be enough,
will never be on time.

Sigh. Not feeling very hopeful these days.

SPRING RAIN

 

Spring rain is playing timpani on salal

along the fence. It taps the skylight

with insistent fingers, looking for

a way in, as I listen to its ancient melody.

The Japanese cherry and forsythia

just recently shed
their frothy spring dresses.

Their time to shine goes by so fast,

like weeks, like years, like life,

here and gone before we tie up

all the ends. (Some ends don't ever

want to tie. We leave them lie.)

On Rhodo Hill,
deep magenta and purple blooms

look like the ball gowns
of antebellum debutantes

swishing downhill
on their way to a soiree.

Spring rain, gentle, to nourish
and not break

the buds so close to opening.
Let my heart

stay tender, when the world lets me down

and everything feels wrong.

Let me listen to the rain's one note

and hear a beginner's song.

Inspired by "Rain, New Year's Eve" by Maggie Smith. The italicized lines are hers.

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