Overcoming

 

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Some days are harder than others.

The heart grows tired of carrying its weight.

It needs a gentler song.

These are the last three things that happened:

I chopped veggies for a stir-fry.

Summer rain tapped on the skylight;

I watched the droplets sliding down.

You didn't call.

I love stories about overcoming:

light over darkness, rising

above circumstance.

These days,
midst all the far-right rhetoric,

all I want is a story about kindness:

helpers working to assist refugees,
cease fires - please! -

animals being rescued, sunflowers

sprouting in unexpected places,
their sunny faces

a symbol of never

giving up.

My heart has been faltering.

It needed a cup of tea

and six or seven sweet
and caring words.

And the other night,
I heard them, on TV:
Hope,
enough to put into a poem,
a green tendril taking root
in rocky but receptive ground
and thrusting
- joyfully! -
towards the sun.

I feel the energy
of a new day,
dawning,
as our leaves unfurl
and spread across
the land.

I can't help it. I'll never get over
needing hope in order
to live.
I'll never not need
the watering of our roots
with unity, fairness
and justice,
all of us
turning our heads
to the sun once more.
What a big deal it is -
to feel ready to
believe again.

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

I am impacted by the surge of energy in the USA, loud enough to drown the dark rhetoric of the far right. I dare to hope in this particular Overcoming: darkness into light, fear into the promise of a kinder, more just tomorrow. The contrast could not be clearer.

An Existential Aardvark Moment

 

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An aardvark filled with ennui

entered an antique store to browse

on the first of September. He was a

cool customer, an inherited-wealth

stable-genius type, who expected

those who served him always

to be on sheepish tippy-toes.

Spying a glass globe on an old desk

streaked with shellac, he pondered.

Did he need another Thing

for his staff to dust? Would it

lift the malaise afflicting his snout

which was tired of the tedium

of sniffing when there was

nothing new left to pursue?

Adding to his torpor was

the sexual confusion that plagued him.

He felt strange desires that must be quelled

because his parents were Republicans.

It was an existential moment.
If he were brighter,
it might have been a turning point.
But, no.

The staffers were holding their breath.

Would he buy the $500 globe,

even though it was not gold-plated?

The aardvark sighed, turned,

swishing his spiney tail, and ambled out.

There was not a Thing
that could make
his tired heart
begin to sing.

And he had no tools
to understand what would.
An unfulfilled aardvark
on a September afternoon.

for Shay's Word List

Dark

 

When it's full dark, no stars,
a small girl needs a Care Bear
for company.

One moves gingerly
in the dark,
for there be scary things
under the bed
waiting to grab
succulent, just-right
small feet.

Outside the window,
in the stately oak,
a fretful crow
mumbles a mournful
lament.

What is possible
for a pretty child
in the wounded dark?

Some questions
we don't want
answered.

But luckily this child,
though her blankets and curtains
are faded,
has a grandmother whose face
is as loving and kind
as the moon's,
and she drifts off to sleep
safe and happy.

The words for Shay's Word List took a dark turning. Sigh. My poor head. So I added a stanza so we could bear to read it.

August in Tuff City

 

Totem carved by Joe David and gifted to the town.
District of Tofino photo.

RV’s are everywhere,

all summer,
in our small village
of two thousand souls.

They lumber along our narrow streets

like huge carnivores,

in search of elusive parking spots

in which to graze.

At the two four corner stops,

tourists cluster, indecisive,

trying to decide which corner to visit.

Drivers wait, some patiently, some not,

for them to choose.

Folks are everywhere in August.

CoOp cashiers are polite, efficient,

but their eyes are glazed.

The other day there were
five THOUSAND transactions -

and still the clerks remain
pleasant and wonderful.

Finally, September will come.

Smiling faces will come up the hill

to the CoOp,

gather on the corner

by the Post Office,

catch up on the news;

observe the weather,

the touch of coolness

as the season slowly turns.

“I’m so glad fall is coming,”

I say to the clerk as I buy my veggies.

“Oh, I KNOW!” she replies fervently,

and we share a smile.

We wait all summer for its end,

when the town returns to us

once more

and our local life

resumes.

The familiar buildings

invite us in,

to linger over produce,

make of our small purchases

a social thing.

Our pace slows;

we can see each other now.

We smile as we pass.

“Beautiful day!”

“Oh, it is!”

Down the hill on First Street,

(we have four side streets

and two main,

in our downtown core)

the water shines in late-summer sun.

Clouds wisp along Wah-nah-juss;

small aluminum boats putt-putt

across the harbour.

The village soon will be
ours again;

we embrace the fog,

the coolness,

ready our rain gear,
our boots,

anticipate the wildness

of winter waves.

Tuff City basks and smiles

at season's end.
Its young people bicycle gayly

along the common path,

surfboards attached to the sides

of their bikes.

Seniors gather at

the seaside with
mugs of tea.

Shorebirds flock
along the beach
resting up for

their passage south.
Dogs run in and out
of the waves
with loopy grins.

And I am grateful

for it all:

each little thing.

Its beauty fills my heart;

it is the song I sing.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On? - August

We Get to Choose

 

An illusion conspired

by pathological power figures

and fake news, or

a return to solid values -

we get to choose.

When all the rules

of decency are broken,

it's time to unify,

not quibble

over lucid words

finally being spoken.

An escapee from reality,

his own fixed point,
reincarnated from the 30's -

self-worth puny

but self-importance grand -

his babble increasingly

unhinged and picayuney,

he speaks gibberish
no sane person

can understand.

Two paths stand before us -

dark and light.

Now strength has risen

more than equal
to the fight.

Two paths lie before us,

win or lose:

go back to chaos

or forge ahead -

we get to choose.

for Shay's Word List. 

I am enjoying the current political situation in the US with great relief. I am aware that there are already plans in place to interfere with the election. (I cant understand why such illegal action is not preventable by law.) It is good to feel hope again, and to trust that the response will be more than enough to turn the tide.

WHEN YOU LOVE A WILD THING

 

"...you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, ...[i]f you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."

— Truman Capote (Breakfast at Tiffany's: A Short Novel and Three Stories)

When you love a wild thing,

you're rekindling your kinship

with the wild.

Every cell in your body

remembers

when you once ran free

upon the land,

when you lived the Old Ways

we once used to

understand.

Part of you remembers

when you hunted the deer,

and part remembers

when you were

the deer being hunted.

Both sides know fear.

The part of you

that catches your breath,

your heart quickening,

when that old grey whale

turns her ancient eye on you,

is the part that recognizes,

but can't put words to,

the message in her

mournful song,

about this planetary home

where we all

belong.

I gave my heart to a wolf-pup,

his eyes intelligent

and true.

He loved me more

than anyone

I ever knew.

He remained wild,

but left both

wilderness and sea.

In order to be with me

he relinquished

being free.

And when it came

his time to leave,

he tried so hard

to stay.

Since he's been gone,

it's like the wilderness

itself

has gone away.

Now, when I walk,

yes, I'm looking

at the sky.

I'm listening

at each full moon

for his lonely

cry.

I walk the length

of his favorite river

with tears

that we're apart.

But I'm glad

I loved a wild thing,

because he

fortified

my heart.

I'm linking this one for my prompt at What's Going On on Wednesday - It's Raining Cats and Dogs. I am looking forward to meeting some furry creatures this week! It will be fun! Come join us!

WHEN YOU LOVE A WILD THING II

When you love a wild thing

your heart becomes wild too.

You gallop together joyously

along deserted beaches

to the roar of the waves

with an exultant song

of freedom in your heart.

You track through old growth forests,

padding gently on the mossy floor,

alert for other critters

in the bush.

You walk the beach

to the moo of Lennard's Light,

in fog so thick that others' voices

are disembodied spirits

that emerge, startled and laughing,

when you get close.

When you love a wild thing,

your heart soars with eagles

and is tethered to the land

only by love.

When you love a wild thing,

the bond of devotion

runs deeper than any human

you have ever encountered

was capable of.

And when you lose a wild thing,

your heart resists

its return to
being tame.

 I am revisiting a couple of old poems, written for my beloved Pup, for my prompt this week at What's Going On - It's Raining Cats and Dogs - where we are sharing poems about our furry loved ones or spirit animals.

Distraught Sister Moon

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Distraught Sister Moon,

I see you up there, pacing around,

wringing your hands,

"what to do,

what to do,

what to do?"

Down below, all hell is breaking loose:

bombings, shootings, drought,

famines, floods, melting icebergs,

wildfires,

wildlife fleeing in terror,

no where to hide,

dangerous people with bad hair

behaving badly.

I see you trying to efface your fullness

quickly, perhaps thinking

if you lessen your roundness

the populace can return to calm

under a slice of moon.

But when were we last calm?

By your light, madmen and prophets collide.

By your light, poets seek truth and beauty.

By your light, we dream of a better world.

You have stopped pacing.

You like where this is going.

Okay, hear this:

By the Light of Your Silvery Moon,

on earth

(perhaps in vain)

we dream,

we dream,

we dream

of peace.

for Truedessa's prompt at dVerse: Dreaming Up a Poem

GRANDMOTHERS WITH WOLF HOWLS IN OUR HEARTS

 

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"This is not a political protest.
This is an uprising of the soul."
David Brower
ecologyofthespirit.com


Wild Woman hears the voices
of the Old Ones,
rising on the winds of change,
telling us the white buffalo calf
has been born, and the time
of the prophecy is at hand.
On the soft breezes of dawn, I hear
Grandmothers weeping all across the land,
where so much of what we have loved
is gone.

The Black Snake slithers
across Mother Earth.
Oil spills into the rivers of life,
the water of the People.
Mother Earth’s womb is torn apart
by fracking; the ocean fills with
plastic detritus and toxins. It vomits
a graveyard of man-made garbage.
Wildfires burn; mountain slopes crumble;
rivers overflow their barren banks.
Whales and polar bears are starving,
the earth heats, the poles melt,
and  hunger stalks the living.

Meanwhile, the Mad God of Money rules.
Men with dead eyes stuff their pockets,
grinning goulishly, as the planet burns.

Our Grandmothers’ blood stirs in our veins.
This is the earth we love;
we can’t stay silent as it is destroyed.
This world and its future
belongs to our grandchildren,
not to these mad fools.
We are muttering, across the land and oceans;
we are rising in our numbers.
We are gathering, in peaceful protest, 
but with hearts like banshees.
Feel the chill on the hairs
on the back of your neck;
we are coming.

We are standing by the sides of rivers
and sacred burial grounds.
We cannot turn away,
for the bones of our beloveds are here,
near your bulldozers and dynamite,
your pipeline of destruction.
We cannot turn away
because our children (and yours!)
need fresh water to drink.

You have dotted the landscape
of our nightmares
with strip mines and oil derricks.
In every corner, you threaten
our combined existence.
No! It is Enough.
We have lived men’s ways for millennia;
see the result, as the earth gasps
under the yoke of your oppression
and misuse of power.

The Grandmothers and the Mothers,
the Aunts and Sisters, the dancing Maidens,
and the strong little rainbow children
are rising, with fire in our bellies
and the hope of transformation in our hearts -
with understanding even of the men
in the halls of power, wounded
and empty, whose dead eyes proclaim
they have never really felt loved.
Here is what wise women know:
even a trillion dollars will never ease that wound.
Instead, hug your sad-eyed sons
and smile – not like crocodiles -
at your unhappy wives.

We will unseat you – hopefully quite soon -
replacing you with those
who can lead with compassion:
the grandmothers and mothers,
the aunts and sisters,
and strong, dancing maidens.
This war is a holy war of light over darkness
and truth over lies.
The Grandmothers, the Women, are stirring;
the force of the Ancient Ones
is standing with us in our sorrowing.
Stand aside; we can show you
the way of life, of justice,
of harmony and healing.

We are grandmothers with wolf howls
in our hearts.
We will never be silenced.

for Susan's prompt:   Anger, which to me is always directed at social and ecological injustice.

Apathy is Unconstitutional

 

The apathy of the population

in this avocado world full of rot,

where all the trees are burning
and everyone is too busy talking politics
to lower emissions,

makes me writhe.

Awkward and bumbling,

we circle like deaf mutes,
trying not to hear,

furiously rejecting the gibberish

of the cartoon reality host

with madness and the murder
of democracy

on his mind.

Sigh.

It is all too much
for our tired brains
to hold.

Yet we're terrified that,

by some sleight of hand

(and interference at the ballot boxes)

we might yet return

to the mayhem

and will lose our minds

(and our freedoms.)

Apathy is just not possible

this time around. 

Our hearts rise with hope.

Let's follow them to the voting booth
in huge numbers,

and listen for

the global sigh of relief.

Well. This is what Shay's Word List had to say to me today.

Being Here Now

How is it that I walk down the street
noticing my sore knees, stiff legs,
aching back - watching my feet
and not the cloud-dotted sky,
the robin on the lawn, the sudden run
of a chipmunk into the bushes?

Lift up your eyes, I tell myself.
There is a sky-show going on
that you are missing.

How is it that I eat mindlessly,
barely tasting the food, so that
hunger is never satisfied?

Slow down, a voice within me says.
Be here now. Notice everything.
It is a world of wonders.

The old black dog with grizzled snout
and wolfy ears knows this very well
without words. He stretches out 
on the grass in the shade, gives 
a contented sigh, enjoys the play of the breeze
on his long whitened nose -
everything is perfect.
Everything in this moment
is just as good as it can be.
He wants nothing more -
except, maybe, a juicy bone
when he gets home.