Where Poems Hide

Somass River in autumn, Port Alberni, B.C.

A poem hides in given words:
vine and web,
and one sees ivy climbing a stone wall,
a fat red spider in a web dotted with dew.

A poem dances across the page,
words like leaves tossed by a phantom wind:
orange
red
yellow,

like sandpipers at the edge of the sea,
moving together as one,
like a row of poppies,
nodding their ponderous heads.

A poem can be enchanting
with fluttering wings:
a grackle, suddenly at the feeder,
a pheasant, startling upwards
out of tall grass.

A poem can be quiet:
a silent room where a grandmother
remembers her first kiss.

The scent of smoke
on an autumn afternoon
takes an old woman back
to walking home from school
in the long ago,
past piles of burning leaves:
orange
red
yellow.

for Shay's Word List: Autumn - my favourite season.

 

One More Day

 

My beautiful granddog Smokey

While I live at a snail's pace, the world

whirls by: burly men revving engines,
too impatient to stop at stop signs,
so they roll through. As I hobble

across the intersection, one roars right behind me,

so close the wind moves my jacket.
He will get there four seconds sooner,
irritated and bothered,
not having learned to rest a moment
and enjoy seeing his fellow humans
passing by.

I am the Observer now, watching the world careen:

wars, escalating tensions, everyone focussed on

outrageous rhetoric  as the climate crisis
carries on warming, burning, flooding -
nature screaming at humankind

to wake up: our house is burning down.

My days are slow but the weeks fly by.

Everyone is busy living, all are exhausted,

midst the uproar coming at us on our tv screens,
the very opposite of peace and tranquillity,
which can be found outside,
in the forest, by lakes or rivers,
or the glorious sea,
or even out front in my rocking chair,
basking in the sun.

Each morning I wake up and think: one more day.

I am grateful. I know there is a due date

when I will be returned to the earth and the sea

and the sky I have loved so well.

One more day to watch bees buzzing

around my flower garden, to pat doggy heads,

give them treats, and see them smile their doggy smiles.
One more day to sit in the sun

as this busy world slowly turns itself 

into the oranges, yellows and reds of fall.
A gift.

for Sumana's prompt: The March of Time at What's Going on. Time is marching in quick-step these days, even though my own pace is slow.

Traveler on Choices

 

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud

was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

Anais Nin

Sometimes when the

worst of calamities happens,

all that we can choose

is how we rise.

Those are the days of fire and ice

that hone us,

push us to make the leap,

and make us wise.

Dear fellow voyager,

if you are clinging

to the very end

of the very last branch

on the tree,

in fear of falling,

just rest, and trust

life's cycle.

All will be well,

and help will come

to thee.

Remember, Traveler,

this is the soul's journey.

If we lock ourselves away

too high a price

we'll pay.

Safety can in time

become a prison.

We sometimes travel blind

to find our way.

At first you think

you'll never trust another,

for he might wound you

like the last, who was untrue.

But in the end

you're likely to discover

the only one

you need to trust

is you.

Despite ourselves,

that early sun will warm us,

and slowly we'll unfurl

those icy leaves.

We have to grow.

To stay the same will harm us.

We're at our best

when we

the most believe.

A bud may wish to stay closed

for a season.

If it fails to open, it withers

on the vine.

Unfurl your bud.

Come out to meet

the sunshine.

Expand in the warmth,

dear little bud.

It's time.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Choices. Traveler has learned a thing or two about choices. The phrase "too late smart" springs to mind. LOL. This poem is an updated version from my Traveler series.

Old Frog Makes Hash of Haiku

Old frog falls in watery pond,
reviving briefly.

Old frog sits in sad stupor -
finally thinks of word:
Consolation.

Old frog ancient enough
for hazy dimness
to be forgiven.

Old frog swimming
with the young fry -
glub glub.

for Shay's Word List - to write bad poetry -  a fun prompt, and easily managed, lol.

 

Sunflower

photo by Chris Lowther

You are lifting your face
to the sky,
like a sunflower
after the long winter.

Oh, the joys of peacefulness
and silence,
feeling safe after pain,
a balm to heal
old wounds.

One can never regret 
the journey,
once it has brought us this far,
to where we remember
to look up at the stars,
and to rediscover
how to dream. 

for Shay's Word List, and for Jae

PRAYER

When my heart has no words,

when there is too much to pray for

and not enough hope

in the world

to right all the wrongs,

When wildfires are burning

as the climate naysayers say nay,

I walk my speechless heart

into the forest

to try to find my way.

Each tree

a living prayer,

offering balm and breath

to the soul-weary.

Each birdcall a note of hope

in the planetary song

humankind has

gotten wrong.

When my heart has

only tears,

and there is too much to pray for

and not enough faith
in our leaders

to find my way,

I let the trees pray for me,

Breathe their peacefulness

into my being,

Listen to all

they have to say.

Each tree

a living prayer,

each human adding either

dark or light

to the planetary plight.

for my prompt at What's Going On?  How we find balance in a chaotic, divided world. I am fortunate to live in a rainforest (though global warming has changed its weather patterns drastically, and we now experience drought), and beside the sea. A walk along the beach washes all worries from my brain, and all is peace and beauty, as far as I can see. But there is beauty everywhere, and any tree or body of water offers the same magical properties to those who seek their peace.

WALKING ON THE WINDS OF MORNING

 

Traveler walks

on the winds of morning,

gentled by the soft mist,

attuned to the music

of the spheres.

Tiny birds alight

on her shoulders,

then lift off, twittering,

to follow her passage,

branch to branch,

through the sleepy forest.

She is Sky-Woman.

Though her feet are planted

on the earth,

her eyes never leave

the sky.

There are footsteps

softly padding along

behind her.

She does not turn

to see who comes.

She knows.

He is invisible,

but she knows those perked ears,

that arching tail,

that long black snout.

Walking on the winds of the morning,

their two spirits touch

through the veil of mist.

Their two hearts

are never

apart.

Remembering Marcel

This is my high school friend, Marcel, and I - Class of '64. He was gay in small-town Kelowna, and was teased mercilessly by loud, laughing, obnoxious boys. I was his defender, and the kids said he "followed me around like a puppy."  After high school, we lost touch for many years, then I tracked him down through the internet and we resumed our friendship. One night I got a phone call. Marcel, who had had a sad life, had committed suicide, leaving a letter for me and a phone number for me to be notified. I wrote this poem in the days after his death, and read it, through tears, at his memorial. Too soon, to lose him again.

You were always waiting for me

on the corner of Elliot and Richter

in the snow, all those dark sub-zero

bitter weekday mornings,

in the crystal dead of winter

long ago,

under crisply winking stars

fall in beside me,

our steps crunching across the frozen snow

towards the lighted school

where you would play my champion,

towards the lighted school

where I would play

the fool.

We need not speak;

you were just there to guide me.

You supported me and loyally you cared.

Through all those years

you walked, silent, beside me,

so full of all the words

I could not speak so left unsaid,

brittle with so many tears

I knew not how to shed.

Your presence along the deep abyss

that I was skirting

was a comfort: you, the only one

to see that I was hurting,

you, the only one to see

who I was really meant to be,

hiding behind the gay bravado,

the laughing eyes, the laughter,

you saw me shining, then

and ever after,

all my life long,

you've always been

my friend.

Perhaps your presence

kept me from the chasm,

my pain hid deep

behind my thousand smiles.

You knew I needed help

along those so-precarious miles,

and up that hill of pain so steep,

you were someone who would

my painful secret keep.

You were so loyal,

you asked for nothing,

but it is true,

that in those years

that burned us deep,

I was your defender, too.

When other boys taunted you

- beyond your years,

so sage, so wise -

till angry tears stood,

smarting, in your outraged eyes,

frustrated at living in a world

so cruel,

I would fall in beside you

as we walked away

from yet another day

survived in school.

I lost you for a long and lonely time,

went looking for you many years ago -

you, the one who always made me laugh,

you, the only one from those sad years

who "knew me when"

and who was still my friend.

I needed to thank you

for always standing by,

be your friend better

than I could be back then,

when you watched me

breaking my heart

over silly boys who decried me

while all the time

someone who cared

stood right beside me.

One day your name was there

on my computer screen;

it was so good to finally

make up the lost years

in between.

But, Marcel, you left too soon

and suddenly.

This time I thought

that there would always be

more time to tell you

all you mean to me,

especially how kind you are

and rare,

how clear you see,

how loyally you care.

We still had so much

friendship left

to share.

Once again, as if the years

had never intervened,

there you were supporting me

behind my winking screen,

making me laugh as I did you

with tales

all too ludicrous and true,

because laughter after pain

is what we always knew.

I took for granted

this time you would always be

at the other end of an email,

never lost again to me.

We never had the chance

to meet again.

If we did I knew your face

would be the same

because your heart was,

throughout all the years,

unchanged.

We did not metamorphose;

from those young ghosts

our spirits rose

and we became

more truly who we are:

delightfully deranged,

two solitary souls who are

wicked awesome

strange.

I still had a hug to give you

in this lifetime,

wanted one more time

to look into your eyes.

You left too soon

but this I surely promise:

Marcel,

you'll always

be a friend

of mine.

I have to believe that one day

I'll be crossing

a clear and frozen

landscape all alone

until I reach the

far and distant corner,

just past the morning star,

the corner where you are

just waiting

to fall into step beside me,

your presence in that moment

not denied me,

to support me through

that last stretch of the journey.

Once more

I will be

Heading Home

with you.

Marcel,

back when you loved me then

so true,

I'll bet you never dreamed

that it would end up

me and you.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: School. 

This is an old poem, as when I think of those school years, I remember Marcel and his quiet, loyal friendship, that never wavered.

Marcel with Paprikas
when he knew he'd be leaving.