She Has Horses

She had horses who lived in her dreams.

When she was little, she would gallop

around and around the back field,

long hair streaming out behind her,

galloping to the rhythm

of the hoofbeats in her heart.

She was trying to be a horse, and

we smiled as we watched her

- da-dum, da-dum, da-dum -

head nodding, mane flying.

When she got big, she had horses:

a brown mare who lived in the country

while she worked in town, then, later,

an Arabian, a Grande Dame of horses,

finally a horse in her back yard,

who lived long, and ruled the small farm,

bossing all the horses who came later.

This mare gave birth to a tiny foal,

his arrival an unexpected miracle.

This magical foal was her child,

she who had never had children.

Because his mother would not nurse him,

she hand-fed him. He was her heart horse,

all of her joy and, when he died too young,

all of her heartbreak.

She did not stop crying for a month.

She still can't speak his name.

Some things you never get over.

Some things you can't speak about,

because the pain goes too deep.

She has always had horses.

What this means is knowing,

when you love animals,

that after some years of joy,

there will be heartbreak.

Her farm has a burial ground

where lie the bones of
all the cats and dogs and horses
she has loved.

Their spirits are content,

because they are still at home.

The horses she has today,

circle the burial ground on their track.

In wet weather one area moves

and puffs up, then deflates,

as if the ghost horses are galloping

underground in their dreams.

Sometimes the live ones above-ground

kick up their heels and toss their manes,

bringing us joy as we watch

through the farmhouse window.

The horses have calm hearts

and shy, wise eyes. They look into our souls;

they know who is kind, who is not.

They bring their big soft noses

over the fence-rail and whuff

in our faces. Their gentle, seeking lips

nuzzle our hands, looking for treats.

If they find none, they nibble our clothing,

or the top of the fence, and sigh.

They daydream about carrots and apples,

and sweet, young grass.

They love their small barn, their round track,

and their people, staring towards the window,

where their humans live,

waiting for their next meal of hay.

She has always had horses,

who visited her in dreams

until they came to her in life:

each one with its own story,

each one a heart in search of love,

soft voices, gentle hands, sweet hay

and safe stall.

She has horses, and loves them,

and so she gives them

all of that, and all of her heart,

and more.

Inspired by Joy Harjo's She Had Some Horses, and for Shay's Word List, based on Harjo's book with the same title. And by my sister, and her horses, all of whom I got to love, too.

In the Mansion of Memory

source

In the mansion of memory

there are goblins and ghosts,

invisible wings flapping

down the hall

presaging a death,

hoofbeats galloping

the twisted lane

under a midnight moon,

no horses in sight,

whose riders

never come home.

A little old gnome,
a grandfather recently deceased,

sits at the foot of the bed

and points a gnarled finger

at Ivy,

who dies in a week.

The madwoman shrieks

in the bathroom

and rends all the towels.

A heavy tread stomps

up the stairway,

stair after stair.

Pure dread and shivering

under the blankets:

the Monster is here.

There is a long dragging step,

and chains,

above the ceiling.

Bats perch on the windowsill,

looking fierce:

Let us in! Let us in!

A pale ghostly woman

appears on the

second floor balcony

and peers through the glass.

And somewhere between

the earth and sky,

a soul books passage

to Eternity,

finds herself walking across

a barren landscape.

There is a river ahead

and, around the bend,

she can hear people

dipping their oars

and singing.

They are coming to get her,

but then she wakes up

and comes back from the dead.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Ghosts. 'Tis the season! My family is Irish, so there are many ghost stories in our family, some of them in the poem above. (Not the chains or monster, though they appeared in different guises, human-made. Smiles.)

DANCING THE PARADIGM

 

On the cusp of Samhain
the time when the veils between the world
grows thin, can you hear the Ancestors
urging us to expand our perspective
wide enough to change
the earth's music
to a brand new song?

To breathe an evolution,
a revolution, an expansive flowering
of every good intention
dancing the edge of
a new paradigm?

A shift is happening
on Planet Earth.
Our souls rise to meet it
with joy.

Come, let’s trip the light fantastic,
prancing and cavorting like giddy reindeer
under a waxing polar moon,
conga into winter sunshine with hopeful feathers
all aloft and glistening,
caper into the dawn, vibrant and smiling
and never so alive!

Join me. We’ll pull on moss
like sweet little socks,
tiptoe through the forest
like sprites, dip our tippy-toes
into the Pond of Peace
set all our dreams alight
with the shine of sunset
over the wilding sea.

Mother Earth is calling us
to a new paradigm,
a more conscious way
of being on the earth.
A birdsong symphony is playing,
so crank the music loud,
and dance,
my fellow wood-sprites.
Dance for all you're worth.

A caveat: This sounds more hopeful than I actually am at the moment, but I am heartened by things I am reading that encourage us to change our vibration to one of living together on earth in a way that nurtures life, rather than destroying it. I once believed this shift would happen in time. But my hope remains that it will happen, if only in response to the calamities we are beginning to experience. When everything feels impossible, what is left is the Possibility of Change.

Kinfolk

 

Walk into a grove of trees

or sit by a body of water

as the sun is going down.

Can you hear it?

The longing of Mother Earth

for us to live in harmony

with other beings, and the earth herself.

We are kin, she whispers on the wind.

Be an ally, not a conqueror.
What happens to one,
happens to us all.

Do you hear the heartbreak

of the great whales, whose calves

are dying for lack of food

in a warming, polluted sea?

Do you feel, as great winds

blow our houses down, and floods

cover the land, the dis-ease of the earth

growing too hot and tempestuous?

Turn off the toxic rhetoric

meant to distract us from a planet in peril.

Listen to the wild ones, the raging rivers,

the roaring winds, Mother Earth's

warning cries.

May we rediscover kinship

and become the earth's  allies.

Only 73 orcas left in the Salish Sea. Of the last two calves, born this spring, one has died, and other is failing from under-nourishment. And Brave Little Hunter was last seen in July, so she has likely swum on, alone, into the spirit world. 

Desert Dreaming

 

In her dream, she was crossing a vast desert:

brown sand, bare and colourless,
dotted with sage.

A river lay ahead. Around a corner,

she could hear paddling,
a boat full of people, singing,
coming towards her.

They were coming to get her,
to take her to the spirit world.

Just before they came in sight,
she awoke.

Not time yet.
Not yet.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Desert.

Butterfly Wings on a Pyre of Fading Hopes

Caitlin Welz-Stein

A butterfly wing can change the world

they say, each vote another flutter,

choosing which ideology is uttered,

and which flag is unfurled.

My hope rises, fragile as a kite,

and as buffeted by chance,

as humankind goes through

it's changeable and fitful dance.

Her heart is otherwhere, as she is voted out.

How odd, in an atmospheric river,

to see folk vote for climate change deniers,

an idiocy of dunces, conspiracy theorists
and louts.

I toss a handful of chrysanthemums

on fading hope with teary eyes, 

a funeral for a kinder world run by

folks who are wise.

Once, once only, and never again

will we have this moment in time,

to torch the rhetoric of the past

towards a higher paradigm.

The italicized line is from A.E. Stalling's poem Another Lullaby for Insomniacs.

for Shay's Word List.

Here in British Columbia, our provincial election is so evenly tied, they still dont know who won: the New Democratic Party or the rapidly rising far-right "Conservatives" who sound like Republicans and are gaining ground as quickly and inexplicably. We had an atmospheric river, flooding many areas, on voting day and our wonderful Green party candidate lost her seat in Legislature. She said "It is strange that people came out during an atmospheric river to vote for climate change deniers. But that's where we are." I think we in North America  are going to be experiencing the results of these improbable choices in the years ahead. And it won't be pretty.

The Magic Bag

Zoey

My sister's dog thinks my bag is magic.

Every time I visit, she knows 

there will be a toy inside for her.

She joyously sticks her snout right in,

grabs the toy and runs away. We say hello

a little later. She lurks around 

my bedroom door, gazing longingly at it. 

To her, it is always full,

Endless forever toys. Magic!

When I cross the room to go out,

she follows the bags (both of us, lol.)

At the hospital for tests,

I have a stuffed toy to give her

when I get home. With my crazy hair, 

and stuffed toy peeking out of my bag, 

I look like my care aid

should be accompanying me.

Maybe I am on the wrong floor.

At home, all the local dogs know me.

I hear yips and barks from passing cars,

howls and commands under my window.

"Treats!" they plead, pulling their people

on leash, heels skidding, across my yard.

I'm such a dog magnet.

You'd better bury my bag with me,

so I can give treats to all the dogs in heaven.

Fill it up, so I don't run out.

Leaf Love

Port Alberni Tourism photo

Driving down -Island,

Through Cathedral Grove,

I catch my breath at

glorious splotches of orange

against dark green of ancient cedar

in the ancestral garden.

Fog swirls the mountain slopes.

Happy little wave-tops prance

across Cameron Lake.

My heart fills with wonder

and I am rising

in falling-leaf love.

Mother Earth just keeps outdoing herself.

Dear Friend

 

Dear Friend,

Through all the years of our young motherhood

we exchanged fat letters, full of our busy days.

I typed mine on the old Underwood Grandpa gave me.

You wrote yours by hand, in your lovely script.

As our children grew up, our letters became sadder.

Our children were struggling, suffering, ill,

making their painful way into adulthood.
I remember when your letter came
that said your son, like mine,
had been struck down.

How our hearts ached for those two boys

who were in their prams when first we met,
who played together as small boys.

They shared a similar brilliance
as they grew, 

and a similar fragility.

We commiserated then,
two mothers of sons in pain.

Now we are old. We each have made

our peace with the past, each found

the place in the world

where we are most at home.

Letters became emails,

then facebook messages,

that dwindled off into "likes".

We are both just so tired.

I miss receiving those fat envelopes

stuffed with news, with titles of the books

we were reading, the music we were

listening to.

It is a Land of Nostalgia, looking back:

your house, full of plants and dogs and kids,

Neil Diamond blaring on the stereo.

My house full of laughing children,
my big garden.

Those busy, happy years that filled our pages.

Not much to write, now that we sit, dazed

and exhausted, on our couches, staring at

a world gone mad on our tv screens,
things we never thought we'd see.

When hope is hanging by a thread,

how would we ever find the words?

But I think of you, often,
remembering those years
when we were young
and our children's songs
were still waiting
to be sung.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Letters

A Box of Blessings

 

I opened my box of blessings
and found a small bird, singing,
a sunflower reaching to the sky,
the kindness of a loved dog,
long remembered:
a daily invitation
to focus on the light
midst all the darkness.

In lucid dreaming,
I am always seeking
a safe place.

Each morning,
we begin anew.
We choose to hold fast to
goodness, and are restored.

Ring all the bells.
Signal we are ready
to turn towards joy and hope
and unity
once more.

for Shay's Word List. 

I hope our neighbour to the south makes the only possible choice in November. I have never been more worried about an election.

Frogs In a Pot

Humanity sat like frogs

in a slowly warming pot of water

for so long, while strident voices

on the periphery, trying to warn us,

were silenced or ignored. Or fake news

said climate crisis was a hoax.

(Now they say the government

has a "weather machine".

How crazy can this get?)

Tonight, on the tv screen,

an environmental scientist

explains clearly: because of global warming,

the warming of the ocean and

the burning of fossil fuels, we are reaching

the point where climate events

exceed our ability to adapt, recover

and be resilient.

What is it about humans that we only listen

when it is too late?

When meterologists burst into tears

on-screen, methinks we have waited

far too long.

I have a sense of foreboding, watching the news, as storms ravage the southern US, as right wing crazies cause so much misinformation and distress, as wars escalate across the globe. No solutions in sight. Governments divided, instead of working together for the people, though the Democrats try as hard as they can. No strong action to reduce emissions. Leaders who prefer war to negotiation. Right now, I sit in a peaceful place on the planet. But AT ANY MOMENT, this all could change. Earthquake, tsunami, a leader elected who would love to play nuclear war...........it is a sad night on Planet Earth. And sadder by far for those who fled their homes, sitting in shelters, waiting to see if they have a home - or town - to go back to. How many times will this be repeated before we join together to cool this planet down????? I have now been writing about this for forty years. What we feared back then is happening now.  We need to elect leaders who understand the scope of this problem and who will deal with it.

Noodles On the Menu

 I had a fake funeral
for my unrealized hopes.
Mr. Right didn't arrive,
only a bonehead
with bags he never bothered
to unpack.
Last I heard,
he got arrested
(like his development.)

I experimented, at first,
with solitude,
then grew to love it.
Peace is strangely instinctual,
and one can enjoy it
even when noodles
are the only thing
on the menu.

A strange ditty the popped up from Shay's Word List.

DANCING FOR THE TREES

Wild Woman remembers

dancing on the earth,

a hundred women

spiral dancing

to the beat of the drums

at the blockades of '93.
It was magic!

Primal, pulsing woman-power,

faces radiant, joyous,

powerful with love

for Mother Earth,

dancing for the trees,

in defiance of the Machine

whose voracious jaws, agape,

threaten to devour

everything

loved,

necessary,

sacred.

Ululations,

wolf howls,

little girls with

honest, determined eyes,

rainbows painted

on their faces,

teens on the cusp

of young womanhood,

mothers, sisters, grannies,

grey-haired women,

wise with living,

all deeply rooted

in the earth,

united in the passion

of this moment

on the road,

a hundred women

dancing on the earth,

for the trees.

This is Sally Sunshine,
now in the spirit world.

I am writing here of the Woman's Blockade. But all summer, thousands came to join us on the road. These were the most passionate hours and days of my life, the summer of '93, gathering before dawn on the road, the smell of smoke from the campfire, people sleepily arriving from the Peace Camp, the low beat beat beat of the tom toms. And then the big trucks pulled in, huge, intimidating, and the official would read out the proclamation to clear the road. Some of us stepped back. Those who volunteered to be arrested that day remained standing or sitting and were carried off bodily, to cheers and tears.

The protests received world wide media attention, creating national support for the protests. The clearcutting of the old growth was stopped and a Land Use agreement was eventually reached. 34% of the Sound is protected; 21% is under special management; the formerly 80% designated for resource extraction was reduced to 40%. But that is 40% too much for most of us.

The fight continues to protect Clayoquot Sound's ancient forests.

For my prompt at What's Going On : Magic.

War

 

On the tv screen, sirens are wailing.

Tall glass buildings are lit up
against the darkness

 like crystal palaces.

They are dazzling,

waiting for the bombs to fall. 

I remember a night sky,
even more radiant,
many years ago,

on an island where the only light

was from the bonfire. The stars

were arrayed across the heavens

in the millions. I had never

seen so many.

How many centuries will it take

for us to choose bliss

instead of bombs?

When all is rubble,
will there be anyone left
to look up at the stars?

for Shay's Word List: The Silent Patient As war escalates, this old heart is tired. When will humans learn bombing places into rubble will never bring peace?

On Hair and Feathers

 

My hair rides my head
like a protest.
It goes its own way
         and refuses to be tamed.        .
Wild Woman's sense of fashion has been,
at best, mixed: jeans

and wolf t-shirts, running shoes, frizzy curls.

Looks I admire tend to the wild side:

dreads, long grey pony tails and beards on men,

on aging women, that certain look, au naturel,
that sets us apart from the
twin sweater-set crowd
with their tight and tidy blue curls:

kinda alternative, unconventional,

still Being Who We Are.

As we pass, we exchange smiles,

and toss our manes.

I met an old hippy over in Coombs.

We recognized each other
by our unruly hair.

He told me in Haight-Ashbury,

back in the day, he wore

Puss In Boots leather waders,

with buckles, right up to his thighs.

Those were the days, my friend.
Why did they ever end?

I so admired them, back then,

those paisley/patchouli hippies
on Fourth Avenue, serenely

living outside all the rules,

while I lived my cramped, married-woman,
beaten-down existence

just one block over.

But soon enough, I was free,

chewed my leg off to escape the trap,

bought my first pair of jeans,

grew my hair long,

began to live.

My running shoes carried me far,

through ten years in Tofino,

among other refugees from the 60's,

heart and hair equally wild,

completely whole,

drenched in joy and sea-spray.

Now I consort with trees, wolves,

druids and dying things.

I drape myself in old man's beard,

wear moss slippers and clothing made of bark.

As Old Woman of the Woods, I come into my own,

talk to owls and decorate my hair

only with feathers.

For Susan's way cool prompt at What's Going On? Hair as a symbol of rebellion.  
My hair has never behaved. Smiles.