Grandma's House

 

As a small child, I was put on a train

to Grandma's house every summer,

like an orphan, the porter tipped five dollars

to keep an eye on me.

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack,

away from the sea, into the desert,

to dream away the summer

in the hammock

under the leafy willow tree.

Lake-scented mornings, starry nights,

phantoms dancing in the flames

as Grandma told me Irish ghost stories,
thunderstorms in the afternoon,
Grandma's big laugh,

and a twinkling-eyed Grandpa skulking

across the hall to the bathroom

in his long underwear.....

One day I will board that train again,

hear the haunting whistle blow

its lonely song,
clickety-clack clickety-clack

along the tracks taking me

to Grandma's house once more.

for Shay's Word List: Iron Horse

GRANDMA'S KITCHEN

 

From every corner

of Grandma’s small cottage,

I could hear it –

the old metal clock,

ticking and tocking

on the kitchen windowsill.

Grandma’s house was that peaceful.

My four year old heart drank in

the safety and serenity,

the way a parched sunflower

gratefully receives

summer rain.

Grandma’s house

showed me, child of

drinking and violence,

that another life 

- that peace -
was possible.

I followed that template
for the rest of my life,
and modeled it
for my own grandchildren.

When I am remembering,
it is to this small cottage
on Christleton Avenue
my thoughts return,
like summer swallows.

I can still almost hear
the ticking and tocking
of that metal clock
on the kitchen windowsill,
singing its brave little song
of peace.

for my prompt at What's Going On - Grandma's Kitchen

My sister and I went back to Kelowna in May to find that Grandma's cottage, touchstone of my childhood, is now gone.

Wild Woman's Birthday

British Columbia Photos
Mike Dellio

Wild Woman was born again

in mid-life, the night she stood

on the shore of the western sea,

and knew she was standing exactly where 

she was always meant to be.

She knew it was now or never,

her spirit was sore and sinking fast.

It was either give up on a dream

or make it all come true at last.

When she arrived, a fiery orb
was going down behind the hills.

There was a small whale in the bay;

such perfect beauty: chills.

Wild Woman came alive

that day, which marked Before and After.

It was the birthday of her soul, set free

to the sound of wolfish laughter.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On : Birthdays. This night was my real birthday! Smiles.

Looking Up

 

The black flies have hit the jackpot:

this old woman in her rocking chair

is like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

***

People begat and begat

and now we are here:
there are days when

humankind looks like

a failed experiment,

a rollercoaster of up and down,

forward and back - a fine madness,

enough to make your head spin.

     ***         

I prefer the company of animals.

Wolves, elephants, dogs, whales,

carry collective wisdom

we would be wise to access.

        ***          

Instead, madmen kill them -

for tusks, for thrills, to prove

they can dominate the innocent,

the helpless, to say

"the world is mine."

***

 It isn't even noon,
and I am oh, so tired.

I turn the radio off,
with all its bad news.
I go outside.
Even blackflies
have to eat.

And I need to watch the sky.

***

This bit of weirdness came from Shay's Word List, after reading a couple of Anne Sexton's edgy poems. My brain took a ramble. 

THE BIGGEST CONTRADICTION OF ALL

 

The biggest contradiction of all
is how,
in a world where
billions of people
pray and talk and sing
and long for unity,
justice, and peace,

the wars go on and on,
the atrocities get
worse and worse,
rhetoric gets more toxic
and inflammatory,
injustices abound,
and peace 
can only be found
and felt
inside one's human heart.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On: Contradiction.

When Tomorrow Comes

 

When tomorrow comes,

will there be singing?

Will the songs be songs of sorrow

brave warriors' voices ringing,

or will it be a wiser world

on the morrow?

Hear the song within your heart,

the place where true peace always starts.

May the song you keep inside

be sung out loud where love abides.

War and peace in endless cycle,

Courageous men, put down your rifles!

Reach across the great divide;

set all prejudice aside.

The man you think of as The Other,

is, in fact, your human brother.

More alike than not are we,

if only we open our hearts and see

every soul that has taken birth

wants peace and justice

here on earth.

When tomorrow comes,
what song will we sing?
What help will we offer?
What love will we bring?

Will the songs we sing
be songs of sorrow,
or will we grow wiser
on the morrow?

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Do You Hear the People Sing

Bittersweet

In autumn, she emerges early,

as the last soft stars are fading

and the moon is wandering off

the edge of the sky:

long blue gown, lime green crocs,

smudged glasses, frizzy hair,

with a basket over her arm

to fill with onions, garlic,  

crunchy carrots, a tomato or two.

Birds are singing everywhere

in early morning, a rhapsody 

for early risers. The dew on the grass

dampens the hem of her skirt,

her toes gather coolness

before the heat of the day.

In her dreams, she might have imagined

a morning like this: bittersweet,

with all of the blessings,

bittersweet, with all of the loss.

For Shay's Word List: Bittersweet, a familiar emotion these days.

THE LITTLE HOUSE ON ETHEL STREET

 

This is the house
that wrapped its arms around us
when we had lost everything in the fire.
Gone, all the blankets and dishes
gone, all the kids’ toys and books,
gone my dreams of making my livelihood
by the sea – gone up in smoke
with the arsonist’s match, a suspicious fire
so no insurance money with which
to start again.

But in this house, we gathered
what we could, and what we were given,
and settled into being home.

In this house, I learned to garden,
every morning starting with birdsong
and the shush-shush-shush
of the sprinkler revolving in the yard.

In this house, my children grew
as tall and leggy as the sunflowers out back,
and finally had a home, and books
and possessions again. In this house
my heart healed, and my voice
stilled by shock and pain and betrayal
returned and I began, once more, to sing.

It was from this house that had healed me
that my spirit gathered itself
for a mighty leap, and
took wing.

It was from this house that the dream of Tofino began, that called me over the mountains to the sea.

The Land of Peacocks

 

I am on a pilrgrimage
to the land of peacocks,
charmingly (or not) barefoot
among the cattails. 
(I never was one for spangles.)

They tell me a tabernacle
is a movable habitation,
so how does a flock 
find its shepherd?

Arriving, I discover
the peacocks are a dying breed,
strutting about,
giving one last hurrah
to the old tired ways
of colonials clinging
to times long gone.

I'll keep looking, filtering out
the noisy nobodies
who bid us follow,
to walk the gangplank
of our deepest beliefs,
abandoning everything we know
to be true.

I am looking for leaders
with clear vision,
strong voices,
and an aura of
peacefulness, humanity, and truth.

A dying girl
in the land of peacocks,
where justice is
the only song I know.

for Shay's Word List inspired by the work of Diane Seuss, Still Life with Two Dead Peacocks and a Girl.

This Is No Time to Make Things Pretty

 

This is no time to make things pretty:

the world is askew; democracy is in peril,

the climate crisis continues apace

and with so many crises, we feel overwhelmed.
Humans and other beings are trying to survive

bombs, displacement, starvation,

lack of every basic need.

This is not the time to write poems

about the sunshine and blue sky

out my window, the beauty of the harbour,

clouds wisping along the slopes

of Wah-nah-jus, waves calling to me

from Na-na-kwuu-a.

But, there are a few things my heart knows:

still and always, the mothering earth

under my feet grounds me, gives me

a place to stand, where I belong.

My head may be worrying about

another year of drought in a rainforest,

the way the world continues in denial

of what is surely to come, or that

some of our leaders are actually deranged.

Yet my heart still leaps at growing things

emerging from hard packed earth,

how they butt their heads through

the hard crust and

reach for the sun. We are excited, here,

to watch the rhododendrons bloom,

seeds in the seed trays

sprouting next fall's bounty.
Baby birds are chirping under the eaves.
Yesterday, my daughter saw one hop
from its nest, perch
on her porch railing, spread its wings,
and fly.

Miracles abound.

Humankind has lost its way.

Suffering on earth has reached critical mass.
Unkindness is shouted by
the leaders of the land.

And yet, here is Mother Earth,

in spite of us,

doing all she can, season after season,

year after year,

to keep us alive.

for my prompt at What's Going On ? Inspired by "This Is No Time to Make Things Pretty" by Maya Stein. The italicized line is taken from the title.

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 bending, tucking 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, paws in the air, snout lying flat on the sand, totally blissed out. It made my day!

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Grief

Of Heretics and Flying Squirrels

 

We travelled back to the land
we grew up in, to place my aunt's ossuary
into the ground. A mother deer and her fawn
lay nearby observing, a blessing,
a message of peace, her spirit at rest.

We walked the sidewalks where
once we played jumprope, and hopscotch
and Mother, May I? in our pigtails and pedal pushers.

We sought out the addresses of the shabby houses
we lived in, back then, now no longer there; 
even our grandma's cottage, the touchstone
of my childhood: gone.

All have been replaced by dwellings
for the living large folks.  Country roads
and all the orchards changed into townhomes,
mile after mile. The fabled Casorso pig farm,
where my friends came home from school 
to soup made by twinkling-eyed Grandpa Louie,
no where to be seen, golf course after golf course
for the retired folks in the gated complexes
nearby.

A tear for remembering that sleepy town.

The service was held in the church where long ago
we wore our Easter costumes: pinafores, big hats,
white gloves, shoes we kept meticulously white,
no smudges,  our grandma's sharp eyes
missing nothing.

Country roads we biked down now clogged
with fast cars, trying to maintain
an impossible pace: so much Doing,
so little Being, an exhausted populace
trying to keep up, frowning, frenzied.

I observed, bemused, sipping an absinthe
on the deck overlooking the lake in late afternoon,
watching clouds wander across the sky,
tinged pink as the sun slipped behind
the big blue hills
of my infancy.

On the same day  - such being the way
the world works now - a heretic posted
a photo of himself as Pope, exchanging
his porkpie hat for a Papal crown. As if.

Someone poke a hole in his umbraculum
and let the sun run riot on his orange tan,
turn it MAGA, the colour of all the blood
being spilled in his name, the colour
that makes bulls (and those who long for justice)
see red.

The world is as mad as a flying squirrel,
leaping a chasm that is far too wide to breach,
apparently with no fear of falling.

For Shay's Word List. 

The umbraculum, when I looked it up, is a sort of umbrella to keep the sun off the Pope. 

WOMAN, WEEPING

 

Weeping Cedar Woman
carved by Godfrey Stephens in 1984
in response to the proposed clearcutting of 
Wahnachus-Hilthuuis (Meares Island)

Weeping Cedar Woman,

your tears are for the ancient trees,

in the ancestral garden.

Do not kill them, you say,

your right hand held up in protest.

They are needed to cool the earth,

to bring rain for all the wild ones,

for habitat, to help us breathe. 

All beings need the old growth 

in order to live.

I weep, too,

for the trees and for our relatives,

the beyond-human beings,

who suffer and are displaced

because of us.

Your left hand points down, into the earth,

where the network of living arteries

under the forest floor keeps 

the whole ecosystem alive.

I feel the power in your upraised hand,

the resistance in my heart, that wants 

to save all that is left of the Standing People,

for what we save, saves us.

I carry deep grief for all that humanity

– and inhumanity -  has done to Mother Earth.

For forty years you have stood here, protesting,

and yet the trees keep coming down.
We must protect what is left

of the venerable  Old Ones.

Whales and wolves are starving.

Displaced bear and cougar search  

for a safe place to hide.

Weeping Cedar Woman, my tears

are not enough to apologise for 

the harmful ways of my species.

To ease my pain, I walk the forest trails,

breathe in the peacefulness,

the beauty, place my hand

on a gnarled and mossy trunk. 

I listen.

And I emerge,

grateful, and transformed.

This poem was written for a Poet Laureate project in Tofino. We are asked to write a poem in response to some local art. Tofino abounds in poets, writers, carvers, artists and creative folk in all disciplines. I didn't have to look far.

The carver, Godfrey Stephens, created the Weeping Cedar Woman, 40 years ago when Meares Island - Wahnachus Hilthuuis - was in danger of being clearcut.

OF TOTEMS AND SPIRIT PLACES

 

On the misty islands of Haida Gwaii,

the spirits walk

and sometimes sing.

I have been told they also wail.

The ancient totems of SGaang Gwaay*

lean and topple onto the land

where the Haida thrived

for 17,000 years.

If one is reverent, and listens

with her heart,

she might sometimes hear

the wailing of those ancient spirits,

the entire village who died of smallpox

when the settlers came,

a desolate, inconsolable grieving

that the land remembers,

carried on the ocean breeze.

The cedars stand tall today

along protected shores,

where the white Spirit Bear

and grey wolf families

move peacefully through their

days and nights.

Mother Orca eats well here,

in this remote archipelago,

where it is more difficult

for our grasping machines

to reach and to destroy.

The Haida fought for forest,

and for sea,

cast off the settlers’ name

for the land they loved,

claimed it back as Haida Gwaii,

the Islands of the People,

strong and free.

My soul walks there

each time I think of it,

(a home where I have never lived),

padding softly through the forest

with mother wolf.

It walks along the shore

with Spirit Bear.

I hear the whisper of spirit voices

in the trees,

the song of an ancient people,

my heartsteps gentle

on this wild

and ancient land.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Ruins

*SGaang Gwaay is the Haida name for the World Heritage site formerly known as Ninstints, where the ancient totem poles are now protected, and where it is said the spirits of the dead can sometimes be heard wailing, by those with heart enough to hear. My friend, attuned to spirits, walked there and heard the mournful wailing herself, and felt the deep energy of this place.

Haida Gwaii are two islands off northwestern B.C. 

Upon contact in the late 1800's, the population of 8000 was decimated by smallpox the invaders brought, only 589 surviving by 1915. The population of Haida Gwaii is around 5,000 people now, half of them the Haida people. Declining fish stocks and forest resources have led to the development of new approaches to financial survival, including tourism, secondary wood manufacturing and the arts. The people have fought hard to protect the land and waters. It is the home of the white Spirit Bear, and 85% of its forests are protected, at least for now. 

Haida Gwaii has always called to me, for its pristine wilderness, remoteness and wild beauty. Its people are hardy and self-sufficient, having survived its untamed landscape and stormy winters for thousands of years. The Haida are a matrilineal society.

Wolf

 

Wolf by Longwalker

Wolf
in the blue twilight,
Wolf
in the tenderness of dawn,
are you wondering,
sweet fur brother,
where all your wilderness
has gone?

Your forests are burning,
bombs rain down
from the sky.
We humans are too moonstruck
to ask the question:
why?

We raise goblets of red wine
to drown our sweeping sorrow;
tilt at windmills,
and carouse like
we won't die
 on the morrow.

Wolf,
have you ever
seen such foolishness
as this?
Wolf,
stay safely far from us.
Seek the wilderness
you miss.

for Shay's Word List. This is where the wolf led me today. A cheerful ditty. LOL.

Sigh

 When the news
brings you to tears,
where is an old woman
to turn?

DISTRAUGHT SISTER MOON

 

source

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,

forest fires,

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 Mary's prompt at What's Going On - a Dream of Peace

This is a poem from 2017 which you may have read before. My brain can't come up with anything better at the moment, it is full of porridge. The italicized line is, of course, the song title. I remember when that song was on the air waves and the world felt so much more peaceful than it does now - after the War to End All Wars - that didn't.

TAKE THIS POEM

 

Cox Bay, Tofino - photo by Warren Rudd

Take this beautiful morning,

this springtime sunshine,

this blue-sky day, with the song

of a thousand seabirds,

wheeling and circling

at the edge of the sea.

Take the eagle's cry,

from the top of the cedar,

as he surveys his kingdom.

Take the heron,

gliding past my window,

looking like a skinny matron,

purse clutched under

her wing.

Take the waves, rolling in like

white-maned horses, wave upon wave,

day after day - our own glimpse

of Eternity.

Take this moment, peaceful,

crisis-free, in the places

where you are;

breathe deep the ordinary, when

so much in this world is no longer

routine. Feel the peace

of nothing-going-on
- in your life, if not
in the world outside your door.

Let your prayers be prayers

of gratitude. May your tears

bless those living through

apocalyptic times.

(Our turn will come.)

Take this poem which

I offer you with open hands.

Take its wish that you

and all you love

be blessed. Take my dream

of a green and flourishing earth.

Maybe if we share it,

some green tendrils

will begin to grow.

Take a break from the terrible

and disheartening news.

Let's walk our peace into the world,

step out into our front yards.

Let's lift our arms to

the cloud-dotted blue above,

the trees breathing with us in tandem,

such generous and benevolent beings.

Take this ordinary morning

into your heart and let it live there

all day long.

Take this poem,

like a prayer of peace,

into your very being.

Let it sing.

Revisiting this poem from 2023.

Dark Days

 

As the Filipino celebration,
Lapu Lapu Block Party, winds down -

children dancing, families smiling their last smiles,

joy in the early evening -

suddenly a black SUV, at high speed,

mows through a crowd of celebrants,

bodies flung high, crashing down

- the dead and the living -

ambulances lined up, responders running,

pulling on blue gloves,

eleven dead, thirty sent to hospital.

"How do they come to the.......

How do they come to the........

come to the still waters and not love?"*

That is the question of the day.

Have compassion, inclusiveness,

equality, citizenship, become words

of a time Before?

A leader in a turban, a man with heart,

weeps as he asks for a Canada

"where we all belong". I weep with him.
I want that Canada too.

Who peeled away civility and encouraged

hate and racism to rise? 

We lay tulips in homage to the departed.

The world we knew feels departed, too.

How do we get it back?

for Shay's Word List

The living and the dead line comes from the title of a poetry collection by Sharon Olds. The italicized lines with the asterisk are from Olds' poem "Sex Without Love". This incident occurred in Vancouver last evening. We are not used to events like this in Canada, but toxic rhetoric has an impact on some unsteady minds. 

(When I wrote this, I  assumed this might have been a racist act, but it appears to have a mental health component. It is all so tragic.) 

Jagmeet Singh, the NDP leader, gave a memorable and emotional speech here:

https://youtu.be/7ZbJHvf689E

(I posted this on my facebook page if you cant access it here.)

We elect a new Prime Minister tomorrow and I am praying it isn't the right wing conspiracy theorist, but the other sane, calm, experienced candidate. We live in hope. I feel like I have been holding my breath for years.

YOU, THE SEEKER, MY LAMP, THE MOON

Little hummer,

irridescent rainbow in constant flight,

you whirred into the room at dusk,

thinking my lamp was the moon.

I swiftly clicked off the light,

to guide you to the window

where you beat frantically for a moment,

till you crouched in its corner,

terrified of the giant

whose hands were slowly lowering

to cup you gently.

You stilled, as I carried

your feathered lightness outside

and, when I opened my palms to set you free,

lay for a moment on your back,

surrendered to your fate.

Suddenly recognizing you had survived,

could once more see the sky,

in that same instant,

you were halfway 'cross the meadow.

Just so, do our hearts encounter

their similar terrors,

bring them down to size,

recognize the open door of freedom,

and, each in turn, take flight.

At the farm, given I keep doors and windows open during all the warm weather, sometimes a small hummer would find its way inside, and lodge itself in a corner of the windowsill. In my cupped hands, they felt lighter than a feather, flight itself, suspended for that one moment. I have rescued hummers here, too, when I lived in the apartment building. One cute thing about them is how they hovered, whirring noisily, at the open sliding glass door to let me know when the feeder needs refilling. The blue jays would come to the opening and sometimes hop or fly in, then out, demanding seed. I loved that about the apartment.

THIS POEM IS A BIG RED HEART

 

Phoenix

Sebastian

This poem is a six year old boy
whose dad and dog both died.
This poem is a crayon.
This poem is a big red heart.

This poem is a sweet and valiant little boy,
who has known tears, but who loves to smile.
This poem gets knocked down, and
bounces back up again.
Like the boomerang, it keeps coming back,
because it has known death, so it cherishes life.
This poem is a six year old boy
whose dad and dog both died.

This poem is a crayon held in a grubby fist
by an intent little boy
who wants a picture of his pain.
This poem can draw a stick figure dad
with a big smile, and open arms,
and a devoted droopy-eyed dog,
with floppy ears and an old soul.
This poem is a crayon.

This poem is a gigantic wobbly red heart
with a dog inside, along with the words
"Papa and Phoenix are fishin' in hevven".
This poem squeezes the heart
of his mother, who lost her mate,
then, one year later, held the furry body
of his old fishing pal as he went to sleep
for the very last time.

This poem has lost too many loves,
but keeps on smiling, loving and moving forward,
because of a small boy made almost entirely
of hope and trust and sweetness and love.
This poem is a big red heart.

for my prompt at What's Going On: a choice of either "This poem is...." or Hannah's Boomerang Metaphor form.

My heart is even sadder than it was when I first wrote this poem. Because Sebastian, the small boy in the photo and in this poem, with whom I spent time in his early childhood years, died last August in a boating accident, at age fifteen. Now he AND his Papa and Phoenix are all in "hevven" together. This world brings lots of people (and dogs) to love - but also, lots of losses.

PORCH SWING REVERIE

 

We sat there, we two,
on summer afternoons
in our green kingdom:
porch swing rocking gently,
tin roof baking in the sun,
bamboo wind chimes
clacking in the breeze.

Peacefulness.
Sanctuary.
Healing after loss.
Tibetan prayer flags
fluttering, crickets chirping sleepily,
huge maples standing all around.

In memory, we sit there still,
your eyes on me, smiling,
mine gazing back: a knowing
passing between us.

We have been together
in other lifetimes.
We will find each other
again.

The Tenderness of Elephants

 

Line of elephants approaching
Anthony's house in Thula Thula

They come, trunks swinging,

the matriarch, her daughters,

and their young,

swaying along the grassy veld,

ponderous steps shaking the earth.

She startles, the Old Grandmother,

when she comes to bones alongside the path:

elephant bones, the remains of her kin.

Distress, low rumbles among the herd,

swaying from side to side.

Delicately, then, their trunks

whiff along the brittle bones,

sensing, detecting, remembering.

They understand a trauma happened here.

They smell the madness of Man on the bones,
trauma upon the land.

With tenderness,
the Old One lifts a broken limb,

carries it a little way,

then brings it back and gently sets it down.

She is saying she wants the bones

to rise and follow her,

to be back in the body as once they were,

and walking free under

the arching African sky.

As she returns it to the earth,
she acknowledges

that, sadly, this cannot be.

She gathers her herd,
calls to the vulnerable little ones,

and, with a low rumble,

slowly, reverent with remembering,

full of sad thoughts,

they all move on.

In Shona, there is a ritual greeting,
when you meet:

"How are you?"

"I am well."

"I am well if you are well,
so we are both well."

Things are not well
in the land of dying elephants,

so our global spirits are not well.

for Shay's Word List. 

Writing this reminded me of the elephants of Thula Thula, who travelled a great distance upon intuiting the death of Lawrence Anthony,  who had rescued and rehabilitated the herd years before, creating a sanctuary for them in the South African province of KwaZulu-Natal, where they live wild, but remain protected. Anthony's son continues his work today.

Lawrence Anthony's book "The Elephant Whisperer: My Life With the Herd in the African Wild" tells the story of their friendship and how he fought to protect the herd from poachers. A wonderful read for those who love animals. 

The conservationist and author had died away from home but somehow, the elephants knew of his death. They showed up outside his house and stayed, reverently, for two days, to pay their respects to the one who had loved them so well.

When hearts are so connected, it does not surprise me that such things happen.  It only surprises me that so many humans do not understand the depth of the wild ones' hearts. 

EASTER, 1960

 

1960. A small, white clapboard church, with a loft where we in the choir sang the Magnificat and the Allelluia Chorus, dressed in our finest. I had a flouffy skirt, kitten heels, a wide-brimmed beige hat with streamers, white gloves.

It was a sweet and gentle time in small-town Kelowna, surrounded by apple orchards and the lake - lake-scent on springtime mornings, the thought of summer, swimming, freedom from school ahead.

We girls checked out each others' clothes, saw who had small heels, new attire. The gloves were mandatory then, yet for decades now I have refused to wear gloves even in winter. Or hats. Or dresses, for that matter. Don't fence me in.

The night before, we slept with our hair rolled onto bristly rollers, very uncomfortable, but my mother always said, "You have to suffer to be beautiful." I was driving with great-grandson Damian once when he was little, and I said that to him, then added, "But I have suffered a lot, and I'm not beautiful," and he replied, stoutly, "No. You're not." Cracked me up.

I remember Easter morning. Our voices soared to the heavens from the gallery above the congregation. Life was lived between the lines back then. There were morals, and good behaviour from fellow humans beings was expected and taken for granted. When the first hippies arrived in Kelowna, the alarmed city fathers drove them out, and told them never to return. LOL. Guidelines were strict for young people, and there was much talk of sin, that  kept us terrified and compliant. Ultimately, many of us rebelled.

Who could ever have imagined then how darkness would triumph? I have to believe it will be stopped, because more of us believe in kindness and human rights than don't. We live in hope. But this Easter morning and that one so long ago could not be more different. 

Small Mercies

 

These are the small mercies
that tend our lives:
spring blossoms, tender cirulean skies,
the eternal and yet ever-changing tides,
the moments in between,
where peace abides.

Tip back your head
and drink the heady fumes
of cherry blossoms
thick upon the bough.
The world we knew and loved
seems to be ending,
but this heady scent
is balm enough for now.

I plant a seed of hope
inside this poem,
to help you ride through
times as dark and these.
I fling it far
upon the springtime breeze.
May it find its loving way to you
with ease.

A small seed of hope for Susan's prompt at What's Going On : Seeds

RENEWAL

I thought to share this poem from 1981, when I was just coming back to life after earlier trauma. In those years I was raising children, and each spring I planted the entire back yard with fruits and vegetables to feed my hungry crew. I was also beginning to speculate about whether to try love again, always a terrifying prospect. Smiles.

March 3, 1981

Tiny stirrings,

buds curled, waiting,

limp, brown grasses

trying to turn green,

a busy twittering of birds

too long silent

in the bare brown branches

of winter.......

Soon I'll be planting seeds

in warm, dark earth,

watching greenness growing

where once a wasteland lay,

letting the seeds go

to grow whichever way

they want to grow,

having finally learned

to just let living flow.

Perhaps a wondering lurks

within my eyes this year

as I start my slow walk back

from Siberian retreat.

The last frozen wastes

are melting near my heart

and tentatively -

oh, more carefully this time-

I ponder what new things

might emerge

from this springtime

of possibilities

I see.

I think it might be nice

to plant something

besides carrots here

this year.

People chuckled when I read that last line at the coffeehouse. Smiles.

Legend

 

The books telling the history

of the First People

were written on their totem poles,
each face a legend
of ancient times
upon the land.

They stripped off the bark

and carved out the innards

of the fattest cedar

to sculpt their canoes,

then pushed off,

into the foggy morning,

in search of the whale

that sang to them the night before

in their dreams.

Their clothing was scant and thin,

but their blood ran warm

as they chanted, dipping their paddles

strongly, backs bent against

the rhythm of the tide.

for Shay's Word List

In April

In April, the forsythia blooms bravely yellow
in the chill. I take the temperature of my being
this 78th springtime of my life.

My heart aches.
Is it existential or physical?
Likely both.

I am processing cruelty and injustice:
the frail  80 year old woman I watched on video,
being carried out by police for protesting the exclusion
of immigrant children from school.
"This is wrong," she said, her face resigned
to whatever came next.

How quickly fascism moves.
How soon "agents" who are "just following orders"
exchange humanity and civility
- and the rule of law and due process -
for aggression, devoid of empathy. 

None  brave enough
- like the old woman -
to say "this is wrong."
As if a switch has been turned within, changing
all decency to cruelty and harsh, uncaring stares.

We have seen all this before.

That same day I stood by my grandson's grave.
This felt wrong, too.
He was so alive, magical, loving,
and now forever gone.
His mother wept beside me,
a forever loss, a rending of the fabric of family.

We promise to keep him alive
through our stories and memories.
But it is not enough.

I have seen so many marches, protests,
heard so many pleas for peace -
yet here we are, still marching.
This is where I came in,
having to fight to restore
all those rights again.

Weariness, fatigue, a tired heart
beating ever more slowly.

Existential and physical angst
feel much the same. They sing one weary note
and dream to hope again.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On, on being and doing in April. 

The She-Wolf and the Matriarch

 

Every animal craves, at some point,

a long, cooling drink of river water,

dripping off their muzzle, the same way

tea catches in the dowager's faint moustache,

and drips off her chin hairs, embarrassing,

but dimming vision softens the image

in the mirror.

I can see the she-wolf, snout emerging from her burrow,

with the same temerity as the doughty matriarch,

peering out her doorway, each assessing the hour,

the skies, the mood of the day

in her sphere.

Two elderly beings, their time long past,

the fabric of their days now focussed on

safe passage through an increasingly

noisy and bewildering world,

hearts hollow from remembering

the names of all those they have lost. 

for Shay's Word List

OLD CRONE, SINGING

  

   

source

The old year hobbles to a close

like a wrinkled, wise old crone

with a pocketful of secrets.

The new year dawns,

as fresh and pink as a young maiden,

the crone handing her those secrets

and pointing a gnarled finger

down the Path of Tomorrow.

Her head is heavy with remembering,

her ears full of the cries of wild creatures,

singing songs of lost habitat,

and floods, and fire.

But wait! Through the forest comes a message

from a young dreamer, a seer with eyes of truth:

"Change is coming,

whether you like it or not."

(Yes, whether by legislation or cataclysm,

Change will come.

And the young, brave-hearted, are rising.)

The old year has passed wearily into the new,

which straightens its shoulders

in readiness to face

whatever comes.

Trees and waves and shore

eternally sing their songs of beauty,

of hope, of Tomorrow.

The Crone of 2025 feels her heart lift

in response. She takes up her drum

and begins to sing.

for Mary's open link at What's Going On?

It is hard to write a hopeful poem right now. I picked this one, written in 2019, and changed the date, because I am feeling very much like a tired old crone these days.