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. 

Two Souls, Travelling

 

You were fabled online.

"A spirit too big to kill"

one poet said, and it was true.

Those big wolfy ears,

your eyes that looked into our souls.
Even children told your story.

We were two souls, travelling.

We are still two souls, travelling,

just on different planes.

You always went before me on the path,

but you would double back, and wait
for me to find you.

Wait for me.

I am not far behind you.

for Shay's Word List

BLOCKADE NOTES

 

Available at Caitlin Press

Last night there was a wonderful gathering of land defenders in Tofino, to celebrate the launch of my friend Christine Lowther's latest book: Blockade, the story of how blockades have protected tracts of forest in Clayoquot Sound and other places on Vancouver Island, where the amount of old growth left standing is miniscule, even after all the efforts of forest protectors.

It was awesome to see all the familiar faces from those heady blockade days gathered together, and to hear folks' impassioned memories - and the sad recognition that the struggle continues. Right now,  Catface mountain, which is across the harbour from Tofino,  is threatened by mining interests, so more blockades may be forthcoming.

Chris's book is an amazing read, about what happened in the late 80's and early 90's, updated to relate what is happening now. The more things change, the more they stay the same. But I will say that there is a great contrast between the way the police behaved towards us in 1993 was entirely different, and significantly more respectful, than how the militarized "special forces" treated the land defenders at Fairy Creek. Corporate power rules everything now, including politicians.

But we protected the forests in Clayoquot Sound in the summer of '93, because we made it too expensive and difficult to keep fighting what was at that time the largest incidence of civil disobedience in Canadian history.

This is what I said last night:

I was drawn to Clayoquot Sound in 1989 by the ancient forests, the wild waves, the village full of folks who care about Mother Earth and her necessary old growth.

Always will I remember 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 gentle tapping of the bongos. And then the big trucks rolled in, huge, intimidating, and the official read out the proclamation to clear the road. Some of us stepped back. Those who volunteered to be arrested that day remained, and were carried off bodily, to cheers and tears, to the waiting police vans.

In 1993, I was a single mom, working three part time jobs, so I couldn't get to the blockades as often as I wanted. But I got there when I could, and they were the most passionate hours and days of my life. The wild woman who lived in my heart came fully alive that summer, and has never left me.

We were all ages, and all manner of folk: those who came for the summer, dedicated to protecting the forests, those who came in the early morning before work, elderly people, professionals, doctors, even an MLA. I remember the children, with rainbow faces, sitting on the road, and a policeman asking a determined little girl, "Are your parents here?" "Possibly," she replied, giving away nothing.

I was there for the women's blockade, all of us spiral dancing around the road, our faces aglow with primal womanhood, feeling our power, as the men sat in circle, off to the side, in respectful support. Ululations, wolf howls, pounding feet, powerful with love for Mother Earth, dancing for the trees, in defiance of the Machine, whose voracious jaws still threaten to devour everything loved, necessary, sacred.

My son is rather conservative. That night I got a phone call. "Mom, I saw you on the news, dancing around the road with a bunch of hippies." Yup. That was me.

I was there the night they closed the Peace Camp, Dana Lyons singing his wonderful songs. My favourite, "Magic", always brings me to tears, because it speaks of a time when all the creatures shared the earth. I can see them still, beautiful, loving, gentle people dancing in a clearcut under a fat, round, Grandmother Moon, followed by a 15-minute group hug and blissful OMMMMMMMM.

Memories that fill my heart, a time of dancing on Mother Earth, for the trees.

Lone Cone in forefront, the beloved Wah'nah'juss Hilth'Hooiss, that guards Tofino harbour. It would have been clearcut, if not for the efforts of First Nations and their allies. Catface, in the background, is threatened by mining interests.

No Turning Back

I am crossing
a land of  elm and ash
littered with bones,
a scarf across my chest
like a golden sash.

A black bird circles
against blue sky,
pointing her wing
into the forest dark and deep.

(Until that moment,
I had been asleep.
When Raven points
her feathery wing,
listen closely to
the message she will bring.)

On a quaking limb,
rests a prodigious egg
in a woven nest.
I hear it crack,
and then my quest
is blessed.

A hundred small birds fly up
into the sky, and I
am granted the gift of Wonder
and put it in my pack.
I am on my journey now
and there is no
turning back.

for Shay's Word List

In the Dreamtime

 

connecting with the dreamtime

tapping into the deepest well

of our collective memories

with eyes closed, I call up

the Ancestor Beings,

here when this world

began, with its

mountains and rivers and trees,

its air and fire and water

when their work was

complete, they traveled back

into the earth and slept

sometimes their spirits

stayed behind

in rocks or trees,

and these became sacred places

Today we're in the Dreaming -

in the Now-

the only time the aborigines

recognize

Feel the spirits

of the Ancestors,

as you chant to the beat

of the drum

Look quickly

across the campfire

and you might catch their shadows,

see their kind wisdom-eyes

Hear them say:

"Right now one

of your eyes is sleeping,

but one of them is awake

When you see with both eyes,

we will awaken from our dreaming

to join you,

and the world

will be made new"

It is time to open our sleeping eye. This poem was inspired by Julian Lennon's amazing film Whaledreamers, about a gathering of aboriginal elders from all over the world, who met at the edge of the sea in Australia and sang the whales in, as they did in times of old.

for my prompt at What's Going On -  Saltwater and Whales

The Song of the Ancients

source

Listen, friends.
Do you hear the song
of the ancient ones
floating on the breeze?

Can you hear the cries
of the wild ones?
Do you feel
all the broken human
and beyond-human hearts
sorrowing
across Mother Earth?

Let's join our energy
with that of the elders,
to sing in the mystical whales,
guardians of our collective wisdom
since the world was young.
Let's send our hearts
to the edge of the cliff,
where the wise ones have gathered
through millennia.

In spirit, let us
sing the whales into the bay,
as the First People have done
through all of time.
They are waiting
for our song.

A poem inspired by  Julian Lennon's song, Saltwater, and also by his film about the aborigines and the whales, titled Whaledreamers.

The Kindness of Mother Earth

 

What really gets to me
is that Mother Earth never gives up.
No matter how much we hurt her,
rip her trees out of the ground
(not even hearing their silent screams),
fill her oceans and seabirds and whales
with plastic, buy and discard
so much excess, warm her oceans,
heat her deserts till they turn to flame,
still, each year, spring arrives:
a miracle of green baby leaves,
baby wolves, orca calves,
and puppies.

Like a human mother, her heart hurts,
yet still she gives.
So generous, so kind.
So forgiving.

I am watching the light last longer.
Soon the trees out front will be
a froth of white blossoms.
The bare branches of forsythia
are poking yellow-tipped buds
along their limbs.

Seventy-eight springs,
and each one more of a miracle
than the last.
Every year, it takes
my breath away.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Equinox - what really gets to you? 

Smokey

 

Star quality

Was that your big wolfy ears

I saw, in my dream,
poking out of the green bush

at dusk?

Your time has gone by too fast.

How you loved fishing and camping 

with your people.

You barked each fish into the boat,

then sniffed and kissed  it,

to welcome it aboard.

You had your own camp chair

around the fire. You loved

your life, and we love you.

Your legs are failing you, now.

Our hearts are sad
that you are in pain. But
once we set you free,
we promise

you will live forever in memory,

a wolfy boy, with a big presence,
who gladdened

all our lives.

Smokey laughing

Sadly, my granddog Smokey's hind legs are failing him. That time is coming soon, the one we dread, the hardest time of all, when we set him free. Like Pup, he has a big, wolfy, hilarious presence that only he can fill. He has lived a wonderful life, fishing and camping with my son and daughter-in-law.  So glad he had that. So sad it is nearing its end.

for Shay's Word List.

A WORLD IN NEED OF SHAMANS

 

source

Slow the clocks. Let the day

dawn slowly, mind struggling

to balance the fast world

coming at me.

Become the observer,

the mystic said, and I do.

I observe a world

that has lost its centre,

a world in need of shamans.

I grow slower, and more silent,

in response.

During the years
when my children were growing,
each spinning off into danger,
far from my protection,
I learned how to be a tree:
strong at my centre,
to support them,
flexible, with wavy arms,
so we could lean and bend
and sway with the times
together.

Old age is deep time.
The seasons have brought forth
whatever harvest
there is ever going
to be.

Time to reflect, to walk
in an old growth forest,
commune with the ancient ones,
breathe in connection,
breathe out peacefulness.

I am as tired and slow
as an old elephant,
just from remembering.

Slow the clocks. The sun
is kissing the golden shore,
inch by inch, as we ponder
the lingering going away
of the day.
We keep our voices hushed,
reverential,
our footsteps light.

Old age is deep time.

The Song of Sky

 

Sing me a song of sky,
small bird.
Such a shy creature
you are,
yet unafraid to sing
this big old world awake.

Sing the arrival of spring:
baby animals
in the meadow,
ribbons of new leaves
covering the naked trees
of winter.

Sing to the hidden fox,
the cricket, the new wolf cubs,
looking out at the world, so big
and inscrutable.

Sing to we stumbling humans
your song of renewal,
of growth,
of beginning again,
a song of
the young and tender
~shy creatures, all~
who lift our hearts
and keep our spirits
alive.

for Shay's Word List: Shy Creatures

Beauty Bound

I am bound by the beauty of this place,

indentured under changing ocean skies,

kindred to the trees lining the shore,

like maiden supplicants, worshipping before

the wild waves and the dancing whitecap froth,

and to the sandy shore I plight my troth.

I live apprenticed to the eagle's cry,

his swoops and circles rising up so high.

Majestic ruler of the sea and sky,

his soaring splendor captivates my eye,

held fast by beauty, struck with wonder, I.

Driftwood for my bed, the wild wind cries

among the lashing trees, the ocean tides,

calling me to the shore that knows my name.

So many years, in joy, I've walked inside

this glory. Since, I've never been the same.

Drunk with the beauty, captive to the sea,

my heart is bound to the one place home to me.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On : Beauty. The song "Bound By the Beauty" by Jane Siberry sprang to mind. It was popular the summer I first moved to Tofino and is inextricably woven into my memories of living here.

Walk in Beauty

 

Turn off the news, which is almost always bad and disheartening. The door is waiting: walk through, out into the morning, early springtime, which has been so long in coming.

See the pink blossoms, the crocuses and daffodils; see the earth gazing at the sky, longing for sun,

for warmth. Yet, when it comes, will it be too much, like everything – sun, wind, rain, storm, floods

and fire – has been too much for so long?

Never mind. Today, we need only Be, with the air and the sky, with the soft forest trail and the

waiting trees, wafting their peaceful energy towards us, wrapping us in Green, in silence, in a world

out of time that is timeless, that has always been.

Remember to step softly, and not crush the mosses. Make a wide berth of the slug’s slow passage

across the trail. Note the way the yellow swamp lanterns lift their heads, without a care in the world, even in this mad time we are living. Their mandate is to grow; yellow and green is all they know.

Breathe in peacefulness; breathe out gratitude, for the beauty shining all around, and for the way

Mother Earth keeps gifting us sunrises, sunsets, growing things, baby creatures, even though we have forgotten how to tend our garden gently. Even though so many have done such great harm. Like every mother, she continues to give all she has, hoping we will tend it well. Even knowing some of us will

hurt her and break her heart –  still she gives.

Here is something the trees told me: when we walk through the forest, loving them, in awe, head

tipped back, they start to love us back. Even the rocks, the ferns, the salal, are reflecting our love back

to us. (How is it that only some of us know this?)

If you sing, softly, so only they and the nature spirits can hear, they smile; small birds cock their heads

to listen. An owl opens her yellow eyes, then blinks. And, deeper in the bush, a wolf cub wakens in his burrow and tries out his first small baby howl.

There be spirits here – the ancestors shapeshift among the trees; the morning mist is clothed with spirit walkers. Long ago, they told us that we are meant to be here at this time, when the world stands at the brink of a major shift, uncertain which way to go. Rainbow warriors have hearts of every hue; lovers

of the earth everywhere on the planet are dreaming in green.

It may take us longer than our lifetimes and our children’s lifetimes to return to the garden, to gather around the fire and begin again with small gardens and respect for all beings. One lesson we need to learn, and to teach: when we take, we must give back, so the children’s children’s children may also live. Like the salmon dying in the dried out riverbeds still try to make their way home, we may also die along the way. But the journey matters, and others will follow. 

And one day this big beautiful blue-sky world will smile again.