Happiness is No Hat

 

Sometimes, we wear our stories.....

like the beige, knitted, peaked hat

I wore for years,

hair stuffed underneath willy-nilly,
busy single mom of four,
with no time (or inclination)
for fashion.

(Once, at a beauty parlour,
I said to the girl at the desk,
"My hair......." removing said hat,
long hair falling out every which way

 ......."needs help"
and everyone cracked up.)

My kids hated my chapeau. One day

it disappeared. Much later, I discovered

it, flung up onto the roof of the shed,

the kids cackling when I showed them.

(Last time I wore a hat,
with sunglasses,
my daughter said I looked like
I was in the Witness Protection Program.)

Now I walk the beach, bare-headed,

in almost any weather. Winters are milder here,

plus I like feeling free, unfettered,

hate the confinement of a hat,

dislike being unable to see sideways 

when, of necessity, in rain,
I am forced to pull up my hood.

Sometimes we wear our stories.
We change our ways. 
In later years,
we are less and less willing
to feel confined -
perhaps because
what lies ahead are walkers,
wheelchairs and nursing homes,
and we need to exercise our freedom
while we can.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On : The Stories We Wear

IN A FLOUNDERING SEA

Mother Earth,

you grew me like a tree

on a riverbank, toes in the water.

You grew me with eyes

always looking up

at your ever-changing skies

that taught me to strive.

I am a student, longing

to learn the language of clouds,

of trees, of birds and beasts,

of whalesong.

I learn from my indigenous neighbours

that everything is one, that

even the lowly slug's slippery journey

across the path is to be respected.

I am a sailor on the sea of hope,

praying for safe harbour.

I am holding two truths simultaneously:

the glorious beauty of this long, golden fall,

and the forests dying of drought.

I am a beating heart, aching

at salmon lying dead by the thousands

in dry riverbeds, yet lifting

at the news fish are still leaping

the rapids in the river that I know best.

There is an owl calling to me at night

from the nearby forest. I listen; so far

it has not yet called my name. One night,

a cougar screamed below in the darkness.

Here, the wild ones come close, into "our" world,

which is wilder and more cruel than theirs.

I long to walk back with them,

into their world, of deep forest

and hidden unpeopled shore.

I stand on the tombolo, and turn

in a slow circle: 360 degrees of beauty,

radiant and shining. I close my eyes;

when I open them, the colours

have deepened. I am one with the sky,

the sand, the cedar, the soaring eagle,

the croaking raven,

one with the song

of the waves

~ my soul-song.

Mother Earth,

you grew me like a tree, with strong roots

to hold fast against the storms of this life,

but you kept my branches flexible,

so I can support others, yet not break

when the wild winds blow through.

I am a tired tree, now,

bending low towards the earth,

still a student, striving to learn

the language of the wild world

I hold in my heart.

I am a sailor on the ocean of hope,

in a floundering sea,

praying for safe harbour,

and shelter, and justice

and peace,

for all of your beings.

A poem from 2020, just because I stumbled upon it today.

 

The Song of the Ancients

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 Indigenous 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. In the film, elders from around the world gathered on a cliff in Australia, where, long ago, people sang the whales into the bay. The elders gathered, they sang....and the whales came, a moment of joy and wonder. The whales carried the memory of this tradition in their enormous consciousness.

THAT FARTHER SHORE

When the angel of death

arrives at my bedside,

like the ferryman

coming around the bend

of the river, plying his oar

with determination,

pulling alongside

and beckoning me in,

When I gaze at him,

my bed the shore,

wondering how to make

my earth-bound body

traverse the space between us

without falling,

I think I will trust

that the air will support me,

entering that bright darkness

interested in discovering

what comes next.

Yes, I think I will trust.

My life has been a voyage

of wonder and amazement.

I have made this journey,

head tipped back,

and grinning at the sky.

Trees have danced for me,

dogs and babies smiled,

my heart brimming with

the dazzle

of this beautiful world,

who performed her best

sunrises and sunsets for me,

draping the mountains

with breathtaking mist,

always whispering

"watch this!" and then,
watch this!"

I have long loved

the stories of people

who rose - and rise -

from their heartbreaking situations

with hearts courageous as lions,

roaring their love of life

even as the hunter

raises his rifle,

not cowering,

walking into the darkness

with full hearts,

with dignity, with pride.

No surrender.

Yet when that dark angel

comes for me,

I think I will surrender.

I will ride that bed-boat

out into the cosmos,

transfixed by all the stars,

wrapped in clouds of transformation,

soaring through the heavens,

breath held in awe.

The river of amazement

will carry me,

as it carried me through this life,

to my next destination,

where I hope I will find loveliness

to equal or surpass

that of this world,

where I will meet

lost loved ones,

and furry tails

will thump in welcome.

At the end, I will say

that, all of my life,

I have loved most

this earth and its beauty.

In trust, I will step into

the ferryman's boat,

ready to see what lies

on that farther shore.

Ha. I may not be that brave at all. We'll see. For my prompt at  What's Going On: Love Letter From the Afterlife,  the luminous life of Andrea Gibson.

A second one on the topic, about which I have written many poems:

I HOPE WHEN IT HAPPENS........

I hope when it happens

I will have finished all the books

I still want to write, will have shared

what I want to share.

I hope my people will read them,

and say, "We thought we knew her,

but there was a large part of her

we didn't know, and didn't understand -

that part of her that other poets knew,

because they read the words from her heart.

I wanted to make something pretty

of my life, but with the ups and downs,

the lumps and bumps, I made

something interesting instead.

I took those things and polished them up,

put them into my poems and books,

left out most of what was black and traumatic

and full of loss. Instead, I remembered

all I was given, how I was helped

and guided, and the people who loved me

till I was better able to love myself.

I hope when it happens,

there will be time to say

all the "I love yous",

look into the eyes of those

I am leaving, say "thank you"

and "Be happy. Laugh lots."

I hope when it happens,

that it will be peaceful,

a soft tide slipping gently

away from the shore.

Based on a poem by Diane Seuss titled "I Hope When It Happens." The italicized lines are hers.

FOREVER GOLDEN

Chantel Moore with her daughter Gracie

"Stay golden," she always said,

to friends and family.

We wore yellow shirts

when we marched for her,

in her memory.

A death that never should have happened;

her mother's tears will never end.

Her daughter will always

miss her mother; broken hearted,

all her friends.

Where is kindness, in this world?

Where has compassion gone?

Why do police act with such

aggression, when kind words

would soothe and calm?

Before you know kindness, the poet said,

you must wake up with sorrow.

We wake with sorrow every day.

Where is our kind tomorrow?

I don't know what to make of it.

This is not the world I knew.

But I see there is a portal,

we are meant to travel through,

a turning from the rhetoric

that has caused us all such pain,

a path of transformation

to make us kind again.

She was afraid and called for help,

but help is not what came.

She will be

forever golden.

We will not forget

her name.

Marching for Chantel (and George Floyd)
in Tofino in 2020.

For Chantel Moore, shot five times by a policeman making a "wellness" check. The House of Commons was presented with a bill soon after to address systemic racism in the RCMP. One MP abstained, blocking the bill, which was supported by all the others.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - a Weekend with Friends

 

EARTH AND SKY

 

Water comes first, then we follow,

gasp in a big breath of air, and then we cry.

Thus we are introduced to the world

as it always was and always will be.

Water: essential, blessed,

part of our beings from our very first day.

Through the Sacred Medicine Wheel I journeyed,

dipped my toes in a magical sea,

soul thrumming with the song of the waves.

My sign, my element, my spirit's home:

Mother Ocean.

Above, the sky, the air, the vast expanse,

curving over all

the great blue bowl of aether,

underfoot, the earth, brown and humble

and mothering.

I bow to you, Sky, I sing with you, Wind,

I dance in the rain, laughing

at the great clap of thunder,

feel the rushing whoosh of wind on my face,

raindrops falling on my spirit,

cleansing me anew,

healing the riven places, washing

all negative energy away.

When I am clean,

when the Great Bowl Above grows dark,

I creep homeward,

settle beside a crackling fire,

remember the winking stars,

the great wheeling seabirds,

wonder at the beauty gracing this span of time

that is still mine.

To the earth I bow, in gratitude,

in homecoming.

It waits to receive me

when that final moment comes,

when I will become one

with All That Is.

First, there was water,

at the end

only earth and sky.

One from 2015, when my engines were firing a little better, for Sumana's open link at What's Going On.

On the Way to Stalingrad

 

Port Alberni steam train

Your betrayal was the collapse
of all my hopes and dreams.

But clasp hands! As giants fleeing before the wind,
we journey on. 

After you left, I sent my heart into exile,
never dreaming we would meet again.
Drifting under the clouds,
I listened for the echo of your howls.

In the frosty Gulag dawn, I experienced
such hunger and longing as I had never known.

Hush! here comes a guide with a lantern,
leading us to the railway, where the engine
is belching steam, impatient to carry us away.

Climb up! We are on the threshold of a dream,
seeing ourselves out of our prison garb
and into velvet gowns.

Whisper to me your dearest desire.
When we reach Stalingrad, all will be
exactly as you wish.

In honour of Shay's last word list, I used all but four of the words. 

Anna Karenina was one of my favourite reads when I was young. In those days, I thought suffering dreadfully for love was romantic. Thankfully I outgrew that over time. LOL. 

Thank you, Shay, for your Word Lists, and your amazing poetry. I will follow you to your new abode, and will continue to visit your familiar site, to make sure I dont miss anything. Smiles.

Holding On

What does a Wild Woman do
- what does she hold onto? -

when the news continues to astound:
corrupt government, toxic rhetoric,
conspiracy theories, falsity and lies,

humans committing atrocities

on other humans, bombs dropping
from the skies,
all manner of suffering and trouble,

women and children starving

in the rubble?

We need a Kindness Revolution, she sighs,

trying to find a way
to dull the suffering's cries.
What we really need, she knows,
is leaders who are honourable
and wise.

She turns off the news.

She would like to write a poem

that inspires hope, lifts hearts.

But she is so freaking tired,
where does she even start?
She is old, now, and weary
and often kind of teary.

She has lived several ages,
truth be told,
but never one so toxic
and so heartlessly, relentlessly,
determinedly
cold.

It's the opposite of
 a Kindness Revolution.

But she has always

Lived In Hope,

so that stubborn flame,
while faltering, is

flickering wanly still.
Wild Woman believes
in evolution / revolution;
 always will.
(Give peace a chance.
War is over if you want it.
Let's keep singing it
Until.)

What we hold onto is today:

brilliant summer sun,

wild waves and Stellar jays,

hope and grief all mixed together,
gratitude for all that stays,

because this is where we're at:
inclement weather.

Wild Woman is grateful:

for another generation rising -

(May they be brave!) - for dogs

with wagging tails and smiling eyes.

For Mother Earth, with her trees,

and clouds, her ever-changing skies,

struggling so valiantly to survive,

on which we're blessed

to still be here,
still dreaming,

still alive!

In all the discord,

what does a Wild Woman do?

She prays, she hopes, she dreams.

 Sometimes she cries.

She writes poems of peace

and struggles to be wise,

stretches her rubber soul

to hold both hope and sorrow,
goes to bed and

prays for a Revolution

of Human Consciousness

on the morrow.

 for Mary's prompt at What's Going On:  In Uncertain Times

I tuned up this poem from 2023 because these days I feel so discouraged it is hard to put it into words. Corruption and toxicity are exhausting; one's sense of justice is outraged every day. Hold onto what stays, my friends - hope, and gratitude, and love.

Ashes

 

Among the ashes and cinders,

in her faded grey apron,

forsaken, unseen,

by those above-stairs,

she was two hands, serving,

invisible, less-than,

carrying trays, cleaning unobtrusively,

keeping everything orderly,

in its place.

She dare not show a sullen face;

she needed her narrow bed,

her pittance, her weekly half-day off.

In truth, she needed much more than that,

but such was not to be
in 1853.

Yet in that narrow bed, she dared

to dream a better dream:

a vine-covered cottage

of her own, primroses along

a winding garden path, perhaps

someone to share stories and smiles

before the fire on a winter's night,

smoke curling up the chimney,
warm lamplight in the glow.

Not too grand a dream, one as humble as

the dreamer. 
Let's hope life granted her this reward
for her humble demeanor.

for Shay's Word List

One Lamp for Sorrow, Two for Joy

 

She lives within her house most days,
closet door creaking
as she chooses which t-shirt to wear:
dancing dogs, fur-bearing beasts,
tigers and midnight moons.

She is old, wise, and sad,
having seen too much sorrow,
but has retained
a heart of innocence
that refuses to give up hope
that a hopeless species
will one day
awaken.

Light the lamp.
Hold it high.
A voice in the wind,
crying through the trees,
is singing a warning song
that only a few of us
can hear.

for Shay's Word List: Incidents Around the House. Note the absence of the second lamp. Sigh.

BEING HUMAN

 

Beautiful creatures
of light and dark,
why did we come here,
to this bountiful garden
full of mountains and rivers,
forests and ocean beaches,
sunrises and sunsets beautiful enough
to break your heart,
if not to take care of it
and each other,
if not to be good creatures
on the earth,
among all the other beings...

if not to look up at the sky,
in its mystical wonder,
and ponder our place here,
the mystery of this earth walk
under the starry heavens...

if not to recognize that we are here,
now, with two paths
ahead of us -
one dark beyond imagining,
one bathed in the silvery light
of our highest aspirations...

if not to turn our hearts and our footsteps
with intention and determination
onto the path of humanity and justice,
the path of peaceful co-existence
with all other beings.

for my prompt at What's Going On :  Being Human, inspired by the video by Julia Butterfly Hill:

https://www.facebook.com/JuliaButterflyHillOfficial/videos/1904733226982566

WILD WOLF, WAITING

There is a wild wood.

In my den I stir

as the new morning wakes me.

I sniff the wind

and sense your pain.

It breaks me,

for I'm forced to forge a path

you cant yet follow,

and I know

this leaves you feeling

rather hollow.

I am a wild wolf.

To be with you, I always had to

keep it tethered.

Now I can throw off

all my bindings,

not forgetting all the years

we spent together.

I am a wild thing,

but my heart returns

to watch you

when you're sleeping,

rest my nose upon your bed

and whuff a greeting,

though you're asleep

and never feel us meeting.

How can a heart be

wild and tame,

together?

We forged a bond

nothing in life can sever.

A bridge between

our two wild hearts

we traveled;

a bond that tight

can never be

unraveled.

I had to leave you,

but I never wanted to

and I am circling

the forest waiting for

your heart to find me.

Listen for my call;

you are not far

behind me.

One from 2013.

To the Trees I Go

I walk the path

in a green and peaceful woods,

the branches arching o'er

as if in prayer,

as if a hidden sepulchre

we share,

and I find a measure of peace

while I am there.

White Crow caws once

as if in sad adieu,

(looked long into my eyes

before he flew.)

I watch him go, a mix

of awe and rue.

(What message he imparted,

I never knew.)

It's to the trees I go

when I need rest.

My spirit sore,

make of their peace a nest;

tucked in my heart,

I go my way, thrice blessed.

It's to the trees I go,

when I need rest.

A second poem answering the prompt "Rest".

TO THE FOREST, DARK AND DEEP

I thought I'd put my heart into a poem,

and take it to the forest, dark and deep,

find the mossy path, the broken limb,

a perch from which to read the trees to sleep.

So sonorous, all words verdant and green,

so soft the moss, the pages all between.

I turn them, leaf and fern, salal and flower,

sweet and protected, in my leafy bower.

The dark will tiptoe in on doe-like feet,

will settle tenderly upon the boughs,

and I softly away, and smiling sweet,

the forest safe and dreaming deep, for now.

Oh forest dear, my sanctuary blessed,

it is to you I come, when I seek rest.

 One from 2014 for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Rest

First Love

He said, "I think I love you."

My response was intensely joyful,
though a bell tolled in my heart.

He plucked a blossom off a tree

and offered it to me, his brown eyes

smiling.

"Poor man's orchid," he said.

Too soon, it ended.

Other loves pale in comparison

to first love, so innocent and sweet,

at just fifteen. 

for Shay's Word List: First Love 

On the Summer Breeze

 

Don Collier photo

There's a scent I only smell on early mid-summer mornings - fresh, lake-scented - that transports me back to childhood, and Grandma's little war-time cottage, the lake just down the lane. Her garden scented the yard with pinks, peonies, sweet pea, hollyhocks. In the afternoons, I read, in the hammock under the weeping willow, its long fronds draped over me like a tent, with their distinctive odor. I swam in the lake once under a grey gunmetal sky, the air smelling sharp, metallic, just before the thunder rolled. Then that smell all its own - petrichor - just before the first fat raindrops fell on parched and sandy earth. In my old age, any of these essences takes me back to the days that shine brighter than bright, my best memories lake-scented, forever flower-filled and fragrant.

Summer at Grandma's -
the safest and most peaceful
place I ever knew.

A haibun for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Fragrance

Old Houses

 

Mary Ann Potter image

Old houses
speak in haunted whispers
of days when parents, cousins, friends
and gentlemen callers
filled the rooms
with bright and happy voices ...

.... all gone, now,
dreams abandoned,
like childhood dolls
in the attic.

The two old sisters who remain
were young women in this house once,
dressed in sprigged cotton,
full of dreams and whispered hopes
under the summer moon.
The young men came, then went away,
mothers, aunts, uncles departing in their turn,
the two spinsters
living out their days together
in this shabby, downturning house,
a century rolling by
one day at a time
of waking, cooking, dishes, bed.

Every evening for years,
the sisters have walked,
slowly, with their canes,
along this country path.
Last time we passed, only one was left,
as faded as the crumbling house behind her,
unsmiling, eyes dim,
watching her days slowly
winding down.

Soon the house will be empty
as it has not been since 1915.
Then, how those echoes will whisper
like disappointed ghosts
through all the dusty, empty rooms.

A tale of two sisters, who lived for almost a century out Beaver Creek in Port Alberni. On evening drives, we would see them, standing by the gate watching us pass. Last time, there was only one sister standing at the gate. I can see her face now.

This is where Shay's Word List took me this week.

Flight Maps of Stardust Voyagers

From protozoa that crept out of the sea onto land, from ape to Cro-Magnon man to us, through millions of years of non-human development, to humankind's arrival, our story took millennia to develop. Only in the last one or two hundred years, with ferocious determination and greed, have we managed to do harm to every species on the planet. At the same time, our seeking souls, knowing we have lost our way, still look skyward, singing. We are a species that cannot live without hope.

In my heart and through my being, Sky Woman sings, a song of the sea, a song of sky, inspiration to keep looking up, to envision the world as it is meant to be and to live towards that truth and that vision.

Life feels to me divinely guided, provided by an intelligence vaster than our human minds can comprehend. Every scientist, trained in facts, I am certain, must feel the touch of this mystery.

Primitive people felt the Presence of this force, and paid homage. The human spirit is designed to question, to seek the meaning of life. When we listen to it, it is this inner voice that yearns towards a higher purpose for our brief time on this earth, this lifetime that is our spirit's classroom.

We carry within us flight maps of stardust voyagers. It is in our DNA. This keeps us yearning towards the nighttime skies. It is what makes us strive for meaning with which to fill our empty spaces. We are all star travellers here, arriving on the planet still bemused by the Mystery.

We have been Sky Woman, we have been trees, we have soared with eagles, and sung with whales. We are singing still, that mournful song of living on this planet in a way that has strayed so far from the teachings of the Old Ones. Our prayers rise on the Old Ones' breath, to the listening ears of whatever gods may be, Wakan Tanka among the First People.

There is room for it all - by many roads we travel to the same source, which is called by many names. This same Intelligence which set sun and moon and earth spinning in their orbit, programmed into the DNA of every cell the unslakable desire to develop. To us was added the free will to reason our way through all the possibilities, and to choose our pathway through this life according to our highest truths.

My belief in this Intelligence helps me view myself and my fellow travellers with compassion, knowing whatever our fates on this plane, there will be a balancing out on the scales of a much truer justice than we find here, so that no one's life and death is meaningless.

I don't use one word to name whatever set the thousand galaxies spinning; I only know something cannot come from nothing, that before the swirling gases had to be the space they travelled in.

Looking inward at the teeming life of a single cell, its structure is too perfectly ordered to be random. Looking outward exponentially, spiraling across time and space on a cosmic journey, each star, each galaxy, with its programmed pattern, I believe all theories contain some truth. The only theory I find difficult to understand is that all life is random, that we live, we die, and it means nothing. I can't find anything in the human experience to support that.

Traveller, there are no limits to the possibilities, only perhaps in our capacity to understand them. I believe the soul is part of the story of creation, that it does not die, and that "there is a landscape larger than the one we see," and so much more than to survive that we are meant to do.

How can human hearts
that so long for peace on earth
bear to wage a war?

Posting an older haibun in a world that is farther from peace than it ever was, as we watch democracy sliding away week by week.

A Windigo Wind

A windigo wind
is blowing across the land,
its puffed out cheeks
flushing out terrified people
hiding from malevolence
from every corner.

how I long for peace

Begone, bitter wind. 
We resist. We hold firm
to our longing
for the soft breezes
of compassion and goodwill
to reclaim
the corridors of power.

how my weary heart
longs for peace

We will blow back
till we blow you out to sea,
so humanity and decency
can rule the land
we love.

we long for peace

We have power.
We are grandmothers, mothers, daughters,
grandfathers, fathers, sons
with wolf howls in our hearts,
an army of compassion
that sees a better world
than the one of mad
and misguided power.

We have waited a millennia
for peace.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On -  How I Long for Peace, inspired by the song with that title. Definitely a timely topic. 

The Windigo is a mythical malevolent creature from the folklore of the Algonquin people.

Take Two Aspirin

Mother Earth says to her
understandably nervous citizens,

"Take two aspirin and call me in the morning."

But by morning anything can happen:

a drooling, dozing  "president" briefly awakening

long enough to go rogue and bomb a country

without consulting Congress, a sleepy Congress

acting like deer in the headlights, meekly trying 

to not be noticed, "proud boys" acting incognito
as ICE agents

(they and their "president" will never get
capital letters from me).

It's like watching the madmen take over the asylum

and pretend they are the normal ones.

The scales of justice have tipped into the abyss,

along with thousands of the disappeared,

and I,
who used to be the Cheerer-Upper-in-Chief,
can barely crack a smile at this ghastly version
of a wuddyacallit world.

Ha, I watched the news and then read Shay's Word List and this uncheery ditty is the result. Apologies, but there is only so much one old woman can take. The last four months feel like years.

I still have gratitude for the beauty and peace around me. But am all too aware of the suffering that fascist governments are causing all over the world as well as closer to home. Stay safe, compadres.

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.