The Calla Lilies Are Wilting

 

The calla lilies are wilting,
and I pluck their fronds
as they languish.
But the geraniums have
a few brave blossoms yet,
and I am loathe to empty
my potted garden
while they are still 
working so hard
to stay alive.

I think how bare
that space will be
after the profusion of summer blooms,
once the pots are emptied
and tucked under the eaves
till next spring.

Yet the rains are here,
more days than not
and, soon, one sunny afternoon,
I will need to end
their gallant sojourn
under my big window.

It is the season edging us
into winter storms
and wildish waves.
The calla lilies are wilting,
in the time when all the creatures,
including us,
prepare for the long, dark,
cozy days of winter
and we all start gathering nuts
and singing
our cold weather songs.

for Kim's prompt at dVerse: creating our own micro-seasons

KINDNESS, IN THE TIME OF COVID

 

I remember those days:
at first, I was afraid to exit my apartment,
germs lurking everywhere - on the railings,
the doors, the laundry equipment.

We looked at each other in the CoOp,
eyes smiling above our masks,
staying carefully apart from each other,
protecting each other. Only
ten of us allowed in at a time,
in those early days.

I remember washing vegetables,
wiping down library books.

In our small hospital, exhausted doctors
and nurses tended the very ill.
All staff wore layers of protective gear.
They could not afford to get sick
with so many needing care.

Some staff rented motel rooms
so as not to carry germs home
to their loved ones.

We had two ambulances and
only one oxygen machine;
if it accompanied a patient out of town,
it was a long wait till it returned.

Dr. Bonnie Henry was our lifeline then,
with her calm instruction, her voice
on the news, enjoining us all
to be kind.

What I loved most: nation wide,
on the evening news, at 6 p.m.,
we watched people coming out
onto their balconies, all over the province,
banging pots to thank the medical staff
and service workers,
who had to walk into danger every day,
risking their own health,
worrying about their own families.

What I remember most, from those fearful times,
is kindness, and how dedicated everyone was
to caring for each other. 

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Remembering Covid

HERON II

 

Christine Lowther photo

Heron,
you once soared the skies,
perched in treetops,
picky-toed along the mudflats
in search of a meal.

Now the tide
has brought in
what is left of you:
two feathered wings,
still connected,
the rest of you washed away.

How did your end come?
I hope it was peaceful,
swift, before you knew
you were leaving
this world
you loved.

In silence,
we spread your wings,
extended them
as they were in life,
so your spirit could
fly free.

THINGS TO SAY INSTEAD OF "I'M FINE"

Remote Passages photo

On the street, passing villagers ask

"how are you?" and the expected response

is 'Fine, thanks,' even if one is hobbling,

and the other already walking away

before I can ask them the same.

For how is there time, as we're

rushing off to our various errands, to say,

(though sometimes I try): "It is so beautiful

today, it makes my heart sing" or "When

I saw the eagle fly across the harbour,

my heart flew along with him, for just

a little way."

We generally have an unspoken agreement

not to mention trump, covid, or the climate crisis,

the intense heat, the wildfires,
the horrifying floods,
houses and whole towns chest-deep in water,

climate refugees already

on the move, though leaders stay tight-lipped

about the state of things, as if the world

were not crumbling and melting
and sliding into the sea.

Wouldn't they be shocked

if I stopped right there

on the sidewalk, and said: All my life

I've loved people who never felt loved enough.

I gave all that I had, though it seems to be

forgotten, suffered many losses,

yet stayed grateful for the beauty

all around me, and the gifts I've

been given. From where I was to

where I am now was an amazing journey,

for which I'm thankful, and I'm tired now,

my quiet heart at peace.

But "Fine, thanks," I say, smiling,

which is likely a relief

to those who ask.

Inspired by "List of Things to Say Instead of I'm Fine" by Marlin M. Jenkins.

HERON

 

Great Blue Heron: A Delicate Balance
by Tofino Conservation Wildlife and Landscape 
Artist Mark Hobson

Graceful heron,

swooping across

the evening sky

like a pterodactyl,

Prehistoric bird

perched on a treetop,

my heart swoops with you,

then stills,

standing by the silent pond,

waiting for the night to settle

around us both

softly as feathers.

***

Song of the frogs

in the fading light,

soft fade the hills

in the falling night,

God touching earth

with a gentle might,

and all is beauty

within my sight.

Soft falls the light

on garden walls,

a rose-hued mountain

as day's curtain falls,

a froggy symphony

serenades the night sky,

and grateful, grateful, grateful

I.

The pond at Port Albion, where I perched for a few months when I first came back to the West Coast. It was beautiful there.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On : Ekphrastic poetry, to write a poem based on a painting.

Heron by UkeeTube

Happiness Is....

 

Look closely to see the heron against the rocks.

It's Saturday, and I want to tell you something
about happiness. It comes on soft little feet
into your life when you aren't even looking.
It taps you on the shoulder, disguised as
a dog you pass on the beach, a smile
from a stranger that says "people are good",
a special treat you buy yourself just because.
It reveals itself in the pot full of
tightly closed buds you brought home
from the nursery when, one morning,
you step into the yard to find
some of them open, and reaching for the sun.

It fills your heart when you breathe in
the early morning, and it smells like
summer mornings when you were a child
at Grandma's house, your safest place in the world.
You may not be thinking about anything,
just watching a cloud perch itself
on top of the rounded hills
across the harbour; your heart swells
to overflowing at the beauty:
happy, happy, happy
and
grateful, grateful, grateful.

Happiness is seeing nature's beauty,
all around through awakened eyes.
It is kinship with the world, one being
among all the other beings.
It lives in the song of the waves,
an eagle's cry, the sight of a heron
perched on the topmost branch
of an old growth cedar,
and you wonder how the branches
hold his weight and how
his feet find purchase.

It happens when a hummingbird flies,
by accident, inside your house.
You cup its featherweight lightness
in your hands, walk outside,
and set her free. Her darting flight
away from you is just how happiness is:
you don't want to hold it too tightly;
you know it needs its freedom
to come and go. Cupped hands,
only for a moment, and then release.

You know it will always
come back.

Full Circle Moment

 

I met my hero one day, when I was newly arrived in Tofino, the land of my dreams. I told her, when I was a single mother living inland, I read of her, another single mother, living her dream with the orcas up the Coast. I said I told myself if she could do it, I could do it too - make my dream come true. She smiled. She said she had just come from visiting her hero, Jane Goodall, that she had told herself if Jane could do it, she could do it too. 

Full circle moment,
hearts beckoning hearts,
dreams inspiring dreamers.

A haibun for my prompt at What's Going On : A Message from Jane Goodall

The woman who inspired me is Alexandra Morton, who has dedicated her life to the orcas, and in recent years to saving the wild salmon population that is endangered by fish farms - wild salmon that humans and whales and bears and wolves need to survive. She has made some progress in moving farms out of the Broughton archipelago, but there are still farms in other areas, including Clayoquot Sound. The sea lice and offal from the farms are infecting wild salmon, since government allows the farms to locate on wild salmon migration routes.

Wild Woman, Tapping the Keys

 

Wild Woman keeps tapping the keys.

The words come from who knows where?

The white bird asks: is this the best

humanity is capable of? She flicks her tail

in annoyance. Do better, she says,
and flies slip-sliding away.

Wild Woman has such a weary heart

from struggling - forever, it seems -

in hopes of a more just world.

Her worst nightmare has arrived,

something she never thought to see

in North America, which has fought

so long and so hard a fight
for justice.

She is so tired of marching, 
fighting the same old fights
over and over again,
every few decades.

If Wild Woman keeps tapping these keys,

might a miracle occur?
Might the transformation

of consciousness she has waited
a lifetime for
finally occur?

The arc of justice is long.

Maybe not in Wild Woman's time,

but, she hopes, in her grandchildren's time,

the white bird of peace will smile again.
Maybe the song of humanity -

of equality and freedom of choice and of voice -

will ring again in this land, that has fought and bled

 for hundreds of years to quell the racism,

the hatred, the othering, 
at its core,

and will reclaim the hard-won

rights to that underlying dream
that has always been

the land of the free
and the home of the brave.

Wild Woman is in mourning. But she hears

the white bird's call. The hope of that small bird

keeps her tapping on the keys,
seeing what messages come,

keeps her believing that our better angels

will one day vanquish, once and for all,

those who want a world

all painted white.

for Bjorn's prompt at dVerse: to write from another perspective. 

I tapped the keys. This is what came. I can't believe we are having this same fight again for social (or any other kind of) justice. More scarily now than I ever expected.

SONG OF THE RIVER

Stamp Falls, Port Alberni, B.C.

Song of the river wild,

Song of the rapids leaping

Through the chiseled rock-walled chasm

Green with weeping,

A plunging torrent

To the ocean seeping

Song of the sea-green foam

Song of the white froth dancing

Sun-dappled baby wave-tops prancing

In the sunshine, all my dreams

Romancing.

Song of the green rock wall,

A vessel for the river's journey,

Guiding the flow along the channel churning

To the ocean and as it's

Returning.

Song of the tall green trees

Rootbound and stoic in the deep crevasses

Rooted in bedrock holding up the mountain,

Sentinels for every year

that passes

Song of the laughing brook

Below the rapids green, swirling and babbling

Huge salmon leap,

Fall back in shallows dabbling,

Plunge forth to lunge again,

Leaping and scrabbling

Song of the river wild,

You sing my tattered soul a new song,

Bless the silver beauty of this new day,

Make me know the path I'm on

Is not wrong.

Song of the seasoned soul

That knows the underlying message

Of the river:

Flow with me,

Not against me as we journey;

Travel lightly,

Not a taker,

But a giver.

for Truedessa's prompt at dVerse Poets Pub: The Song My Paddle Sings. where we are dipping our poetic paddles. Stamp Falls was my favourite place when I lived in Port, the wildest place me and my wolf dog could find. In fall, the salmon gather in the narrows, waiting for their turn to try to leap up the rapids - always amazing to watch.

WEARY WOLF WOMAN

There is a weary old

grizzled wolf-woman

come to live in my heart.

She wishes to speak:

"It has been such

a long hard journey

to reach this peaceful cave

where I can rest.

For years, I was hunted,

brought down many times,

till I managed to flee.

Once a forest burned around me

and, in the cold times,

I slept in snow burrows

and felt ice and hunger

to my very soul.

I have been wounded, and healed,

even trapped, for a time.

Oh, how I railed and flailed

against the bars of that cage,

how I howled for release.

When I escaped,

I pointed my nose firmly

towards freedom.

After that, I always traveled alone.

It was safer that way,

save for the years my black son

padded beside me,

till it was time for him to take

the wolf path away from

my side.

I cannot travel far, now,

and I long for the wild places,

the ocean's roar,

the forests, the wilderness

that sings through

my soul.

Now captive in my body,

and restricted by the end times,

I look out

through your eyes upon

my vanishing world."

As I sit on my porch swing,

Wolf-Woman is sitting here, too.

We rock silently

and survey the grey skies

of today.

We remember the forest trails

that we loved to wander,

wild beaches

stretching to Forever,

where we once joyously

companioned the tides.

We accept our weary

end of the trail

limitations.

But sometimes, at night, 

when the moon is just right,

you can listen

for our howls.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Weariness. Which I feel to my very bones in these troubled and troubling times.

Child

A small child, 
eyes sparkling with joy -
few possessions,
but a heart full of love.

Child,
I am humbled
by your gaze.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On -  to write a short poem expressing an image. 

Little Blue Toyota

 

Every time I pointed the nose
of our little blue Toyota
towards Tofino,
you went wild with joy:
barking, leaping from front seat to back,
from back to front,
big tail whapping me upside the face,
me laughing.

Once, after you died,
I parked in front of
the 126 kilometers to Tofino sign
to take a photo,
and when I looked at the picture, after,
I saw your image, clearly outlined,
through the rear window,
big black body, white on your chest.
I had moved after you died.
Perhaps your spirit was inhabiting the car
to stay near me.

When the car died, I felt such a pang,
leaving it at the wrecker's.
It was our chariot to the wild beaches,
your home away from home,
our raucuous rides, me singing, you barking,
all the way
through the mountains.

(Oh, we were wild!)

Each time we left the beach to return to the car,
you, head down in sorrow,
always carried a piece of driftwood
with you, a memento
of our lost wilderness shore.

Were you still in the car
when I left it there that day
and walked away?

Life is so full of painful partings.
Yours and mine was one of the hardest.
But oh! what joy we had
for a time,
when you and I and the world
were young.

Dog of Joy

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Through the Windshield

WHEN WOMEN HAD WINGS

source

Far back in the time

when women had wings,

my foremothers flew.

They sat in council, governing,

around the communal fire.

Their eyes flashed; their utterances

were wise, and respected.

In those times, the waters ran clear,

and the land was bountiful.

In the crooning of the wind,

I hear the names this life has given me:

Walks Far Woman,

Woman Who Talks to Trees,

In Love With the Sea Woman, and

Daughter of the Sky.

Part of me has not yet

fully landed in this place.

My DNA still remembers

we come from particles of stars.

Our collective memory recalls those times,

when women had wings,

and our foremothers flew,

when living with the land

is what we knew.

This poem was inspired by reading Sharon Blackie's book If Women Rose Up Rooted. Here is a quote: "If women remember that once upon a time we sang with the tongues of seals and flew with the wings of swans, that we forged our own paths through the dark forest while creating a community of its many inhabitants, then we will rise up rooted, like trees...then women might indeed save, not only ourselves, but the world."

I am disheartened at what the current regime in the USA is doing to womens' and immigrants' rights. Posting this poem because that is what is on my mind. 

Time for the walls of misguided and toxic patriarchy to crumble. For the sake of the children and all earthlings.

WE WILL BE THE CHANGE

source

A nation is not defeated until the hearts
of its women are on the ground.
A Cheyenne saying


Aho, Wise Grandmother says,
it is time for women to raise their voices:
in song, in council, in power, in truth,
to speak for social and environmental justice
for all the living.

"Huff, puff," says the big bad prez,
"we are going back 50 years to the Good Old Days
and women may not speak. We are not, in fact,
entirely convinced you are people."

Aho, you are foolish, Grandmother responds.
We have dealt with men like you before,
and better. We have grandchildren,
and we need to leave them a world that is alive.
You will find us a formidable force,
for we are half the earth; we hold up half the sky.
In strength, we bear your sons and daughters.
Our life's purpose is to keep them safe.
Our hearts are strong and full of truth.

You can lock us up. More of us will follow,
for we do not respect
the ways of greed and death.

Your addiction to oil is polluting sacred waters.
Your addiction to money is melting the polar icecaps.
Your willful ignorance is imperiling the planet.

Your inhumanity to our fellow humans is abhorrent.
We refuse. We resist. Our wolfish hearts rise up.
We march for our fellow beings, for the voiceless,
for the suffering.

We are of Life, of Breath, of Memory, of Tomorrow.
In sisterhood, in motherhood,
we sing the Earth Mother's song of truth and justice.
Our hearts are weary but our minds are wise.
We speak for the immigrants, for the refugees,
the innocent,  for the wild, the animals,
the creatures of air, land and sea:
we march for all of Earth's beings.
We are strong.
We will not be moved, silenced or overcome,
and our hearts are no where near to
being on the ground.

for my prompt at What's Going On - Women's Rights Then and Now

If I Were a Swan

 

If I  were a swan
I'd be gone,*
my son, in his suffering,
sang,
long ago.

In memory,
down on the river,
a white swan glides,
bent neck, folded wing,
her mirror image
floating under her
on a river full
of sky and puffy clouds.

Still here, still suffering,
is my son,
who has forgotten 
how to sing.

In memory,
that swan
is going
going
gone.

Mirror image
Chris Lowther photo

*Lyrics from the song by Pink Floyd

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Mirror

A Rift Across the Land

 

Beauty of Planet Earth photo

There's a rift,

a rift across the land,

for we no longer understand 

or live the Old Ways.

We take more than we give,

and it is no way to live.

Extreme consumption is the norm,

and the price is coming due

in floods, wildfires and storm.

There's a disconnect between

humanity and Mother Earth.

To all of us she's given birth.

We live under the same skies

and close our ears
to the suffering's anguished cries.

There's a rift, 

a rift across the land,

for we no longer understand

or live the Old Ways.

We have forgotten we are all one,

the way we all had once begun.

What happens to one happens to us all.

How can there be peace

while the bombs fall?

There is a rift in our spirits.

We have forgotten how to pray.

We need to heal to find our way

back to the garden.

A second response to Sumana's prompt at What's Going On.

THE SKY GODS ARE ANGRY

 

The Sky Gods are angry.
Down below, dragons are breathing fire,
and raining down rocks
and fire and floods
upon the villagers.

"Help us!" we cry,
for we are weak, and afraid.

"We are aware of the problem,"
the Sky Gods say,
"but we are very busy."

Meanwhile villagers, children, elders,
creatures wild and tame,
are suffering.
The Sky Gods appear
to be unmoved by
their anguished cries.

What can we earthlings do
to smooth the rifts
between the people of the earth,
each other and other earthlings,
between commoners and government,
or one country and another?
How do we cross
the unbridgeable chasm between
corporate greed and a struggling climate?

When will we understand
 we must heal our disconnection,
remember that we are all one,
that what happens to one happens to us all?

How can we make the Sky Gods
smile again?
Send the dragons back to sleep
in their caves?

We must find a way
to heal our minds and spirits,
and find our way back
to the garden.
If not now,
then, on the other side
of cataclysm,
we will be required
to begin again.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On : Rifts. Very timely.

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