In Dark Times

‘In the dark times

will there also be singing?

Yes, there will also be singing.

About the dark times.’

~ Bertolt Brecht

In the dark times, we light candles,

place them in the window to guide

lonely wayfarers home. We hum,

as we stir the thick soup, wash

all the pots, set the table for

whoever will come.

In the dark times,

we come together, break bread,

share empathy and humanity

and hope.

In the dark times,

we gather together

and sing.

In the dark times,

we dream.

We dream of spring.

***

I emerged out of darkness,

as we do, as we all do,

and strove towards

sunny days and blue sky.

Friends helped me, and dogs

helped me more, till my heart

healed itself like a craggy old bunion,

that I polished until it shone

like a pearl;
then I taught it to sing.

for my prompt at What's Going On: The Dark

That Farther Shore

 

For ages,
you have been visiting me
in dreams. 
Your lovely snout,
your big wolfy ears,
your goofy grin.

Such a handsome boy
you were.
I pine. I pine.

How you rollicked along
the shore, water
and wind in your fur.
We were wild together,
oh, we were wild.

I am at a sleepy time
of life these days,
almost ready to tip forward
into dreamtime myself,
to come and find you
somewhere
on that farther shore.

for Shay's Word List

A PARKA FOR YOUR SOUL

At dVerse Poets Pub, the prompt is to write a 144 word prose story based on a quote by Alice Walker which really appealed to me: "Make of it a parka for your soul", from her poem "Before You Knew You Owned It"  , which is wonderful. What came to me was not prose, but I liked writing it. Such a cool idea and I have not been doing well in the inspiration department these days.

My parka for the soul is made of fleecy blankets
that I huddle in on winter afternoons.
Softness, to counter the harshness
of this world, with all the rhetoric and untruths
that clutter the news-streams of our lives.

I hide in my room like a winter bear
not ready to go out into hostile territory.
I peer out like a fearful wolf, hungry,
yet knowing how great the threat is
beyond my den.

I encase my heart in bubble wrap
to keep the barbs and outrage
from entering. I wish for little
beyond peacefulness
any more.

Every time I see
a crocus springing up I hear a pop!
and smile. One more bubble, burst.
Soon there will be more,
then forsythia, then daffodils.
Pop, pop, pop.

Spring will re-wrap my heart
in all the colours of the rainbow.
I can hang the parka up until next year,
and meet the spring bright-hearted,
ready for Mother Earth’s finest display.

And all those vicious voices
can simply fade away.

With thanks to Lisa, at dVerse for the inspiration. (And to Mary Oliver, one of my faves.)

THE COMING OF THE LIGHT

 

For some time, now
Traveler has been
watching the days lengthen,
welcoming the extra light
morning and evening,
putting behind her
the difficult winter
which has birthed the beginning
of her next journey.

Now comes
the putting away of the old
and the welcoming
of the new.

Now comes
increased ease,
and Possibility.

What gestated all winter
bathed in her tears
now brings to fruition
all that was making its
difficult passage.

Traveler sets aside
what no longer
serves her.

She prepares herself
with hope and relief
for renewal,
a lightening of spirit.

She flows
within the emergence
of a new cycle
with trust, with grace,
and enormous gratitude,

knowing that
all is as it should be,
(in herself, if not the world) -
a time of letting go,
a time of stripping down,
a time of being true
to one's own spirit
and the simplicity
of its needs.

With the light will come daffodils,
cherry blossoms, forsythia.
Tiny crocuses are already
pushing upwards through the earth,
reaching for warmth and sun,
drawn forth by the
coming of the light.

As much a miracle
in this, her 78th spring,
as any other.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: the Light

IMAGINE

 

almanac.com photo

Imagine the earth
as the First Nations do
in ancient legend:
perched on the back 
of a turtle.

I was amazed to read
that scientists say
the tectonic plates
below the earth resemble that
of a gigantic tortoise.

How did they know
ten thousand years ago,
when they told the tale
around the communal fire?

The sky is like
a giant bubble overhead,
we, below, on a marble
blue and green,
making an absurdity
of our passage.

Rockets to Mars,
wicked overseers,
angels scattering blossoms
on the tombstone
of our fondest hopes.

Imagine:
this beautiful orb
of green and blue,
sailing through space.
Imagine
that we  knew how
to live in peace.

for Shay's Word List. 

It Is Thursday, and This Is What I Know

 

Cox Bay
by Marlon Gayo

It is Thursday, and I want to write a poem, but the words won't come. Because what I know and what we are witnessing is so distressing, how can I infuse my writing with light, with hope, with something a reader can relate to and carry away with them?

It is Thursday, and injustice and corruption are happening everywhere. We expected it, but did not expect it to be this bad. Will there be a government left in four years? In two?

What whispers to me in a corner of my mind is that these regimes have occurred before, and came to an end after terrible suffering of the population. I am reminded that the arc of justice is long, and that farther ahead than is comfortable for us, the tide will turn again. There will be much to mend and heal and all of us won't get there.

May the ones who do learn something from what has happened. May the misinformed who voted, and the lethargic who didn't, begin to understand how precious are our rights and freedoms, how well government works when all agencies are operating within the law and are respected. How terrible it is - so quickly - when they are not.

It is Thursday. The sun is shining. The last of the snow is melting on the lawn. At the shore, the waves advance and retreat as they always have and always will. An early robin looks for worms in chilly soil. A Stellar jay scolds from the cherry tree.

Always, always, I find comfort in the rhythms of the natural world - the everness of it, the beauty. Therein lies peace, hope, and direction. When  humans learn that we are part of this natural system, and are not meant to dominate it, perhaps we will begin to live in harmony with the wild ones. 

It's Thursday, and I listen to the wild ones' song.

ALIVE, ON PLANET EARTH

 

When the Westerly blows,

and waves crash rapturously

upon the shore,

when treetops poke their spires

up through the fog and mist

along the slopes of Wah'nah'juss,

my heart exults in wonder.

When the eagle's piercing cry

echoes across the harbour,

and the heron picky-toes

along the rocky shore

seeking her breakfast,

when dogs with loopy grins

go lolloping in and out

of the waves at Chestermans,

and surfers stand to ride, and fall,

and rise again,

When the morning sun rises

over Lemmens Inlet,

geese flying above in a wavering V,

as the sandpipers whirl and swoop as one

along the water's edge,

and ravens croak their gobble-cry,

When sunset paints the sky

with colours too fantastic to describe

as the big old fiery orb sinks down

below the horizon at day's end,

When just being alive and breathing

in this forever power-place

seems wealth beyond compare,

and I most richly blessed,

thankfulness expands my heart

to bursting, again and again,

so dearly do I cherish the beauty,

the sheer interconnected wonder

of Clayoquot Sound.

How grateful I am

to have walked this earth walk

along its beloved shores,

the song of the waves

forever advancing and retreating

in my heart;

how dearly I feel the blessing,

rich with all life's worth,

just to have another day,

like this,

alive, on planet earth.

Nancy Powis photo

For my prompt at What's Going On? : to describe the landscape that most calls to our hearts. For me, that has always been Clayoquot Sound.

Small Bird

source

Small bird,
I hear you chirping
from the branches
of the spruce.
Your friend, the robin,
head cocked,
hunts worms
on the lawn.

You live in trust,
with a grace
I fail to muster.
You wait with faith
for the winter wind
to warm.

Like us,
you are programmed
to move forward,
through whatever comes.
I envy that
you're unaware
these times are grave.

Your voice is true,
a messenger
of earth and sky.
 Owning only feathers,
you are happier than we.

Small bird,
sweet one,
teach me your song.

for Shay's Word List.  I borrowed the closing lines from an earlier poem, because they fit.

Resistance

 

My granddog Bosley, who is
averse to winter mornings

Each day, a new unraveling

of freedoms and respect,

an age of toxic rhetoric

he led us to expect.

With a stroke of the pen he undoes

50 years of hard won rights

and seeks to jail those who oppose;

he's thirsty for the fight.

I am too old to fight again

for things already won

and there's no point - with MAGA

there is little to be done

but stand up for our fellow beings

and keep our voices loud,

try to survive the destruction

of all we once were proud.

I've never seen such creatures,

cold and vain and weak.
With egos super-sized, the future

could not be more bleak.

I once was a sunflower

who lived in love and peace.

Now I am a wary wren

silenced by quacking geese.

No empathy ushers in the age

of democracy's destruction.

But

There are things that my heart

wants to say, to offer
some instruction:

Child of the 60's

that I am, keeper of hope

these many years,
the toxic voices 

exhaust our hearts.

They bring our outraged tears.

Yet

There are more of us 
than there are of them,

who love our fellow man,
who'll stand up for their rights
in every way we can.

I want to say

Resist!
Believe the tide
once more will shift.
I want to say resistance
will be merciful
and swift.

I want to offer antidotes
to the horrors that we've heard.

I want to offer hope
but it is hard
to find the words.

For Mary's prompt at What's Going On - The Eve of Destruction, and it certainly feels like that these days. I am disheartened. 

Yet I remember how many good people there are, everywhere, and how in a crisis,  people reach out to help each other.  I seek the company of dogs. I watch the sky. No matter how far those people's reach,  they cannot take away our good hearts, our compassion, or our desire for a world of social and environmental justice. 

Not a Cello Serenade

 

source

I once wrote of life
being like a cello serenade
on a summer afternoon.

My dreams then were
full of fluttering wings,
giddy and golden days,
miracles, and owls
who carried messages to me
from the spirit world.

Owl, swooping sideways
into the forest green
I wrote,
when the wild
was my truth
and the ominous voices
of today
were still ahead,
waiting to derail
my perfect peace.

Grief.
Grief,
for all we have lost,
that we hope
one day
to regain.

Meanwhile,
courage, my friends,
till the pendulum swings,
and decency
returns again.

for Shay's Word List:  It is hard to find any good words right now. This is what came. I remember Shay once saying I was Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm. And I was, back then, with all the hope in the world.

My friends on both sides of the border are in for some very hard days, perhaps years. I have compassion for us all. And I am too old to think I'll be around when the pendulum turns and turns again. But I have to believe it will, because most of us have good and decent hearts.

Wild Woman Watches the News

 

Wild Woman watches the news.
She hears from an American doctor
who tried to save children's lives in Gaza.
She learns how the few hospitals left
- none of which had
   HAMAS involvement -
are closing due to the cancellation
of US funding.

She speaks, with tears, 
of a four year old child
she tried to save -
one of 38,000 children
orphaned by this war.

The segment ends.
The suffering continues.

Wild Woman shakes her head.
Her chest swells with sorrow.
Her eyes fill with tears.

Wild Woman has 
lived too long
and is seeing things
she never thought
she'd see.

A child wrote:
I wish Palestine
can be free.