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