Choosing Beauty

 

source

Poetry taught me to pay attention,

to notice the small beauties: birdsong,

a furry bee asleep inside a blossom, the way

mist swirls around the shoulders of Wah'na'juss,

like a cape worn by a dowager, who has watched

the harbour for a thousand years.

It causes me to notice things: a heron perched

atop a scrag, the scrag itself, bark-worn and

grooved by time, the way my own face

wears lines these days, looking more like

my grandmother than me.

Poetry tenderized me, taking me from euphoric

and optimistic to a deeper place
that sees the beauty

through a prism of sorrow, the heartbreak

of human folly turning towns into war zones,

clearcutting forests, driving other beings

to extinction, heating the earth to a boiling point,

blind to our shared peril.
Whales: beautiful. Whales: dying.

.

Poetry attuned me to the world so deeply

that my eyes leak tears, all the stored tears

of my lifetime, which over-filled my heart,

now released by loss, by love and pain,

by orphaned whale calves and starving children

and times that will never,

will not ever, come again.

Poetry opened my eyes which can never, now,

be closed. It made me see the whole of life,

but through a lens of beauty: a planet struggling

to survive, a world that strives to live, as tenuously

as a fly caught in a spider web that notices,

as it tries in vain to unstick its legs, how beautiful

the morning dew is, and tips its head to drink.

For my prompt at What's Going On: Choosing Beauty.  It's in the eye of the beholder, my friends.

Let Them / Let Me

 

Cox Beach, Tofino, B.C.
Warren Rudd photo

Let them speak their hateful rhetoric,
their white supremacy, their "othering"
of those who came to our shores with hope
in search of a better life, just as
our ancestors did. (We are all immigrants
and uninvited guests on this land.)

Let me turn off the news, or change the channel.
Let me speak kindly to all those
in my orbit. Let me listen, instead,
to birdsong, to smiling dogs barking
for a treat. Let me glory in the gentle sound
of welcome rain on beautiful spring blossoms.

Let them wage their unjust wars, and pay
the consequences, until the whole world
rises up in protest of the mad misguided king.

Let me continue to believe in justice,
in its long arc, which swings from
one extreme to the other, and will
(most certainly) swing again.

Let them ignore the climate crisis
(at their peril), until Mother Earth
reminds them who really controls
the earth, and sea and sky.

Let me, meanwhile, find my peacefulness
walking along the shore 
to the eternal susurration of the waves.

Let their souls pay the karmic price, eventually,
for the lessons they are here to learn.

Let me, having learned mine,
continue to always choose peace.

Mish's cool prompt at dVerse appealed to me - "Let them" or Let me". 

I must admit that the beauty of where I am privileged to live helps me bear the heartbreak of our shared global situation, as I don't have to look far for viewscapes that lift my heart. But this spring 21 grey whales (so far) have washed up on west coast shores dead, from starvation. The ocean is warming, killing the krill and planton they eat, thus killing them too. And the climate of this rainforest I live in has changed too - barely any rain all winter, endless hot sunny days, worry for the forests, for wildfires, for reduced water resources, for what is yet to be.  And capitalism carries on, the God of the "Economy" always trumping planetary survival. Sigh. 

Water From the Well

 

Image by Deborah Koff-Chapin
(link below)

Traveler

walks through the woods

carrying water from the well,

with which to

give drink and sustenance

to other wayfarers.

She has a kind smile.

She gathers everyone in.

She loves people.

Then she retreats to her cave

for replenishment,

where solitude and silence

are her best friends.

Traveler

needs trees and water,

in whatever configurations,

in order to live.

She can crowd herself into

the tiniest treehouse,

the better to savor

the singing etudes of the forest

and the larking, joyous

perambulations

of the river's song.

Traveler

is now coming

to the end of this journey.

Another pathway beckons

as the morrow dawns.

She is all filled with wonder

at the passage she has made.

She knows now

that she is not alone,

that Beings are guiding

her every step

from the Great Beyond.

An old Traveler poem for Susan's prompt: The Journey. In 2011, Elizabeth Crawford and I took a Soul Card Journey together. During the month of April, each day Elizabeth posted a card from the artist Deborah Koff-Chapin at  https://touchdrawing.com/. I started tapping the keys, like I was taking dictation. It was an amazing journey resulting in my small book of Traveler poems.

On Sorrow

source

 

What can I tell you about sorrow
that you don't already know -
you who have lost loved ones
to broken relationships, to illness,
to death, perhaps to suicide itself?

Surely, you should be writing this poem
yourself.

I have known losses all my life,
and have carried them until they told me
they needed to be set free
so they could journey on.

They told me: live your life for us,
who have moved on, who no longer
catch our breath at the way
the mist clings to the mountain slopes
in early morning, who can no longer walk
those long sandy beaches stretching to forever
(but maybe - just maybe - sometimes our spirits
swoop back, like eagles on the wing, to take a peek
at those beloved shores.)

My old eyes look out at a darkened world
the opposite of what this life should be.
There is sorrow, perhaps a fatalism, that humanity
learns everything the hard way and must
experience the trauma the way a baby
pokes his finger into the socket
to learn not to do it again.

Meanwhile, Life goes on. Each morning dawns.
Birds and whales make their spring migrations,
through all the difficulties humans have placed
in their path - whales washing up dead
of starvation on west coast shores, 50% of birds
now gone - disappeared as if they never were.

(And yet, my friend heard a marbled murrelet
early this morning, which brought gladness to my heart.)

Life wants to live, and struggles to survive.
So what can I tell you about sorrow?
Only that our human sorrows are small, compared
to the sorrow we have inflicted on Mother Earth,
who weeps like human mothers do
at all that man has wrought.

21 grey whales have washed up this spring on west coast shores. They show signs of starvation. This year's super El Nino means warming seas which kill the krill and plankton they eat to survive. 50% of the world's birds are now gone. Insects too. And governments continue on their suicidal course of oil and "the economy", which will not save us when the support systems of the planet collapse. Especially with who is in charge in the US at the moment, impacting the whole world,  who doesnt believe in anything but stuffing his pockets. I try not to be bitter. I focus on being grateful. But I could have done without the current situation, which is like a dystopian nightmare from which we can't awaken, because half the US government has turned into the Stepford Wives for love of a demented old king who cares for no one but himself.

Power/Not Power

 

The big bad prez rules with
cruelty and toxic power,

as the adulation he craves
forever eludes him

while

a humble monk inspires millions of hearts

with simple words: kindness, compassion,

mindfulness, peace.

What most beings long for.

There is a lot of what some people see as power going on these days, but truly it is cruelty, bullying, corruption and incompetence. I turn to the monks with relief - some beauty midst all of the injustice. Below is a beautiful song of thanks to the monks as they return to their home countries. How they inspired us!

Power

 

The antidote to corrupt power -
compassion and mindfulness

Power:

toxic, misguided, delusional,

not real power.

Rather, an emptiness of spirit,
cruelty,

and a greed that can never be

assuaged, no matter
how many billions of the peoples' dollars
they stuff into their bank accounts.

I cannot fix it. I dare not allow it

to oppress my spirit. I place my hope

in voters - there are more who long for justice

than those who lust for greed and tyranny
at whatever cost to their consciences,
their constituents,
and their fear/idolatry of the deranged.

Gold statues?
Really?
Isn't there something in the Bible
about worshipping false gods?

For today, let me draw back

into my quiet rooms.

Let the bullying and bluster, the lies and the "spin"

go on, outside my protected borders,
where I let no toxins in,

shaking my head at the wilful delusion

of those who have abandoned
all conscience and integrity.

I bear the grief of damage
they are doing to the planet
and all of its beings.
I bear witness.

And I know that all their billions
will not spare them from the fate 
of all the rest of us,
when Mother Earth shows who truly
holds the power.

Outside my window: trees, birds, blue sky.

I go out my door, sit rocking in the sun.

I believe in a different kind of force,

that says:

May all beings be safe and well
and have a peaceful day.

May all beings have all that they need.

May all beings find peace,

if only within their hearts, their refugee tents,

their asylums. May they be freed
from prison camps - prison camps!! -
inside the USA.

The misguided despots may wield
their power now, but not for long,
as the free spirits who believe

in democracy rise up
in their multitudes.

Vote well, no matter how rigged the system,
how partisaned the maps.
Vote in numbers too great to ignore
so your message is loud and clear,
that democracy
has never been 
more dear.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On: Power

We are seeing examples of abuse of power that we never thought we would see in North America. Meanwhile, the 2026 Super El Nino is projected to be the strongest in 150 years, with considerable impact including food shortages, drought, wildfires, and extreme weather events in an already heated climate system. And the people in charge don't believe in the climate crisis. (Source: USA National Weather Service Climate Prediction Centre)

Remembering

 

Wolf Spirit image
created by an online program
source

What do I want to remember?

The way the earth smells, outside my door,

every morning,

fresh, like summer days when I was a child,

beckoning me, trails and beaches softly whispering;

the quality of silence in my solitude,

peaceful, full, undisturbed,

as I turn on the computer and begin,

cup of tea to my left, and all of the words in the world

to summon, choosing the select few that describe

the life I am living today, in my old age:

indoors, life slowed, ordinary, familiar - safe;

outdoors, enticing radiant beauty all around,

calling me forth -
gratitude, daily, for the gift
of being here.

I want to remember the jays and towhees

on my balcony, feasting; the jay with the strange yodel,

who lets me know when the sunflower seeds run out,
sometimes hopping just inside my open door,
once flying through my room and back out;

and the chubby raccoon, stuffing herself

with both hands, that I had to shoo away,

so the landlord doesn't know I am feeding birds.

She sat back, assessing me,

the level of threat, contemplated staying,

(the seed and bread was so delicious!)

Sadly, wishing she could stay,

lonely, missing dogs no longer alive,

I waved my arms: "Shoo!"

and she shooed.

I want to remember long sandy beaches,

stretching to forever, the smell of the sea, beloved,

the way the beach is a different hue every visit.

I want to remember trails through old growth,

the ancient beings breathing peace,

me drinking it in, awed, respectful,

connected....listening.

I want to remember apple orchards and

leggy, laughing children when

the world and I were young:

flying kites on Knox Mountain,

bike rides, popcorn, poverty, laughter -

happiness and Making Do.

I want to remember

that courageous, terrifying leap

over the mountains to the sea in midlife,

responding to the call of the wild shores

that freed my spirit forevermore.

I want to remember the grief of leaving,

the long years of exile, the better to be grateful for

the gift of my return, in old age,

to walk the beloved shores

once more.

I want to remember a long life lived,

the many blessings,

the ways I was helped

and guided by invisible forces,

the gifts I was given, the gifts I gave,

the journey made, the price I paid,

the running from, the returning to,

the song of the Wild Woman

forever in my heart.

I want to remember the big, black wolf

who loped along wild shores with me,

who is waiting for me

at the end of the trail.

In my heart, I hear and echo

his lonely wail.

We Fall In Love with Hope (The Whole While We are Grieving)

 

Menina and me on the Wild Pacific Trail

The world moves without us, so I tend

to my potted seedlings, plant kale, feel excited

when the sprouts pop up.

My heart aches, so I walk the beach, smile at

the ecstatic, grinning dogs, whose world is only joy

in this moment, because they are fortunate enough

to not understand the news. They understand

my sadness, though, so they move close to me,

sitting on a log; they rest their heavy heads

on my knee, breathe comfort at me,

say with their silent gaze "I am here".

The world moves without us, 
but we are moving, too,

through yet another war,
more human madness, more destruction.
We don't know where we are headed,

and yet we do, for we have seen all this before.

There is a tenderness to growing older.

We fall in love with morning skies, and babies,

dogs, and young lovers. We fall in love with hope.

The whole while, we are grieving.
We are wise, now, and we know.
We know what tomorrow might bring.

We fall in love with hope.

But the whole while, we are grieving.

Inspired by "Tomorrow Is a Place" by Sanna Wani. Italicized lines are hers. For Mary's prompt at What's Going On : Sadness. 

I suspect we are all filled with sadness these days, for so many obvious reasons. The trick is to take comfort in all that is good, and in the knowledge that there are more good, kind people than the opposite, if they just get the chance to run the world again. Vote well, citizens of earth! Great prompt, Mary!

GRIEF CAN BE A SUNFLOWER

 

Grief can be the sunflower, delivered

by a smiling friend,

that inexplicably begins to die that very minute,

leaves drooping, head bending, tucking in its chin,

giving up, leaf by wilting leaf,

because the world is broken, and too hot,

its roots too tightly packed

for water to reach its faltering heart.

Grief can also be the bouquet of cut sunflowers

I bring home from the CoOp

and put in the tall green vase,

to cheer me as I add one more loss

to all the others, and remember

that the world, though suffering,

is also beautiful.

Grief becomes everything with age,

laced through the heartbreaking beauty

that is this world, this life, and death, all passing,

the shine, the wonder, sunrises, sunsets,

laughter and tears and love come and gone ~

earth grief for a planet in distress,

and our culpability/inability

to restore what has been lost

loss upon loss, the heaviness,

us learning how to plant our feet

and strengthen our shoulders to bear it.

Not giving up like the sunflower,

setting our roots down deep,

strengthening our stance,

accepting pain is the price of being fully alive:

gratitude for all of this life and love -

the richness of it! The gifts.

Joy woven through the sadness.

Sadness woven through with joy-

gilt-edged, and fraught,

and yet still remembering

how to dream.

SOLASTALGIA

 

Kelowna 1950's

Don Collier photo

I am homesick for a time

I thought would last forever:

golden days under the sun,

when the world and I were young.

Apple orchards and lake ripples,

flower scent upon the breeze -

life was innocent, and new,
days and nights of
joy and ease,

storybook clouds in skies of blue,

all our dreams still up ahead

just waiting to come true.

Hanging on my grandma's gate,

ice cream truck tinkling down the street:

a shiny dime was riches then.

(Oh, I Remember When!)

Most houses, then, were five rooms small;

we wasted not one thing at all -

no plastic carted off each week,

no birds with string

caught in their beaks.

Now birds are falling from the sky,

as I look up and wonder why

we changed so much that we forgot

the lovely life of days gone by,

when the world and I were young,

and all our songs lay up ahead

just waiting to be sung.

For my prompt at What's Going On - Solastalgia - feeling homesick for the past; existential distress caused by environmental change.

Now the miles and miles of apple orchards I rode my bike past then are condos. The "country" has retreated to the far outskirts, past all the expensive cliffside mansions. Innocence lost, we all carry the weight of what today's affluence and excess has cost.

MY HEART, A TIGER'S NEST

 

source

My heart yearns toward a monk's cell

perched on the edge of a mountain cliff,

halfway between here and heaven.

Yet here I am, in a grey little town

in the valley,

trying to fashion my unwieldy life

into something

that does not give offence.

My challenge, the cliff-walk

of understanding the distance

between where you are

and where I long to be.

My practice, the lighting of incense

and, sometimes, hearts,

with the weaving of words.

My sorrow, the mantra of my soul:

how to tame

the tiger's nest of

keening for all that was,

all that may never be again,

so it may bed down

in peace.

A poem from 2015, that I am reminded of because I am reading about a woman travelling to monasteries around the world in search of peace. This one is the Tiger's Nest Monastery in Bhutan. When I wrote this poem, I was still living in Port Alberni, missing both Tofino, my wolf dog and our lost wilderness.

KODIAC

He was white

with spooky light blue eyes

and big, wolfy ears.

He loved me
and I loved him.

He stood on his hind legs

peering in my window

to find me.

When our eyes met

he cavorted giddily,

like a silly boy,

insisting I come out

to pat those wolfy ears

and give him treats.

He was wildness,

contained,

restrained,

but with a large spirit

that longed to

run free through the forest

or along the sandy shore.

He would have,

if he were mine,

but he belonged to another,

who was not kind.

One more white wolf

to invade my heart

then disappear.
One more wolf
I loved
and could not save.

He joins the list of creatures
loved and lost
within my heart.
A Gallery of Tears
of those with whom
I wished I'd never part.

- for Kodiak

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Pets I Have Known

Kodiak lived for a time in my building with  a man who had a mental illness. He was very hard on Kodiak, which distressed me greatly. Thankfully the man was convinced to let Kodiak go. You never saw a dog so happy to be at the SPCA. The above photo was taken while he was there. When men came to see him, he growled and didn't want anything to do with them. But one day an older woman came, and he ran up to her wagging his tail. I think he thought it was me come to get him. She took him home where hopefully he finally had the life he deserved. It all broke my heart, and breaks it still.  

 

Through Awakened Eyes

Let me tell you something about happiness,
about wonder: those small moments
that take your breath away, scattered
so generously throughout the day:

cherry trees full of white blossoms,
and alive with tiny hummingbirds

planting seeds, and the excitement,
one morning, of finding little green seedlings
popping up on the windowsill - a miracle
every time, that food and flowers
can come from tiny seeds
poked into earth with hope and faith.

Happiness is seeing nature's beauty
all around, through awakened eyes.
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.

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 branch
holds her weight and how
her feet find purchase.

It happens when a hummingbird flies
through an open door, into 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.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On: When Nature Takes Your Breath Away. It does that for me so many times a day. I am gifted by Mother Earth's astonishing beauty. It is my joy and my solace. And my heartbreak, that humans wage their insane wars on her landscape.

Yesterday

 

Yesterday -
so full of dreams and longings
and the loved ones
who shine golden
in memory

Today -
it didn't turn out
at all the way
I planned

but turned into
a better dream
than I ever could have dreamed
on my own

On the wings
of whatever comes
on some unknown
Tomorrow,
a dream I hold up
to the Ancestors:
when that day comes,
may I sail gently
into morning
and blue sky

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

Where Were You Yesterday?

 

I was:
watching in disbelief as a news anchor asked
the head of the US military, "Is bombing a civilization
into rubble Biblically permissable?"

She was seriously wondering.
I was waiting for the Red Queen to show up,
and a white rabbit checking his stopwatch.

To recover I:
sat in the yard watching two old cherry trees -
planted after the second World War-
alive with blossoms and hummingbirds,
some of them babies, as they ecstatically
and drunkenly zoomed from bloom to bloom.

pondered this schizophrenic existence
where I am sitting here in such beauty and peace
while across the globe people are
forming human chains to protect their bridges
and infrastructure. On the screen, 
children, with their bewildered faces,
who would die if the threatened bombs 
were to fall.

Thankfully, the madman stepped back
at the very last moment. But with mad people
in charge, one can't ever take an easy breath.

I try. "Today will be my peaceful day,"
the smiling monk instructed us to say.
Yes, I am peaceful.
But the world is not.
And it is not just.
Therein lies the problem.

I will watch the hummers again today,
white blossoms against the bluest of skies,
and count my breaths, one, two, three.

Two Completely Disparate Realities

 

There must be at least two dozen hummingbirds
- many tiny babies -

darting drunkenly from blossom to blossom

in my cherry tree; blue sky above, cloudless.

I hold this in half my heart, while the other half

holds the morning news: can the madman actually

be threatening nuclear war? Might this be

our last day on earth?

I make what might be my last cup of coffee.

I mute the news anchor, who is asking 

- incomprehensibly, wide-eyed, seriously questioning -

"Is bombing a country back to the stone age

Biblically permissible?" the response:

"trump and God are angry so this is happening."

We are so far down the rabbit hole,

we must be dreaming. You can't

make this stuff up.

I sit in the sun, watch the baby hummers
dart about. I can hear them peeping
like baby chicks.
Springtime this side of Paradise.
I am in no hurry to see
the other side.

May all beings be free from fear and sorrow.
May all beings still be here
tomorrow.

Thankfully trump backed off from disappearing a whole civilization overnight, as he had threatened. But the madness continues on and those surrounding him who stay silent are as guilty as he is - even more, since they presumably arent crazy.

THIS POEM

 

This poem will not bring the climate

back into balance, elect sane leaders,

stop incomprehensible and immoral wars,

or grant us peace.

It won't plump up our bank balance,

fix our broken appliances,

make our old friends, who have been

silent so long, send an email.

It won't make my hair

(or my children!) behave,

or make me less

socially awkward.

This poem takes a rainy morning,

a very bad headache, fatigue,

outrage at the daily news,

and turns it into counting blessings:

gratitude, for the rainforest,

its owls and eagles and herons,

wolves and stumbling bears;

gratitude for my cozy rooms

and fleecy blankets,

wolf pictures on every wall;

gratitude for the beauty of Mother Earth,

still birthing spring blossoms

and baby lambs, even though

her humans are treating her badly;

gratitude for happy dogs

lolloping along sandy beaches,

tongues out, grinning toothily:

no one does gratitude (and exuberance)

better than dogs.

This poem has taken a few minutes to write.

But all by itself, it has changed my mind

from sad resignation

to gratitude and hope.

Sometimes a poem can do that.

For my prompt at What's Going On: This poem.........

MEET ME IN KATHMANDU

 

What is the magic
that picks me up by the scruff of the neck
when I open the pages of a book?

Meet me in Kathmandu.
I will arrive leading an elephant
I have liberated from her chains.
Twenty-six years, she lay on the pavement,
without hope.
Her eyes now gleam:
with relief, with awakening trust, with
-amazingly – kindness.
Although I am human,
like the beings who chained her,
she is willing to believe that
I mean her no harm.
Elephants forgive.

On a rooftop, above a monastery,
at three a.m.,
nuns are practicing kung fu.
Even the birds are not awake.
It is four hours until morning tea.
Below, monks’ rumbling mantras
grumble sonorously.
All is peaceful, conscious, awakened.

I have arrived along the Saffron Road
in the pages of a book,
where I live with delight
as the slow hours pass.

At the monastery,
the youngest nun is six years old.
Her parents brought her to the nuns
to gain good karma,
and also because
there is no money to feed
so many children.

She is nervous, watching the other nuns
to see what she is supposed to be doing.
In her bed at night,
I wonder if she remembers home,
cries silent tears,
feels unmoored,
unmothered.

I turn the page,
and now, so soon, it will be eventide
in the purple mountains,
smoke rising from the chimneys
and the cooking fires,
as amber light falls on stone walls,
and pilgrims make their weary way
homeward.

I must make my own way home.

Meet me in Kathmandu.
We will speak of the magic
of books that lift us up and away,
taking us on magic carpets
to the land of our dreams.


I wrote this poem some years ago when I was reading The Saffron Road, A Journey With Buddha’s Daughters, by Christine Toomey, who travelled the globe to tell the stories of Buddhist nuns. The book took me right into its pages, as books always do. My heart journeys to Tibet, to Nepal, to Africa....to so many places through the pages of wonderful books. This book  a beautiful glimpse of a mysterious way of life. 

I thought of it this morning at the library. I had to find this poem to remember the title of the book. I am going to read it again, as I often do with books I especially love. (So many books! So little time!)

The nuns doing kung fu reminded me of one of the sweetest things I have ever seen - a one hundred year old nun, here in Tofino, doing Qi Gong up at the Community Hall with the seniors' program. (I adore Qi Gong. This summer, I will be doing it weekly at the beach on Friday mornings. Yay!)

Three Months Until my 80th Birthday

 

The ferryman is paddling my way,
but has not yet rounded the bend.
So far, I can't hear the singing,
the dip of the oars.

Not time yet.

Remember those years
when energy was inexhaustible?
When you could walk miles
along the shore, then miles back,
that big black wolf
grinning at your side?

I hobble now,
but my heart still lifts on eagle's wings,
my eyes blessing the water, the trees,
the sky, the harbour,
the blossoming cherry trees
full of baby hummingbirds
in my front yard.

Grateful.
Grateful.
I never take anything for granted,
each peaceful day a gift, a blessing,
each smile, each kind word,
moving today gently into tomorrow.

Still here.
Still so glad to be here.

Bring me a blue sky,
a heron perched on a treetop.
Spring rain.
It will be enough.

The ferryman may be on his way.
But it's not time yet.
Not yet.

Inspired by "Two Months Before My 65th Birthday" by David James. And by a story my grandma told me about her friend, who had a near death experience and came back. She found herself crossing a desert, with a river ahead. She could hear people paddling a boat, the oars dipping and lifting, the people singing. They were coming to get her. But then she came back. It wasn't her time yet. Not yet.

TRUTH

Truth.
How much can we handle?
How do we find what's true
when the world is upside down
and filtered to us through
a madman's lens?

Haven't we been here before?
We fought fascism and authoritarianism
in World War II
and never dreamed
it could happen
in North America,
"the land of the free".

Truth:
the oligarchs are siphoning
riches into their bank accounts
as fast as they can.
Truth:
Congress is not doing its job,
fearful of a demented leader.
Truth:
The madman started
what could turn into World War III
on a whim, with no plan
how to stop it,
even as he sets his sights on
the next "excursion"/distraction.
About the impact of his actions 
on all living beings
on the planet:
"I don't care," he said.
Truth.
The only true words he has ever spoken.

Truth:
The power is in the people,
yet the polling booths
are under attack
by voter suppression.
Prepare for your next vote
with everything you have.
Democracy is on the line.

Truth:
I am way too tired,
after a lifetime
of human rights movements,
to be worrying this much
in my last years.

Truth:
we can't stop resisting.
Our grandchildren and great-grandchildren
and all other beings
deserve a future.

for Susan's timely prompt: Truth - something we aren't seeing a lot of on the evening news, thanks to right wing billionaires taking over the airwaves. MSNOW is still there though, and telling the truth as loudly as they can. 

Song for the World's Children

source

Song for the world's children:
in Iran, in Ukraine, in Gaza,
in so many desperate, terrified
and hungry places, 
a song that is

sorrowing, sorrowing,
a song that has no end.

Big-eyed children

with every rib showing,
hiding in the rubble,
sitting on their grandmothers' laps,
those grandmas with weary eyes,
who have seen this all their lives,
and it still makes no sense.

How can hearts harden enough

to continue warring

when they see the children:

innocent, starving,
being killed by bombs?

A normal human would

stop the endless fighting,

put down the guns,

get right to work,

boiling the water,

gathering food, clearing the road

so the aid trucks can pass.

What's more important

than feeding the children?

Not ideologies, politics,

borders or power.

An ancient soul peers through

those surrendering eyes;

it waits a thousand years

for the world to grow wise.

First, feed the children.

Mop up their tears.

Then ask why we've been fighting

for all of these years?

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

A Monk Standing in the Rain

 

After walking 2300 miles for peace,

through heat, storm and blizzard, illness,

injury, and lacerated feet, the monks returned

home to the temple. Bikkhu Pannakara

bowed to the ground before his teacher.

Blossoms were scattered at their feet.
A humble monk, come home,
saying "I hope I made you proud."

May all beings be at peace.

As he spoke, under shelter, about his journey,

rain began to fall.

He said, "I cannot bear to see you standing

in the rain, so I will join you there."

He continued his teaching.

He said, "If you do not leave me,

I will not leave you. That is my vow."

May all beings be at peace.

What does this have to do with anger?
you ask.
Everything.

He crossed a country seething with anger,

hatred, racism, injustice, and terror:
its people fearful, outraged, despairing.
Everywhere, he spoke about

peace, kindness, compassion,
helping us to quiet our minds,
to be present and mindful,
to be kind in our speech.

May all beings be at peace.

I have lived among angry people

much of my life. They taught me

how not to be angry. Because peace

is what I needed most,
and anger is not the way
to get there.

So these monks walking across America

during the worst year I can remember,

igniting hearts along the way

and around the world,
brought me hope I sorely needed,
the body memory of how much kinder
life can be.

May all beings be at peace.

The opposite of anger?

A humble monk, footsore

and exhausted, home again,

standing in the rain

with his followers,

showing us all

another way to be.

The Walk for Peace by nineteen monks crossing America for peace touched so many hearts,  hungry for their message of peace, kindness and compassion. I followed them online and follow them still. They were the best thing to happen, for me,  this year. They walked for us, for the world, and all its beings. 

t.rump's first term was hard on my mental health. When he was re-elected, I knew I had to detach myself, while remaining informed, in order to protect my well-being. That is even harder this time around.

This poem is the opposite of anger, but is what came to me as I contemplated anger, which we have too much of, in a world that longs for peace.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On : Anger.