Not on the News

What didn't make the news: half a dozen poets, 

sitting under the trees, sharing cake, 

cackles and poems; a man

quietly planting trees in a clearcut,

to help heal the ravaged earth; a kind

and weeping woman, driving two

brand-new, but orphaned baby fawns 

to a wildlife rescue; someone 

organizing a community garden, 

food for the hungry; kindness.

Kindness in human hearts,

even when things are going so wrong

we can't believe it, now, when 

we have never needed kindness more.

Inspired by What Didnt Make the News by Maya Stein.

This is What the Living Do

 

This is what the living do:
we wake up each morning to the day,
our beds a time capsule,
carrying us through years
of dreams and memories.

I closed my eyes, in bliss, at forty,
when I opened them this morning,
incomprehensibly, I am eighty.

I put out seed for the morning sparrows,
watch them hopping, while I make
my cup of coffee, because
this is what the living do; we have
our rituals, our small comforts,
our ways of coping, our day after day
of sameness, moving us inexorably
to an unknown day up ahead
that we don’t like to think about.

But, when we do, we remember
to cherish these small blessings,
this gloriously ordinary day,

In which life can change

at any moment. 

I remember
to be grateful for the gifts.

Yesterday I carried my brown bag
of groceries home from the CoOp.
The sun was so warm; two smiling friends
walked towards me. We stopped, and chatted.
We talked about our hair, which needed cutting.
 We stood there, laughing in the sun,
hands poking at our heads,
glad to have seen and spoken with other humans
on this sunny warm morning
in Clayoquot Sound.

The waves were big yesterday; the surfers
were happy. I walked to the big log and sat,
watched the breakers come rolling in,
felt my heart expand with the prayer I recite
every time I am there: thank you, thank you,
thank you, for this: for the gift 

of living here, for the beauty,

for the many gifts I’ve been given.

This is what the living do: we remember.
On this beach, I walked for miles and years
with an exuberant, big black wolf.
And now I live alone.
I visit the sea. I am still living,
less exuberantly, but no less gratefully.
I remember him.
I remember it all.

I wrote this poem from the title of Marie Howe's poem What the Living Do 

HARVESTING HOPE

 

I planted green bulbs

that turned purple,

magically,

week by week.

They taught me

we often find

much more

than we seek.

I planted children

who turned into wizards

and shapeshifters,

flying free.

They were changelings,

but who changed the most,

back then,

was me.

I planted my footsteps

on a path leading Away,

my heart on a quest

for the place that would

make me

stay.

I planted a broken heart

by the seaside,

in the dune's soft slope.

All my life,

I have planted sorrow

and harvested hope.

This Poem is Dawn, a Skybird, and a Grey Whale, Spy-hopping

 

This poem is the breath of dawn on a windswept
morning at the edge of the sea.
This poem is a murrelet on the wing.
This poem is a grey whale, spy-hopping.

This poem is misty with early morning fog.
It drapes shawls over the shoulders of
Grandmother Cedar so she won't be chilled.
This poem loves the morning.
It looks to the sky to see all the colours of the day.
This poem is the breath of dawn on a windswept
morning at the edge of the sea.

This poem is a tiny bird who makes her nest
deep in the forest.
This poem must fly great distances,
out to sea and back again,
in order to find sustenance.
This poem sometimes grows tired,
and in need of rest.
Its perch is precarious,
its nesting sites vanishing
along with the old growth.
This poem is sometimes in need of
rescue and protection.
This poem is a murrelet on the wing.

This poem swooshes up in placid waters,
takes a look around with her wise old eye
and finds that life is good.
This poem is an ancient voice;
she speaks with an old soul.
Then this poem does a series of dives and breaches,
just for the joy of it.
This poem is a grey whale, spy-hopping.

This poem is the breath of dawn, on a windswept
morning at the edge of the sea.
This poem is a murrelet on the wing, heading for home.
This poem is a grey whale, spy-hopping
for the sheer love of living.

for the Open Link at What's Going On, a poem in Hannah Gosselin's Boomerang Metaphor form.

Other Voices, Other Lives

Maybe it's the brown dog, who was dying in Mexico,
before she was adopted and brought to the beach,
who flinches when the rocking chair rocks,
because danger lurked everywhere
when she was a puppy.

It could be the hummingbird, trapped
and fluttering this morning
in the skylight, and our relief
when someone young and strong leaped up
onto a shaky ledge, cupped it and set it free.

Small ordinary lives - but every bit 
as meaningful to them as ours is to us -
are going on around us all the time:

the slug slowly crossing the sidewalk,
hoping it won't get squished; the robin,
ecstatically pulling a worm from the ground:
today she will feast.

Poetry, says Mary Oliver, is not a competition.
Rather, she says, "it is a silence,
in which another voice may speak."

for my prompt at What's Going On: Ordinary Things

It's the Smallest Things

Totem by Joe David, 
Tla o qui aht artist and carver

It's the smallest things.....

after days of overcast skies,

it's blue and cloudless overhead.

I go out first thing to take

sips of water to the flowering pots,

open all the windows to

the cool morning air against

the heat of the day.

It's my cup of morning tea,

a ritual of 50 years, watching it steep.

Over 18,000 teabags in a lifetime.

Twinings are best.

It's smiling at people going past

with their dogs, knowing tomorrow

there will be more, all turning their heads
as they pass the Woman with the Treats.

It's walking into town, where my eyes

bless the shops, the water, the small

bouncing boats, and the rounded

womanly slopes of Wanachus-Hilthuuis.

It's the smallest things that bring us

comfort - keeping our eyes open

to the beauty and the wonder,

even though we know

about the climate crisis;

we keep up with the news,

and so much of it is bad. We know

what we know, and it is hard to bear.

But, for now, there is no

state of emergency,
at least, not right here,
and, as we know only too well,
one day we might be looking back

thinking how much we

took this for granted -

ordinary days.

We fall back on the beauty,  
the small things that

comprise the goodness of life,

ours still to enjoy with gratitude:

that I woke up still alive,

for eyes that opened this morning

that still can see, for knees that ache

but still gingerly hold me up,

for the beach calling to me

with its siren song

in this place where I
the most belong.

Gratitude,

      gratitude,

           gratitude
is my existential song.

The things we thought so small

are the big things, after all.

Different for each one of us, the Lego blocks that build our lives.

Wild Language

 

In deep woods, the trees await us.
"Announce your presence; they know
you are here," the young Tla-o-qui-aht woman
tells us. She says the lowly yellow skunk cabbage
once saved her people, in a time of famine.
"They offered themselves to us to eat,
so we would not starve," she said.
"We all spoke the same language, back then,
animals, trees and people. Even the slug
is an important part of the whole. We take care
to respect its territory."

Now, when I walk in the forest, I can feel
the trees listening; they bend towards me.
I tell them I am here without words,
for they can feel my peaceful energy.
The moss, the ferns, the raven, the craggy spires
of the dead candelabra tree, the wind,
the mushrooms, and the burrowing owl
are all here, all aware of me,
knowing I come in peace. I wonder
how they feel when the men with
the chainsaws come. Then, I am sure,
they tremble in fear, clutch hands
with each other under the soil,
hold roots across the forest floor
so the big trees come wrenching out
of the ground like the wisdom teeth
of the planet, sap glistening like tears,
the entire forest sorrowing, sorrowing
at the grievous loss, sad because
man has forgotten that trees
are our lifeblood, has forgotten
the wild is our home.

We have forgotten to acknowledge
the wordless being of others
in which we are never alone.

Teach me to speak tree, I ask
the forest spirits. Teach me
to speak sky, to speak wind,
and the language of clouds.
With my new wild words,
I will protect you from the ones
who do not understand, and so
remain strangers, even after
all this time, upon the land.



*The italicized words are from Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer.

Rewriting Herstory

 

If I could rewrite history,  (or herstory)
would I?
So many poor choices,
flailings and fumblings,
so many ways I was less than
I could or might have been,
so many ways that I fell short.

And yet, also, so many ways
my spirit rose, times I was brave,
determined, did not give up.
So many ways I did the best I could,
though it always could have been more.

Always, I followed my heart.
I never gave up on my dream.

Looking back, I see a long and
unexpected adventure, how I was helped
and guided by all the gods and angels
who assist me still.

I could have done it better.
But I did not do it worse.
I have to hope it all evens out in the end,
this amazing thing called life that, 
while it did not bring us the dreams
that we once dreamed,
still took us farther than we ever
could have foreseen.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Rewriting History. If only we could. 

The Sanctuary Within

 

My grandma's cottage,

the cornerstone of my childhood

Sanctuary.

I sought it down all the shambling years.

I finally recognized that 

it required solitude, living alone

in silent rooms, where no anger is expressed.

Peace took up residence within, and,

thereafter, I carried it with me

to each new dwelling place,

 my spirit expanding in the lovely quiet.

In my small room,

full of wolves and books and soft blankets,

I live in peace and gratitude,

as my grandmother did before me.

She showed me how.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Sanctuary

Little Birds

 

"May my heart always be open to little birds," the poet said.*
Oh, mine is always listening for their song.

My heart is open, too, to the knowing that
there are more beings of light than
forces of darkness in this world.
The arc of justice is long, and I believe
that it will turn again, as it always has before.

"There is a greater landscape than the one we see,"**
more going on than we can understand.
The force of Mother Earth is more powerful
than the corporate criminals doing so much damage,
(wealth at the expense of every other living being.)
But, no matter how rich, they, too, will one day
live the consequences. Or their grandchildren will.

The only door, in my mind, that I close
is against MAGA, fascism, and right wing forces
across the globe, greedy for money 
and abusive power. May they be voted out,
so we can get to work repairing and restoring
all the damage they have done.

Meanwhile, the forest opens its door to me.

A peaceful sanctuary lies within.

*from the poem with this title by e.e.cummings

**I dont remember who wrote this quote.

For Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Openings

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 snag, the snag 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