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.