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,
and I have always been
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 blooming 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.

Not Someone Else's Daydream

 

Conventional husbands of the sixties quaked

when their wives discovered Ms magazine

and The Feminine Mystique.

We looked in the mirror and discovered

our eyes had grown determined.

Our wings flapped and fluttered

against confines

until we bent the bars

with the force of our will,

popped the cage door open,

and burst through.

There is as much pain in birthing self

as birthing others.

Much bleeding, and much healing.

Some thoughts in desperate midnights

of giving up,

but we stuck around in hopes

it would get better.

And, for a time, it did,
beyond our wildest dreams.

The jackals had come

to feast upon our bones,

but a wily raven warned us,

so we spirited them away.

Within the forest deep,

we put ourselves back together

with owl songs and wing feathers,

and learned a language

of our own making.

Then we re-entered our lives

as ourselves,

no longer

someone else's daydream.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On: Women and History (Herstory?) 

Scratch a Baby Boomer and find a feminist, lol. In the early 70's, womens' consciousnesses were rising all over the place. It was a heady time. My chauvinist soon-to-be-ex was appalled at the developments. We are a formidable force, once provoked. Some orange-cheeked "leaders" would do well not to underestimate us. The regime in the States is trying to block women from voting by not recognising their married names. Good grief.

In Transition

 

First, I transitioned from active motherhood

to grandmotherhood, all those years

of shepherding growing children

along the forest trails, a gift to last them

all their lives: nature and books,

a lasting legacy.

Next, I transitioned to elderhood,

my favourite colour changing

from purple to earth's mossy hues,

rewilding myself into a world of green,
my love affair with nature
and a wild black wolf
the best of all my years.

I cultivated the sprig of poetry

that had waited patiently

all those busy years, for me to have time,

felt the rush of dammed-up words

springing free at last.

I feel myself in transition,
now, once more,

from this world I love so much,

suspended here, in thankfulness,

just before what comes next.

Now the words are all of gratitude:

for the life I've had, a wilder journey

than I ever could have dreamed,

for the beauty of the earth,

which makes my heart ache
with both thankfulness and grief,
for all the many gifts, the help
I was given along the way

and for that endless sky, containing secrets

I have yet to understand.
Leave the window open,
when it's time,
so my spirit can find its path
out into the cosmos
and away.

BLACKBIRD

For years I wandered aimlessly

up and down,

past all the pretty cottages

in the town

where happy people lived.

Oh, how I dreamed,

when I was on the outside

looking in,

that one day I would live,

like them, within.

I found a blackbird heart.

We loved each other true.

But, unused to being cherished,

knew not what to do

with all the feelings we kept

locked inside

through all the fear we tried

so hard to hide.

"And now you're inside

looking out", he said,

and it was true -

the cornerstone of my free spirit,

trapped and full of rue.
He could not say

the words to make me stay.

So I took my broken heart

and walked away.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: The Unspoken

In the early 80's, I met the man who was The One. But we had five teenagers between us, who made it difficult to be together, as they were unhappy with the changes we caused in their lives. Because the kids were unhappy, and because he could not make the commitment I needed to feel secure in the relationship, and didn't know how to ask for it, I left. Within the next year or two, the older kids were gone anyway. I regret I didn't have the courage to stay. Yet it wasn't long until I flew up over the mountains and landed by the sea, so that was the soul journey that was meant to be.

I Light the Incense

I light the incense in my small room. Nag Champa, my favourite and my grandma's favourite. My mother loved sandalwood best. But Nag Champa takes me to the Himalayas, the breathtaking peaks, where the snow lion walks on large soft paws, elusive, mythical. The Himalayas, where smiling weathered faces peer from dark rooms lit by flickering candles. 

I light the incense in my small room, a dark Tibetan kitchen framed upon the wall, an aged wrinkled Tibetan face hung above. Tibetan prayer flags flutter, as the breeze wafts the scent my way.

In memory, I see my Grandma's humble, peaceful cottage. In memory, I watch my mother light small cones of sandalwood, her huge blue eyes, her platinum hair, her movie star smile.

I light the incense in my small room. How quickly it burns itself to ash.

Blessings

Blessings......

monks' bare feet walking

across the winter landscape

just walking, as meditation, as love,

as compassion, as gift -

to hearts and minds bowed down with grief

at what is becoming of our world.

Right here, right now,

a light skiff of frost on the lawn,
crocuses shivering in the morning chill,

my chair, my computer, my keyboard

seeking the next poem, some hope,

the comfort in a cup of tea......

ordinary things, surrounding us,
ready to serve -

small gifts, to warm the heart,

while, day after day, mile

after mile, the beautiful monks

keep walking along the icy streets.

Today it is colder, so Aloka the dog

is placed in the RV. I hope the monks

have all put on their shoes.

How thin their robes,

how large their journey,

a gift of love and light they give us

with their every measured step.

How emotional, the tears and smiles

with which they are met, by people

hungry for goodness, for kindness,

for peace in a world gone dark.

for my prompt at What's Going On - Blessings

I penned this while the monks were still walking. Their walk ended February 14 when they returned to their home monastery in Texas. Such an emotional return. I was online with them their final week, could not tear myself away. The walk is over. The journey continues. No doubt, there will be more monk poems. Their walk is one of the most impactful events of my life. It spoke to my soul, which has been so hungry - like all of ours - for the beauty and hope they brought.

They say when monks walk, it is a warning, that the world is too out of balance. I was heartened by the tens of thousands of people who gathered to watch them pass, and who joined them in huge numbers at their stopping places, to hear the teachings of Bhikkhu Pannakara, about how to stay steady and find peace in the midst of turbulent times. We all fell in love with the little monk dog Aloka who walked with them.

It is sad that the walk has ended. But Bhikkhu promised we will still walk together online. If you are interested, their facebook page is   https://www.facebook.com/walkforpeaceusa

On youtube, there are many beautiful videos of their walk and some beautiful songs have been made into videos. Search for Walk for Peace, Aloka, and Sy Long (for the songs). So inspiring. I cant watch any of it without tears. We carry so much grief these days.

ALOKA

 

source

Aloka,
little monk-dog,
leading with your paws for peace,
your name means light,
your devotion so great,
you walked through heat
and storm and snow
to follow your beloved monks
as far as they could go.

Stray dog in India,
when they passed,
you recognized you had found
your family at last.
Who could have known
that now you are adored
by millions, walking for peace
at the other end
of a cord.

source

You stayed serene
through pain and parting,
long hours of speeches,
longer hours of walking,
as if in memory of other lives,
this was a life
you recognized.

Now you are home, so happily,
and I am happier to see
you playing in the temple yard
after a journey so long and hard.

Aloka, little monk of life,
spirit dog, you ease our strife.

Aloka, little monk-dog, know
we love you everywhere you go.

source

Alan Gordon