WHEN WILD ONES GROW WEARY

When you love a wild thing,
it is impossible to return to being tame,

once he has gone.

You can pretend you are civilized,

but the twitch of your whiskers will,

sooner or later, betray you.

Stalking the sunset,

sweet memories will accompany you.

The thought of that little wolf-pup,

gamboling along the beach,

and, when he was bigger,

plunging in and out of the surf
with a loopy grin,

will bring a smile, and a tear.

Love is joy. And then pain.

But oh! the remembering!

so bittersweet.

Forever, now,

I will listen for his song.

I will live all the day long

remembering,

a weary wolf woman

with wolf howls in my heart.

 I created this poem by using titles of four of my poems.

He Walks Among the Stars

 

The starpainters have taken over now. They look down briefly on this planet of turmoil and trouble, shrug briefly, then turn to play among the northern lights.

Down below, I stand, an old woman, seeing things I never thought could happen in the land of the free, my heart aching…….swooshing down landslides in Nepal, climbing into vans with handcuffed innocents hauled away by masked and heartless ghouls, an orange wanna be king taking up all the oxygen with his ranting rhetoric. The Himalayas are melting, and people are distracted by all the chaos (which is an effective strategy for those making all the money). I am looking up....up above the cacophony and suffering on this planet, trying to catch a glimpse of the starpainters, watching for the One Who Walks Among the Stars, for he is truly there now, painting beauty across the sky.

for Mish's wonderful prompt at dVerse, a tribute to Canada's Gord Downie, who was given the title Man Who Walks Among the Stars, by the Assembly of First Nations. He succumbed to brain cancer at the age of 52. In his short life, he gave the world so much. 

CLAYOQUOT SOUND HAIKU

 

Wolf Spirit, your call

from your misty mountain lair

sends my soul keening

*

footprints in the sand

my heart follows where they lead

till I'm home again

*

bonsai in the bog

a little touch of Asia

in Clayoquot Sound

*

shore birds on the sand

lift and dart and land as one

I watch in awe

*

in the following I tried 7-5-7

Luna leaves as Sol arrives

Sun and Moon - same sky

little boat chugs happily

for Rall's Senryu Sunday - haiku and senyru have the same 5-7-5 count. 

Remembering

 

There should be nothing here I don't remember.*

The ferry that crossed the lake back then,

that I thought would have wings,
making my father smile, is gone,

but I see that smile today, remembering.

The shore is still lined with weeping willow,

watered by the tear-streaked dreams of my youth.

My mother was so beautiful then,

with her long blonde curls and big blue eyes,

like a movie star, but fraught, at 

what alcohol did to my parents' love affair.

There should be nothing here I don't remember.*

Our house looked out across the lake

to the Big Blue Hills. My first dog, Dinky,

a black lab, and two turkey gobblers as big as me,

paced the driveway with me, a turkey on each side,
keeping me safe,
knowing I was too small to be walking there alone.

When my mom came out to check on me,

they spread their wings, flapping, and hissed, 

chasing her back inside.

I had so many dreams, in Kelowna days, 

of how life would be, when pain would have ended,

and happiness would be mine to live.

They did not come true, but ones better

than I ever could have dreamed

arrived instead, taking me on

the most breathtaking journey.

I had so many helpers and guides

to show me the way along a path of awakening,

bright as sunrise over the mountains,

I gasping at the wonder of it.

In old age, now, tears and gratitude 

for all of life, its pleasure, its pain, at times

that will not come again, I awash

at the joy and ache of it, the beauty

of the journey, for all that has been lost,

for the courage of living fully,

and not minding the cost.

Because - as the poet said so reassuringly -

All that is lost is not lost.*

It is sometimes an interesting exercise to take lines from someone else's poem and create a new poem from it.  I was inspired by Richard Blanco's "Looking for the Gulf Motel." I love his work.

Wild Woman on Aging

Everything in nature erodes gracefully.

But here comes Wild Woman, on the hobble,

one foot ponderously after the other: oops!

a gnarly tree root discombobbles.

The tree leans and cracks

like the fissures in her face,

and her daily prayer is simply

for a little pool of grace.

Still, for all she's learning,

she doesn't want to go.

She'll miss Mother Nature's

enchanting, never-ending show.

She is always Looking Up.

There's a Sky Show up above,

so much beauty everywhere,

so much loveliness to love.

Wild Woman almost bites the dust

as she goes hobbling by,

because she's got her head tipped back,

grinning at the sky.

Here comes Wild Woman,

eighty years around the sun,

with memories so clear

of when her life had just begun.

The journey to today has been

one amazing ride.

Wild Woman will leave cackling

on an outgoing tide.                    

LOL. Some fun for the open link at What's Going On. The idea is to take lines from another poet's poem and write a new poem. I chose lines from "You Ask About Aging" by Mark Nepo. The italicized and much more poetic lines are his. 

As What's Going On closes its doors, I will try to find our faithful friends  in the blogosphere, so we can keep on sharing our poems.

You Ask About Aging
by Mark Nepo

Everything in nature erodes gracefully.
The tree leans and cracks. The mountain
rounds for decades in the wind. The banks
of the river bow to where the river wants to
But we, so aware of being here, fear the
slightest change. My elbow is sore. Your
heart is slowing down. And just yesterday,
an old friend flew away like a bird with a
broken wing. Still, for all I have learned,
for all I am learning, I don’t want to go.
Though like the tree on the ridge that
has grown sideways toward the daily
twist of light, I see no greater destiny
or simplicity than to be stripped of all
pretense and want until all that’s left is
a branch of being waiting for its wind.

SPRING RAIN

 

Spring rain is playing timpani on salal

along the fence. It taps the skylight

with insistent fingers, looking for

a way in, as I listen to its ancient melody.

The forsythia recently shed
her frothy spring dress,
and the Japanese cherry is ready
to burst into bloom.

Such beauty!

Their time to shine goes by so fast,

like weeks, like years, like life,

here and gone before we tie up

all the ends. (Some ends don't ever

want to tie. We leave them be.)

On Rhodo Hill,

deep magenta and purple blooms

look like the ball gowns

of antebellum debutantes

swishing downhill

on their way to a soiree.

Spring rain, gentle, to nourish

and not break

the buds so close to opening.

Let my heart

stay tender, when the world lets me down

and everything feels wrong.

Let me listen to the rain's one note

and hear a beginner's song.*

Inspired by "Rain, New Year's Eve" by Maggie Smith. The italicized lines are hers. I wrote this in June, and didn't post it.

Coffeehouse Days

There was a frozen Siberian wasteland

living in my chest, back then,

born of trauma upon trauma,

that had closed me up, kept me

in retreat inside the safety

of my cottage, living only for

and with my children.

But something drew me

through that door, 
something that wanted me to live:

stepping into the coffeehouse

where the gentle, loving people were,
my journey took
a magical turning
that was meant to be,
so I could learn
how to be more fully me.

There they all were, the dreamers

and the seekers, who lived gently

on the earth. They beamed their kind smiles

and love on me until the ice around my heart

began to melt, and my closed-tight petals

slowly began unfurling, one by one.

A budding hope quivered in the summer breeze.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Inspiration from the work of Tove Ditlevsen. The italicized line is from the poet's poem "Memory".