Happiness is No Hat

 

Sometimes, we wear our stories.....

like the beige, knitted, peaked hat

I wore for years,

hair stuffed underneath willy-nilly,
busy single mom of four,
with no time (or inclination)
for fashion.

(Once, at a beauty parlour,
I said to the girl at the desk,
"My hair......." removing said hat,
long hair falling out every which way

 ......."needs help"
and everyone cracked up.)

My kids hated my chapeau. One day

it disappeared. Much later, I discovered

it, flung up onto the roof of the shed,

the kids cackling when I showed them.

(Last time I wore a hat,
with sunglasses,
my daughter said I looked like
I was in the Witness Protection Program.)

Now I walk the beach, bare-headed,

in almost any weather. Winters are milder here,

plus I like feeling free, unfettered,

hate the confinement of a hat,

dislike being unable to see sideways 

when, of necessity, in rain,
I am forced to pull up my hood.

Sometimes we wear our stories.
We change our ways. 
In later years,
we are less and less willing
to feel confined -
perhaps because
what lies ahead are walkers,
wheelchairs and nursing homes,
and we need to exercise our freedom
while we can.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On : The Stories We Wear

IN A FLOUNDERING SEA

Mother Earth,

you grew me like a tree

on a riverbank, toes in the water.

You grew me with eyes

always looking up

at your ever-changing skies

that taught me to strive.

I am a student, longing

to learn the language of clouds,

of trees, of birds and beasts,

of whalesong.

I learn from my indigenous neighbours

that everything is one, that

even the lowly slug's slippery journey

across the path is to be respected.

I am a sailor on the sea of hope,

praying for safe harbour.

I am holding two truths simultaneously:

the glorious beauty of this long, golden fall,

and the forests dying of drought.

I am a beating heart, aching

at salmon lying dead by the thousands

in dry riverbeds, yet lifting

at the news fish are still leaping

the rapids in the river that I know best.

There is an owl calling to me at night

from the nearby forest. I listen; so far

it has not yet called my name. One night,

a cougar screamed below in the darkness.

Here, the wild ones come close, into "our" world,

which is wilder and more cruel than theirs.

I long to walk back with them,

into their world, of deep forest

and hidden unpeopled shore.

I stand on the tombolo, and turn

in a slow circle: 360 degrees of beauty,

radiant and shining. I close my eyes;

when I open them, the colours

have deepened. I am one with the sky,

the sand, the cedar, the soaring eagle,

the croaking raven,

one with the song

of the waves

~ my soul-song.

Mother Earth,

you grew me like a tree, with strong roots

to hold fast against the storms of this life,

but you kept my branches flexible,

so I can support others, yet not break

when the wild winds blow through.

I am a tired tree, now,

bending low towards the earth,

still a student, striving to learn

the language of the wild world

I hold in my heart.

I am a sailor on the ocean of hope,

in a floundering sea,

praying for safe harbour,

and shelter, and justice

and peace,

for all of your beings.

A poem from 2020, just because I stumbled upon it today.

 

The Song of the Ancients

Listen, friends.

Do you hear the song

of the ancient ones

floating on the breeze?

Can you hear the cries

of the wild ones?

Do you feel

all the broken human

and beyond-human hearts

sorrowing

across Mother Earth?

Let's join our energy

with that of the elders,

to sing in the mystical whales,

guardians of our collective wisdom

since the world was young.

Let's send our hearts

to the edge of the cliff,

where the wise ones have gathered

through millennia.

In spirit, let us

sing the whales into the bay,

as Indigenous people have done

through all of time.

They are waiting

for our song.

A poem inspired by Julian Lennon's song, Saltwater, and also by his film about the aborigines and the whales, titled Whaledreamers. In the film, elders from around the world gathered on a cliff in Australia, where, long ago, people sang the whales into the bay. The elders gathered, they sang....and the whales came, a moment of joy and wonder. The whales carried the memory of this tradition in their enormous consciousness.

THAT FARTHER SHORE

When the angel of death

arrives at my bedside,

like the ferryman

coming around the bend

of the river, plying his oar

with determination,

pulling alongside

and beckoning me in,

When I gaze at him,

my bed the shore,

wondering how to make

my earth-bound body

traverse the space between us

without falling,

I think I will trust

that the air will support me,

entering that bright darkness

interested in discovering

what comes next.

Yes, I think I will trust.

My life has been a voyage

of wonder and amazement.

I have made this journey,

head tipped back,

and grinning at the sky.

Trees have danced for me,

dogs and babies smiled,

my heart brimming with

the dazzle

of this beautiful world,

who performed her best

sunrises and sunsets for me,

draping the mountains

with breathtaking mist,

always whispering

"watch this!" and then,
watch this!"

I have long loved

the stories of people

who rose - and rise -

from their heartbreaking situations

with hearts courageous as lions,

roaring their love of life

even as the hunter

raises his rifle,

not cowering,

walking into the darkness

with full hearts,

with dignity, with pride.

No surrender.

Yet when that dark angel

comes for me,

I think I will surrender.

I will ride that bed-boat

out into the cosmos,

transfixed by all the stars,

wrapped in clouds of transformation,

soaring through the heavens,

breath held in awe.

The river of amazement

will carry me,

as it carried me through this life,

to my next destination,

where I hope I will find loveliness

to equal or surpass

that of this world,

where I will meet

lost loved ones,

and furry tails

will thump in welcome.

At the end, I will say

that, all of my life,

I have loved most

this earth and its beauty.

In trust, I will step into

the ferryman's boat,

ready to see what lies

on that farther shore.

Ha. I may not be that brave at all. We'll see. For my prompt at  What's Going On: Love Letter From the Afterlife,  the luminous life of Andrea Gibson.

A second one on the topic, about which I have written many poems:

I HOPE WHEN IT HAPPENS........

I hope when it happens

I will have finished all the books

I still want to write, will have shared

what I want to share.

I hope my people will read them,

and say, "We thought we knew her,

but there was a large part of her

we didn't know, and didn't understand -

that part of her that other poets knew,

because they read the words from her heart.

I wanted to make something pretty

of my life, but with the ups and downs,

the lumps and bumps, I made

something interesting instead.

I took those things and polished them up,

put them into my poems and books,

left out most of what was black and traumatic

and full of loss. Instead, I remembered

all I was given, how I was helped

and guided, and the people who loved me

till I was better able to love myself.

I hope when it happens,

there will be time to say

all the "I love yous",

look into the eyes of those

I am leaving, say "thank you"

and "Be happy. Laugh lots."

I hope when it happens,

that it will be peaceful,

a soft tide slipping gently

away from the shore.

Based on a poem by Diane Seuss titled "I Hope When It Happens." The italicized lines are hers.

FOREVER GOLDEN

Chantel Moore with her daughter Gracie

"Stay golden," she always said,

to friends and family.

We wore yellow shirts

when we marched for her,

in her memory.

A death that never should have happened;

her mother's tears will never end.

Her daughter will always

miss her mother; broken hearted,

all her friends.

Where is kindness, in this world?

Where has compassion gone?

Why do police act with such

aggression, when kind words

would soothe and calm?

Before you know kindness, the poet said,

you must wake up with sorrow.

We wake with sorrow every day.

Where is our kind tomorrow?

I don't know what to make of it.

This is not the world I knew.

But I see there is a portal,

we are meant to travel through,

a turning from the rhetoric

that has caused us all such pain,

a path of transformation

to make us kind again.

She was afraid and called for help,

but help is not what came.

She will be

forever golden.

We will not forget

her name.

Marching for Chantel (and George Floyd)
in Tofino in 2020.

For Chantel Moore, shot five times by a policeman making a "wellness" check. The House of Commons was presented with a bill soon after to address systemic racism in the RCMP. One MP abstained, blocking the bill, which was supported by all the others.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - a Weekend with Friends

 

EARTH AND SKY

 

Water comes first, then we follow,

gasp in a big breath of air, and then we cry.

Thus we are introduced to the world

as it always was and always will be.

Water: essential, blessed,

part of our beings from our very first day.

Through the Sacred Medicine Wheel I journeyed,

dipped my toes in a magical sea,

soul thrumming with the song of the waves.

My sign, my element, my spirit's home:

Mother Ocean.

Above, the sky, the air, the vast expanse,

curving over all

the great blue bowl of aether,

underfoot, the earth, brown and humble

and mothering.

I bow to you, Sky, I sing with you, Wind,

I dance in the rain, laughing

at the great clap of thunder,

feel the rushing whoosh of wind on my face,

raindrops falling on my spirit,

cleansing me anew,

healing the riven places, washing

all negative energy away.

When I am clean,

when the Great Bowl Above grows dark,

I creep homeward,

settle beside a crackling fire,

remember the winking stars,

the great wheeling seabirds,

wonder at the beauty gracing this span of time

that is still mine.

To the earth I bow, in gratitude,

in homecoming.

It waits to receive me

when that final moment comes,

when I will become one

with All That Is.

First, there was water,

at the end

only earth and sky.

One from 2015, when my engines were firing a little better, for Sumana's open link at What's Going On.

On the Way to Stalingrad

 

Port Alberni steam train

Your betrayal was the collapse
of all my hopes and dreams.

But clasp hands! As giants fleeing before the wind,
we journey on. 

After you left, I sent my heart into exile,
never dreaming we would meet again.
Drifting under the clouds,
I listened for the echo of your howls.

In the frosty Gulag dawn, I experienced
such hunger and longing as I had never known.

Hush! here comes a guide with a lantern,
leading us to the railway, where the engine
is belching steam, impatient to carry us away.

Climb up! We are on the threshold of a dream,
seeing ourselves out of our prison garb
and into velvet gowns.

Whisper to me your dearest desire.
When we reach Stalingrad, all will be
exactly as you wish.

In honour of Shay's last word list, I used all but four of the words. 

Anna Karenina was one of my favourite reads when I was young. In those days, I thought suffering dreadfully for love was romantic. Thankfully I outgrew that over time. LOL. 

Thank you, Shay, for your Word Lists, and your amazing poetry. I will follow you to your new abode, and will continue to visit your familiar site, to make sure I dont miss anything. Smiles.