HERON II

 

Christine Lowther photo

Heron,
you once soared the skies,
perched in treetops,
picky-toed along the mudflats
in search of a meal.

Now the tide
has brought in
what is left of you:
two feathered wings,
still connected,
the rest of you washed away.

How did your end come?
I hope it was peaceful,
swift, before you knew
you were leaving
this world
you loved.

In silence,
we spread your wings,
extended them
as they were in life,
so your spirit could
fly free.

THINGS TO SAY INSTEAD OF "I'M FINE"

Remote Passages photo

On the street, passing villagers ask

"how are you?" and the expected response

is 'Fine, thanks,' even if one is hobbling,

and the other already walking away

before I can ask them the same.

For how is there time, as we're

rushing off to our various errands, to say,

(though sometimes I try): "It is so beautiful

today, it makes my heart sing" or "When

I saw the eagle fly across the harbour,

my heart flew along with him, for just

a little way."

We generally have an unspoken agreement

not to mention trump, covid, or the climate crisis,

the intense heat, the wildfires,
the horrifying floods,
houses and whole towns chest-deep in water,

climate refugees already

on the move, though leaders stay tight-lipped

about the state of things, as if the world

were not crumbling and melting
and sliding into the sea.

Wouldn't they be shocked

if I stopped right there

on the sidewalk, and said: All my life

I've loved people who never felt loved enough.

I gave all that I had, though it seems to be

forgotten, suffered many losses,

yet stayed grateful for the beauty

all around me, and the gifts I've

been given. From where I was to

where I am now was an amazing journey,

for which I'm thankful, and I'm tired now,

my quiet heart at peace.

But "Fine, thanks," I say, smiling,

which is likely a relief

to those who ask.

Inspired by "List of Things to Say Instead of I'm Fine" by Marlin M. Jenkins.

HERON

 

Great Blue Heron: A Delicate Balance
by Tofino Conservation Wildlife and Landscape 
Artist Mark Hobson

Graceful heron,

swooping across

the evening sky

like a pterodactyl,

Prehistoric bird

perched on a treetop,

my heart swoops with you,

then stills,

standing by the silent pond,

waiting for the night to settle

around us both

softly as feathers.

***

Song of the frogs

in the fading light,

soft fade the hills

in the falling night,

God touching earth

with a gentle might,

and all is beauty

within my sight.

Soft falls the light

on garden walls,

a rose-hued mountain

as day's curtain falls,

a froggy symphony

serenades the night sky,

and grateful, grateful, grateful

I.

The pond at Port Albion, where I perched for a few months when I first came back to the West Coast. It was beautiful there.

For Sumana's prompt at What's Going On : Ekphrastic poetry, to write a poem based on a painting.

Heron by UkeeTube

Happiness Is....

 

Look closely to see the heron against the rocks.

It's Saturday, and I want to tell you something
about happiness. It comes on soft little feet
into your life when you aren't even looking.
It taps you on the shoulder, disguised as
a dog you pass on the beach, a smile
from a stranger that says "people are good",
a special treat you buy yourself just because.
It reveals itself in the pot full of
tightly closed buds you brought home
from the nursery when, one morning,
you step into the yard to find
some of them open, and reaching for the sun.

It fills your heart when you breathe in
the early morning, and it smells like
summer mornings when you were a child
at Grandma's house, your safest place in the world.
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.

Happiness is seeing nature's beauty,
all around through awakened eyes.
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 branches
hold his weight and how
his feet find purchase.

It happens when a hummingbird flies,
by accident, inside 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.

Full Circle Moment

 

I met my hero one day, when I was newly arrived in Tofino, the land of my dreams. I told her, when I was a single mother living inland, I read of her, another single mother, living her dream with the orcas up the Coast. I said I told myself if she could do it, I could do it too - make my dream come true. She smiled. She said she had just come from visiting her hero, Jane Goodall, that she had told herself if Jane could do it, she could do it too. 

Full circle moment,
hearts beckoning hearts,
dreams inspiring dreamers.

A haibun for my prompt at What's Going On : A Message from Jane Goodall

The woman who inspired me is Alexandra Morton, who has dedicated her life to the orcas, and in recent years to saving the wild salmon population that is endangered by fish farms - wild salmon that humans and whales and bears and wolves need to survive. She has made some progress in moving farms out of the Broughton archipelago, but there are still farms in other areas, including Clayoquot Sound. The sea lice and offal from the farms are infecting wild salmon, since government allows the farms to locate on wild salmon migration routes.

Wild Woman, Tapping the Keys

 

Wild Woman keeps tapping the keys.

The words come from who knows where?

The white bird asks: is this the best

humanity is capable of? She flicks her tail

in annoyance. Do better, she says,
and flies slip-sliding away.

Wild Woman has such a weary heart

from struggling - forever, it seems -

in hopes of a more just world.

Her worst nightmare has arrived,

something she never thought to see

in North America, which has fought

so long and so hard a fight
for justice.

She is so tired of marching, 
fighting the same old fights
over and over again,
every few decades.

If Wild Woman keeps tapping these keys,

might a miracle occur?
Might the transformation

of consciousness she has waited
a lifetime for
finally occur?

The arc of justice is long.

Maybe not in Wild Woman's time,

but, she hopes, in her grandchildren's time,

the white bird of peace will smile again.
Maybe the song of humanity -

of equality and freedom of choice and of voice -

will ring again in this land, that has fought and bled

 for hundreds of years to quell the racism,

the hatred, the othering, 
at its core,

and will reclaim the hard-won

rights to that underlying dream
that has always been

the land of the free
and the home of the brave.

Wild Woman is in mourning. But she hears

the white bird's call. The hope of that small bird

keeps her tapping on the keys,
seeing what messages come,

keeps her believing that our better angels

will one day vanquish, once and for all,

those who want a world

all painted white.

for Bjorn's prompt at dVerse: to write from another perspective. 

I tapped the keys. This is what came. I can't believe we are having this same fight again for social (or any other kind of) justice. More scarily now than I ever expected.

SONG OF THE RIVER

Stamp Falls, Port Alberni, B.C.

Song of the river wild,

Song of the rapids leaping

Through the chiseled rock-walled chasm

Green with weeping,

A plunging torrent

To the ocean seeping

Song of the sea-green foam

Song of the white froth dancing

Sun-dappled baby wave-tops prancing

In the sunshine, all my dreams

Romancing.

Song of the green rock wall,

A vessel for the river's journey,

Guiding the flow along the channel churning

To the ocean and as it's

Returning.

Song of the tall green trees

Rootbound and stoic in the deep crevasses

Rooted in bedrock holding up the mountain,

Sentinels for every year

that passes

Song of the laughing brook

Below the rapids green, swirling and babbling

Huge salmon leap,

Fall back in shallows dabbling,

Plunge forth to lunge again,

Leaping and scrabbling

Song of the river wild,

You sing my tattered soul a new song,

Bless the silver beauty of this new day,

Make me know the path I'm on

Is not wrong.

Song of the seasoned soul

That knows the underlying message

Of the river:

Flow with me,

Not against me as we journey;

Travel lightly,

Not a taker,

But a giver.

for Truedessa's prompt at dVerse Poets Pub: The Song My Paddle Sings. where we are dipping our poetic paddles. Stamp Falls was my favourite place when I lived in Port, the wildest place me and my wolf dog could find. In fall, the salmon gather in the narrows, waiting for their turn to try to leap up the rapids - always amazing to watch.