Only You

Waterhouse Knight

Even a poor maiden can gaze at
a shining knight.
You walked in the door,
smile gleaming in candleglow;
my heart stopped
for a moment,
and then began again,
forever altered.

Not then, but later,
you gazed back,
and we knew joy.
But we were human,
full of fear and history/herstory.
We lost our way.

Yet, looking back,
I remember summer days,
the beauty of your gaze,
the fullness of my heart;
the love we shared was true.

The song we sang, unfinished,
reverberates through the years.
It was too short,
but how sweet it was
the while we sang.

Only you, in my long life,
stirred such feelings,
so I have been long alone.
However, all must be endured,
for those brief, shining moments,
when even this poor maiden
dared gaze at a shining knight,
and he gazed back
               gazed back
                   gazed back.


For Sanaa's Wild Friday at Poets United: to use the incomplete ending of Sappho's poem and create our own poem.

Star Travelers

Moon Dog 1973

by Rufino Tamayo WikiArt

Look up, young traveler,

at the starry heavens -

you with the stars and planets in your eyes,

and the whole sky dreaming in your face.

Let your eyes dance joyously

among the stars,

hung there for you by Sky Woman,

who spins her golden moon

and whirls her starry cape

for your delight.

Keep your gaze ever upward,

for we are all star travelers here,

arriving bewitched,

bemused with mystery,

beloved of the universe.

Sometimes, as earth travelers,

we forget, yet find ourselves

yearning ever homeward

toward the nighttime skies.

There are flight maps there,

among the ley lines,

to be decoded by all 

stardust voyagers

who - eyes transfixed by

earth's limited horizons -

have yet to discover

we have the gift of

transcendental sight.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Looking at Stars. This poem was inspired by the theme of one of my older poems. 

A Message from the Wolves

source

Last night

two wolves

visited me in a dream.

They were suspended,

in a sleeping state.

They were dying,

and knew they were dying.

I was being with them, 

loving them,

but it wasn't enough.

"Is there anything more

I can do for you?"

I asked.

"Tell people,"

came their reply,

"and feed us."

I awoke.

It was four a.m.

I am telling the people:

the wild creatures need us.

We must topple

corporations and corrupt governments,

and reclaim our world.

May our every vote 

and choice

and action

reflect our love

of Mother Earth

and the wild beings

who need us

to speak for them

and save their lives.

"Feed us" I take to be wild creatures' wish for humans to stop all the killing and ravaging, to begin to nurture and protect the earth and its beings, so they can find safe places in which to live. I have to admit, my hope, once insurmountable, has declined, with the events of the last two years, when it seems darkness has the upper hand all over the world. But there are more of us than them, if together we rise. And there is power in our vote. Let us use it well.

Sharing with my friends at the Poetry Pantry at Poets United on Sunday. Come join us!

TUFF CITY

First Street - CoOp on the right

RV’s are everywhere,
all summer,
lumbering  along our narrow streets

like huge carnivores,
in search of elusive parking spots

in which to graze.

At the two four corner stops
tourists cluster, indecisive,
trying to decide which corner to visit.
Drivers wait, some patiently, some not,
for them to choose.
Folks are everywhere in August.
CoOp cashiers are polite, efficient,
but their eyes are glazed.

Finally, September comes.

Smiling faces come up the hill 

to the CoOp,
gather on the corner 

by the Post Office,
catch up on the news; 

observe the weather,
the slight touch of coolness
as the season slowly turns.

“I’m so glad it’s fall,”
I say to the clerk as I buy my wine.
“Oh, I KNOW!” she replies fervently,
and we share a smile.
We wait all summer for its end,
when the town returns to us
once more

and our local life

begins again.

  

The familiar buildings
invite us in.

We linger over produce,
make of our small purchases 

a social thing.

Our pace slows;

we can see each other now.
We smile as we pass.
“Beautiful day!”
“Oh, it is!”

Fourth Street dock

Down the hill on Fourth Street,
(we have four side streets 

and two main,
in our downtown core)
the water shines in late-summer sun.
Clouds wisp along Wah-nah-juss;
small aluminum boats putt-putt
across the harbour.

Totem carved by carver Joe David

and gifted to the town

The village is ours again;
we embrace the fog, 

the promise of coolness,
ready our rain gear,
anticipate the wildness 

of winter waves.

Tuff City basks and smiles
in the warmth of sweet September.
Its young people bicycle gayly
along the common path,
surfboards attached to the sides
of their bikes.
Seniors gather at
the Botanical Gardens for tea.

The shorebirds flock along the beach
on their way south.

And I am grateful
for it all:
each little thing.

Its beauty fills my heart;
it is the song I sing.

Too Many Kisses

source

"Too many kisses,"

he said.

"How soon you forget

the time alone,"

I replied.

But he was in love with beginnings,

while I needed far horizons.

"Too many kisses,"

he  grumbled.

And soon there were

no kisses at all.

for Carrie's prompt at The Sunday Muse

MANDARIN MOON

source

I awake in the deep dark

of the night to see

a huge round full-faced moon

staring in at me

as if it had zoomed close

with my eyes closed,

I catching it unawares

before it rose.

There she sat,

perched in the bowl

of my old tree,

like an over-sized Christmas ornament

thus adorning just for me

the starkly bare

and brittle branches and,

much more,

allowing me to see its beauty

closer

than I ever have

before.

I stare back:

eternal purveyor

of myth and mystery,

as if it holds the secret

of whatever is to be

and has ventured thus

to urge me forth

from out my purple bed,

to find a path

where all my dreams

can be

much better fed.

This radiant so-close moon

and I agree:

surrender to no man,

and yet in giving

I'm most free.

This silvery ambassador

is urging me

to give all that I can -

Mandarin Midnight Moon

that sailed here

last night

from Japan.

A poem from 2002. I woke in the night to see the moon so close, it looked like she was hanging in my big tree, as if she had zoomed close.....as I came more awake, she drifted back a ways. Smiles.

Sharing this oldie with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United this Sunday. Come join us!

In Search of the Snow Leopard

source

Between the covers of a book,
cozy in the soft blankets of my purple bed,
I have followed the snowy footprints
of the snow leopard.
I have walked the mountain paths of Tibet
for ten years, searching for my husband,
to find he died, left for vultures
as a sky burial.

I have had my feet bound in ancient China,
have fallen in love in Burma
with a man whose fate was marked.
I have survived the bitter cold of the Gulag,
and heard the lions roar in the Kalahari.

I have galloped across the American plains
on horseback, sat around the campfire
in the evening, covered wagons
circled around us for protection,
the night so dark and wild.

So many places
I have been.

Once a week since age five,
I have carried home an armload of books,
keys to other places, other lives,
read through every evening of my life.
In their pages, I have travelled far
while staying in one place.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Literacy

A movie I love about literacy is the true story told in The First Grader, about an 84 year old Mau Mau man in Africa who insisted he be allowed to attend school and learn to read. It shows his life in flashbacks, a life amazing and difficult. He did learn to read, and became the teacher's assistant.

Drinking Tea :Celebrating the Ordinary

source

Dipping the tea bag
into boiling water,
I am transported across the sea
to terraced hillsides
near the Himalayas
where, for centuries,
people have tilled the land,
tended the plants, and
harvested, sending tea leaves
on long sea voyages
that brought their pungent flavour
from Tibet
to my waiting cup.

Sipping, I contemplate
their lives: rising in chilly mornings,
drinking butter tea,
labouring in hot afternoon fields,
to make their small livelihoods.
A moment spent in the Himalayas,
whose great peaks call my name:
mystical land, home of the gods,
so different from the noisy,
soul-less West.

For this moment, I am simply
Drinking Tea,
thinking of people in bamboo hats
bent over in green  fields,
plucking spicy leaves,
their endless and heroic labour
bringing their aromatic tea,
and this peaceful, grateful moment,
to me.

source

Much of my happiness comes from the ordinary "small" moments, which are actually the stuff of life. I am so grateful for it all: tea, trees, sky, changing cloudscapes, dogs with happy eyes and wagging tails. Found this in drafts and thought i would post it. Am heading home today after a lovely family gathering at the farm. It is sweet to know my little place, and the last of my summer flowers, are waiting for me. With beautiful September ahead, and then the glorious winter beaches. Yay!

Inspired by Natalie Goldberg, who celebrates the ordinary so well.

Wild Woman Fairy Tale

source

Wild Woman once was a damsel

who mistakenly thought

she was in distress,

with no prince to scale the castle walls 

or slay a dragon for her.

She thought Heathcliff was

the most romantic figure ever:

the moors, the angst, the ghosts

clawing at the window.

"Sign me up," she prayed,

heart beating pitter-pat.

She waited hopefully for a time,

till eventually a Questionable Suitor

stumbled across the doorstep,  

and rang the castle bell. 

She surveyed this drooping, surly creature, 

leaning against the doorjamb,

picking his nails,

with some dismay. 

But he was the only one who came

so, with a mental shrug, she let him in.

Maybe he was Heathcliff,

disguised as a Slightly Irritable Ingrate?

She set to work.

She had to machete a way 

through the thicket of thorns

to clear a path for him.

She had to challenge the fiery dragon,

while the Prince hid, quaking,

pretending he was busy

Attending to Business

with his six-pack.

Then he accused her of

“trying to wear the pants.”

Pretty soon she grew weary 

of hunting wild beasts for two,

tired of dragging them back to the fire 

to skin and roast,

tired of serving the meal

and cleaning up 

all the blood and gore.

Bad-tempered men no longer

seemed romantic; they were

curmudgeons who resisted

available happiness.

She could play them a love song;

but they would never hum along.

Let's leave them to their dark, angsty moors.

“I Can’t Get No

Appreciation”, she hummed,

a crooked eyebrow lifting

as she saw a portal opening

in her mind.

She banished Prince Cedric

to the Land of Men,

became a vegan,

fortified her turret

with a stack of good books,

surveying her new life with pleasure.

With her two black guard-wolves,

she roasted some marshmallows 

in the fire to celebrate,

then retreated to the tower

to survey her own

Perfectly Peaceable Kingdom.

313 words for my prompt at Real Toads: moors, castle ruins, the faint tinkle of a piano...........tell me a tale in poetry or prose, in 313 words or less!

The Haunting of Selma Park General Store

source

The store, almost 100 years old, on the ocean in Sechelt, had stood empty for a few years. We got it for a song. When we moved in, locals told us it was haunted by the ghost of an old woman who had died in the store. She hadn’t liked people when she was alive; she did not welcome us. After the store closed at 11 p.m., sitting downstairs, we could hear footsteps crossing the floor above. When we went up to check, no one was there. But once I felt a cold chill go up my spine and knew she was standing right behind me.

She would move things around on the shelves. I would go downstairs and find our unlucky “Wandering Jew” plant swinging in its alcove for no reason – no windows or doors open. One night, all of its branches pointed at the doorway, the message clear: get out! I decided to throw the plant away one windy night. It wrapped its tentacles around me and I had to fling it off me and down the bank.

Things got worse. We opened an arcade; things were too noisy for the fretful ghost. A huge crack! was heard one morning; the supporting beam showed a split all the way up. Talk was, the store might slide right down the hill. The footsteps at midnight continued. I would not give up. I could live with the ghost more easily than the man I was with at the time.

It did not end well. The store burned down under mysterious, suspicious circumstances while we were away in Vancouver. The insurance company didn’t pay. I was left with nothing. The four kids and I began a new life in Kelowna, my dream store on the ocean gone; my faith in humanity tested. But my belief in the existence of ghosts was alive and well.

313 words for Magaly’s Pantry of Prose prompt: Gothic. True story. There was much more to this story, but I only had 313 words. I wrote a bit longer version here.

On Diminished Capacity

Well, I know for certain I gave him the keys
in his hand, because I don't have them any more,
So he has them.
Do you suppose he is getting copies made?
Do you suppose he has designs on me?
Because I have no thought of anything with him,
his wife can rest easy.

I keep calling and asking "do you have the keys?"
"No keys," he says, "I gave them back to you."
But I don't have them, so he has lost them.
The man is in another world, the poor bugger.

I left a big pile of papers on my desk.
(Don't worry, Sweet heart, whenever you have time,
don't exhaust yourself.)
Remember I switched from Shaw to Telus
because the TV wasn't working?
Well, Telus is an Idiot,
and I am switching back to Shaw,
but Telus says I signed a plan,
and i did not sign a plan.
So I am filing a complaint.
Thank you, God, for giving me a brain
to keep the papers from all the years.
Can you find the paper, don't exhaust yourself,
but the man is calling in half an hour,
I love you, God bless you,
the world is full of Idiots
making us tired.

And from the sale I got half the price for my chairs.
Two chairs they got for the price of one,
People, they don't want to pay.
They have hardly been sat in for 15 years,
and there they go, walking out the door,
God bless the people who sit in them,
and this poor widow,
left here to cry alone.

For Bjorn's prompt at Real Toads: the Unreliable narrator. This was an elderly lady with dementia who was still trying to function on her own, for whom I provided home support. Her situation became increasingly difficult.

Hong Kong

Roman Pilpey, EPA/EFE

Human hands

join in protest,

resisting oppression.

Human hearts 

in search of freedom

express the glory

and nobility

of the human spirit,

when it rises

like an awakened dragon

to oppose 

tyranny.

Vincent Yu, AP

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Glory. I am always moved when the human spirit rises, shining the light of truth on all that is dark. I am wondering at the apathy in North America these days. The passivity is alarming.

Windigo

source

“In the beginning of all things, wisdom and knowledge were with the animals; for Tuawa, the One Above, did not speak directly to man. He sent Animals to tell man that he showed himself through the beasts, and that from them, and from the stars and the sun and the moon, man should learn . .. for all things speak of Tuawa." -Chief Letakos-Lesa of the Pawnees Tribe to Natalie Curtis, circa 1904

― Ted Andrews, Animal Speak: The Spiritual & Magical Powers of Creatures Great and Small


Through the mist, I see a shaman,
on a fencepost, point the way;
into the forest, I go, listening,
for all it has to say.

Wolf Spirit, Windigo, you sorrow
at the extinction of your clan,
the destruction of your habitat
by the tribe of man.

Once we lived and spoke together.
Once upon a time we knew
that everything was connected.
You were me, and I was you.

The animals are speaking.
If only we could hear
their cries of distress and hunger,
so heartbreaking, so near.

The forest is deep and dark
and there be spirits here.
When we listen to the creatures,
their message is so clear.

Their peril and ours is connected,
they most want us to know.
Owl, Oracle, Guardian,
protect me as I go.


For Play It Again, Toads. I chose Hannah Gosselin's Transforming Nature's Wonders, one of my very favourite prompts, back in the day!

Untitled

Our little house on Ethel Street

Remember me as a time of day:
daybreak, with songbirds,
when I rose singing
a morning song,
turning the tap for the swhish-swhish-swhish
of the sprinkler in the garden,
gazing at the blue friendly hills,
breathing in lake-scent and weeping willow
- and summer.
Back then, it was always summer.

I grew green things, those days,
and a family of leggy, hungry children.
They remember waking to my singing,
or to the furious tapping of my old Underwood
as I wrote my latest poem.

Those days,
we rode through town
in a line four bicycles long,
like a mother duck and her ducklings.
People stopped at the intersections
smiled at our wobbly passage
as we sailed through.

Think of me older, if you will,
as being always in the forest,
or  walking by the sea,
or writing a poem
in which I remember you
and you can remember
me.


for Kenia's prompt at Real Toads: to use a song title in a poem. I chose Remember Me as a Time of Day. Cool prompt.

My Inner Inukshuk

source

Towards the rising sun, I turn 

my morning face, ever hopeful.

Vision obscured, I peer through cloudy glass,

towards the brighter sky.

Beyond the meadow, I can see 

the ghostly shapes of ancient horses,

shape-shifting among the trees.

The shaman sits on a fencepost,

smiling, wise and kind,

with an owl perched on his shoulder.

He will not point the way,

for I must find it for myself.

But he gives me a blessing

for the journey,

as the road is steep,

rock-strewn,

and he knows there will be storms.

To the south lies treasure, precious stone,

inukshuks to point the way

for lonely travelers.

Their arms point west, always west,

where my spirit flies, up over the mountains,

along the familiar highway

that leads me forever home.

A row of prisms cast rainbows, for beauty,

refract the light, for brightness

and clear-seeing.

Towards sunset lies the illumined path,

following footsteps I trod before,

called ever forward 

by the unceasing song of the sea,

siren, lover, clarion call,

to fly my spirit home.

I heft my kit bag full of memories,

tuck in a soupcon of wonder,

and a song to merry me along,

towards my nest at the edge of the world.

North is an inner compass, a knowing that,

whatever direction I am headed, 

however long or short the journey,

I am my own

True North. 

This poem arrived in 2015, when I lived at the farm. It was created thanks to an exercise by Elizabeth, to turn in all the directions, make notes on what I saw and turn it into a poem. Thanks, Elizabeth!

Sharing it with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United this Sunday.

The News Is On and It Isn't Pretty

I press Mute when the orange man talks.
His grinning thumbs-up is outrage enough.
No need to hear him speak.

The television,
my companion, these solitary years,
has seen a lot of changes
through the years.
From civil rights to assassinations,
unjust wars and civil protest,
from John Lennon singing peace
to an African American President,
it showed me moments of tears and hope -
a belief that we would overcome,
that the best in humanity would win out,
and anything was possible.

And then the pendulum swung.
I clicked off the tv one dark night in 2016,
knowing we were in for hard times.

I press Mute when the
grinning orange man speaks.
It is harder now
To keep hope and dreams alive.
I watch the scenes of ice caps melting,
the planet burning, children crying in cages,
while wealthy men grin
and shake congratulatory hands.

When I was young, what was televised
was monitored. Broadcasts had to meet criteria,
to not corrupt the young. But now the corrupt
run the networks, the news, and the country.
How can young people believe,
in a world gone mad?

I resist.
I always press Mute when
the orange man speaks.


I wrote this for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: televised, but linked a second poem instead. Between the glaciers melting and the Amazon and Siberia burning, along with Canada's boreal forest, discouragement and our human responsibility have laid their heavy mantle on my shoulders.

The Memory Museum

Keystone-france/getty image

I once saw John Lennon's yellow Rolls

in the Victoria Museum.

It was like touching my younger years,

those songs that were the soundtrack

of my life, through all the smiles and tears.

These days, I wander through the halls

of my memory museum,

plucking out random moments:

the coffeehouse on Saturday night,

Stephanie, age three, running like 

a tipsy teakettle across the park at sunset,

the movie Jonathan,

which made my soul take flight.

Down all those years, I gathered memories

like plums, stored them away

until today: when I can pluck them,

one by one, and, for just a moment,

make them stay.

For Susan's Midweek Motif: Museums

Everything is Alive, and Listening.......

Hole in the Wall, Port Alberni, B.C.

photo by Ronald Mani, B.C. Magazine

The stone in your hand, warm from the sun,

is alive, having traveled such a long journey

to fit into your palm.

Everything under the sun 

is as happy to be alive as we,

dolphins, leaping with joy in the silver sea,

whose squeals turn to pain and terror

when the death boats come hunting,

and the seas turn red.

Trees talk to each other, hold rooted hands

under the soil, all across the forest floor.

They whisper to those of us Two-Leggeds

who listen.

The mighty beings quake

at the screech of the saws,

roots parting reluctantly from the soil

as their majestic bodies topple.

Everything in the world is alive,

and listening.

Water, too, is alive,

its molecular structure changing

in response to the love,

hatred, peace or discord

we beam at it.

If a drop of water changes structure

from dark to light,

in response to love,

should not the dark hearts of men

respond in kind?

The wild creatures feel all that we feel,

joy at being alive,

building their nests,

raising their young, but they also

feel fear and pain, the struggle to survive,

grief when they lose their kin,

gratitude when, tummies full, night falling,

they have survived another day.

That rock in your hand, warm from the sun,

having made its long journey

to this resting place:

place it back on earth, in testimony

to all that passes, all that will remain.

From 2018,  shared with the Tuesday Open Link at Real Toads.

The Shaman Says

Lion Afternoon by Jacek Yerka

Photo Source

On the savannah,

through the golden grass,

my alter ego stalks:

an amber lion,

all falls quiet

as she wanders past.

In a parallel life,

I walk the Kalahari

with my kin.

It is a wild world.

We don't let

just anybody in.

Yet the trophy hunters come

with guns and jeeps and toothy grin.

The shots ring out.

Soon it will be

as if we'd never been.

The shaman says

when the last lion dies,

the sun will disappear.

We'll be doomed, he says,

and I believe,

for he is old and wise.

She wanders for me,

in her last days,

as I wander in mine.

Our hearts have been

together twinned,

through all the years 

of time.

for Shay's prompt at The Sunday Muse: Lion Afternoon

The shaman Credo Mutwa  speaks of the white lions, known as star lions, who have blue eyes,  whose fate is intertwined with ours, and has been from the beginning of time. There are few left. Linda Tucker of the Global Lion Project is trying desperately to save them in a world gone mad with killing. Her book The Mystery of the White Lions is one of the most amazing books I have ever read.

Using Our Words

I was fourteen when poems started pouring through me. An English teacher encouraged me, and submitted some work for me. The one critical comment that came back was "I hope you arent going to be the kind of poet who glories in being obscure." I never forgot it.

That comment may be why I have so rarely bothered submitting my work. I think sometimes critics think they must always be critical. I get far more gratification from sharing my work online and am grateful for those who take the time to read it.

I was taught that feedback should always be respectful and constructive. Words have the power to uplift, or drag someone down. I keep in mind that a person is putting his heart out there, along with his words. I can almost always find something positive to say. If i read something that disturbs me, i simply scroll away without comment.

I keep in mind that someone who uses words harshly is likely coming from a place of inner pain. If  directed at me, i try using kindness in that instance, and find a point i can empathize with in what they say. I like living in a world that is kind. It pains me that there is so much unhappy rhetoric going on these days in the media. It drags our spirits down. Out in the big world, toxic rhetoric is having its hey-day.

In our community, i value that comments are usually supportive and affirmative. We have own little world in here. We can keep it a kind one.

For Magaly's interactive Moonlight Musings.