Wolfsong

[image from whitewolfphotos.blogspot.com]

He came to the mouth

of her cave

in the dead of winter,

peering tentatively in

at the warmth

of her 

crackling fire.

She sat still

as a stone

to invite him,

lifted a  bird-wing

towards him,       

higher,

shared her meal

with him,

their new

friendship a-borning;

slept and wakened,

finding him 

still there

in the 
morning.

Together

they wandered 

springtime

forest trails,

sought summer fields

of richly golden grain,

roamed

wild beaches

lashed with storm,

sheltered from 

the lashing rain,

hunted under

sunny skies,

loped across

the grassy range,

shared fish,

and rabbits,

birds and berries,
laughing
and joyous,

as the seasons
slowly 

changed.

They sat by

the fire

on lonely midnights,

howling at the moon.

But  warm summer

nights pass

quickly;

and the winter

comes

too soon.

His snout, her hair

turned white

with winter's chill.

His body grew

aged and weak,

as old bodies will.

They came to a fork

in the path

in the

rising dawn.

He stopped,

and turned

for one last look,

then  was gone.

His was the wolf path,

where a human

may not follow.

She took the path

to the right,

her heart

aching, 

and hollow.

She cried

with the fading

of the night's

last star,

whispered

"thank you"

to his fleeting back:
grateful

he had guided her

this far.

Sometimes,

now,

she can feel

his spirit

on the

rising wind.

Some nights

you can hear

her keening

on the air.

Then soft comes

a faint echo

from deep

in the mountains,

ringing.

When the moon is right

and the spirits awake,

you can

sometimes

hear them,

singing.

I Have Observed Much Sadness

[My friend, Marcel, and his beloved Paprikas, two weeks before he took his own life.]

(Today I tried out a new form I have noticed a couple of the poets using, where you alternate prose with a few lines of poetry. I quite liked it. Let me know what you think.)

I Have Observed Much Sadness.......



I wheeled my cleaning cart along the hospital corridor, stopped it just outside his room. There was a Warning: Bio Hazard/Restricted sign on his door. Peeking in, I saw that he was weeping. “Can I help you?” I asked him, entering, no gloves, no mask, no gown. Just my wish to help a suffering human being. “I’m cold,” he said, “and the nurse refuses to enter my room because I have AIDS.” “I’ll get you a blanket right away,” I tell him. “Will one be enough, or should I bring two?” “Two, please.” I bring the blankets, I put them on top of him. “There you go,” I smile. I empty his wastebasket, clean his sink. I quietly leave. He is still weeping. He has just been diagnosed, and the prognosis is grim. His entire world has blown apart. I am angry that a professional has added insult to his injury, out of her own fear and prejudice. Neither of us will get AIDS from handing him a blanket, giving him a smile, a word of human kindness, some comfort. Next day, when I come by to clean, I am relieved and happy to see that the other nurse is on. She is sitting beside his bed, talking and smiling and helping him to feel like a human being a person can relate to, about whom one can care. I leave the cleaning for later, not to interrupt them.


We are all born beautiful, innocent and whole,
and then life happens.
All our lives, during this earthly incarnation,
we are returning
to the radiance of our innate perfection.


He was a gentle soul, effeminate and tortured by his mood swings, by the utterly unsatisfactory life he had lived, having had a loving partner only once, in college days, followed by decades of loneliness. He was a good man, whose career got interrupted by chronic illness. While he was fighting the insurance company, who continued to decline his claim, he was gay-bashed. The police expressed no interest in laying charges, though he identified his attacker. His attacker continued to stalk and terrorize him in his own neighbourhood. When the insurance company made a final rejection of his claim, he gave up. He said “I cannot work, and I will not beg.” He said his spirit was simply not up to crawling to welfare to gain the pittance they would give him, not enough to even pay his rent. He gave himself one last month, made his plans and one night, with finality, left this world. He was my friend since high school days. He had a sad life, but he was witty, brilliant, with a radiance that just got beaten down. He just could not hang on.


We are all born beautiful, innocent and whole,
and then life happens.
All our lives, during this earthly incarnation,
we are returning
to the radiance of our innate perfection.


I was driving the main road one morning, when a young First Nations man, son of one of my co-workers, staggered across the road in front of me. He was drunk – beyond drunk, deep in his addictions – and his expression was a mask of the purest agony I have ever seen on a human face. No hiding, no defences, the torture he felt just being alive stunned me with the impossibility of surviving it, for a human mortal. And, before too long, this young man, with all of the future before him, a tomorrow where life might have taken him to a place of peace and even joy, hung himself from the pole in his closet, where his mother, my friend, found him next morning. I will never forget her keening wail, from the innermost depths of her being, as she processed that in workshop with the staff. “I miss him,” she said, and those words said it all.


We are all born beautiful, innocent and whole,
and then life happens.
All our lives, during this earthly incarnation,
we are returning
to the radiance of our innate perfection.


A young woman who has suffered years of the stigma of mental illness, and who has achieved dignity and self-worth despite the professionals who have labelled and thus disposed of her in the “appropriate” slot, (from which there can never be Progress), is concerned about her teenage son, who appears depressed, possibly anorexic. Though reaching out has never brought her any help, still she reaches out to Child/Teen Mental Health. She states her concerns. She says “I am asking for your help.” The person on the other end of the phone tells her, “You take him to emergency right now. If you don’t take him, I will charge you with child abuse.” “But wait,” the young woman says, “Of course I will take him. I called you – for help – remember?” The woman calls back every fifteen minutes until she gets to emergency. At emergency, they tell her “Nothing can be done about this here. Go home.” She decides, for not the first time, or the fifteenth, she is on her own and there is no help at the other end of the phone. One cannot trust the “helpers”.


We are all born beautiful, innocent and whole,
and then life happens.
All our lives, during this earthly incarnation,
we are returning
to the radiance of our innate perfection.


I am cleaning (it seems I am always cleaning) at the house of two  elderly people, very kind and lovely, their conversation full of “thank you”’s and “sweetie”’s. The man is barely getting around on his walker. The woman has just had back surgery. Three times a day, or oftener, “Home Support” arrives to “help” the man. This seems to basically equate to bringing lunch from the fridge to the table. The woman, who also can barely hobble around, seems to spend far too much time upright for someone after surgery, because “things have to get done” and the Home “Support” people apparently have a limited job description. She has bought a new bed and I have prepared the room for its delivery. “Will the home support people make the bed up for you when it arrives?” I ask, before I depart. Because otherwise I will drive back across town to make it for her. “I hope so,” she responds – hopefully. When I come the following week, I ask her how is the bed. “The bed is great!” “Did they make it up for you when it arrived?” I ask – hopefully. “No,” she says. “It isn’t in their job description because they come for him, not me.” I ask myself: but could one not, as a human being, make the bed out of compassion for a frail little lady who has just had back surgery??????????


We are all born beautiful, innocent and whole,
and then life happens.
All our lives, during this earthly incarnation,
we are returning
to the radiance of our innate perfection.

At least, I have to believe this. But some days it gets harder.

Being Peace

[image of Iraqi refugees from sundaytimes.lk]

In my Peace Globe hopping with yesterday's Blogblast for Peace, I have come across some amazing individuals. You can visit Mimi's site at mimilenox.com to check out the list of over 300 participants, if you wish. There are some inspiring peace activists listed there.

The woman I am blown away by is Allie McNeill at http://www.watergatesummer.blogspot.com/
She has "adopted" a displaced Iraqi family, who fled the war in their country and are trying to make a new life in the States. They have been so affected by war that the children still play low on the floor, below the windows, and the whole family startles at loud noises.

Allie is doing everything she can to welcome them to their new home, and is giving hands-on assistance, gathering resources from wherever she can to help them with their needs.

She is compassion in action. She is Doing Peace, she is Being Peace, she is Peace walking around on legs and holding out its hand. She makes me proud to be a human being.  Check her out if you wish. I found this story to be so inspiring, it makes me humble. We can write all our lofty words and make our dreamy wishes. This woman is out in the trenches, holding out her hand to the dispossessed and the disenfranchised.

What a story! What a woman! You can find this one family's story on her site. They put a face on what happens to ordinary people during war.

Poem for Marcel

This is my high school friend, Marcel. We lost touch for many years, then I tracked him down through the internet and we resumed our friendship. One night I got a phone call. Marcel, who had had a sad life, had committed suicide, leaving a letter for me and a phone number for me to be notified. I wrote this poem in the days after his death, and read it, through tears, at his memorial. I wrote a story about him, and our friendship, also, and will post it soon.

My high school photo: Class of '64

You were always

waiting for me

on the corner

of Elliot and Richter

in the snow

all those dark sub-zero

bitter weekday mornings

in the crystal dead of winter

long ago,

under crisply winking stars

fall in beside me,

our steps crunching

across the frozen snow

towards the lighted school

where you would play

my champion,

towards the lighted school

where I would play

the fool.

We need not speak;

you were just there

to guide me

you supported me

and loyally you cared

through all those years

you walked,

silent, beside me

so full of all the words

I could not speak

so left unsaid,

brittle with so many

tears

I knew not

how to shed.

Your presence

along the deep abyss

that I was skirting

was a comfort

you, the only one

to see that I was hurting

you, the only one to see

who I was

really meant to be

hiding behind the gay bravado,

the laughing eyes,

the laughter,

you saw me shining then

and ever after

all my life long,

you've always been

my friend

Perhaps your presence

kept me from

the chasm,

my pain hid deep

behind my

thousand smiles,

you knew I needed

help

along those

so-precarious miles,

and up that hill of pain

so steep,

someone

who would

my painful

secret

keep.

You were so loyal,

you asked for nothing

but it is true

that in those years

that burned us deep

I was your defender, too

When other boys taunted you

beyond your years,

so sage, so wise,

till angry tears stood,

smarting,

in your outraged eyes,

frustration at living in a world

so cruel,

I would fall in beside you

as we walked away

from yet another day

survived in school

I lost you for a long and lonely time,

went looking for you many years ago

you, the one who always made me laugh,

you, the only one from those sad years

who "knew me when"

and who was still my friend

I needed to thank you

for always

standing by,

be your friend

better

than I could be

back then

when you watched me

breaking my heart

over silly boys

who decried me

while all the time

someone who cared

stood right beside me

One day your name was there

on my computer screen

it was so good to finally

make up the lost years

in between

But, Marcel, you left too soon

and suddenly.

This time I thought

that there would always be

more time to tell you

all you mean to me

especially how

kind you are

and rare,

how clear you see,

how loyally

you care,

we still had so much

friendship

left

to share

Once again,

as if the years

had never intervened,

there you were

supporting me

behind my winking screen

making me laugh as I did you

with stories

all too ludicrous

and true

because laughter after pain

is what we always knew

I took for granted

this time you would

always be

at the other end

of an email

never lost again

to me

We never had the chance

to meet again

If we did

I knew your face

would be the same

because your heart was

throughout all the years

unchanged

We did not metamorphose;

from those young ghosts

our spirits rose

and we became

more truly

who we are:

delightfully deranged,

two solitary souls

who are

wicked awesome

strange

I still had a hug

to give you

in this lifetime,

wanted one more time

to look into your eyes

You left too soon

but this I surely

promise:

Marcel,

you'll always

be a friend

of mine

I have to believe

that one day

I'll be crossing

a clear and frozen

landscape

all alone

until I reach the

far and distant

corner

just past the morning star

the corner

where you are

just waiting

to fall into step

beside me,

your presence

in that moment

not denied me,

to support me through

that last stretch of the journey

Once more

I will be

Heading Home

with you.

Marcel,

back when you loved me then

so true,

I'll bet you never dreamed

that it would end up

me and you.