Mystical Swimmer

[gray whale image from marineecotours.com]

Mystical swimmer

in the timeless sea,

you travel

in the

amniotic sac

that carries

the DNA

of our entire

history.

You have watched

our evolution

from sea to shore,

from crawling

to standing upright,

but we're living

interconnected

with the land

no more.

Slowly,

we changed.

The Earth 

became "Resource"

and we have strayed

too far
from The Way

to even feel

remorse.

We have

destroyed

the fragile balance

of our

shared home,

stripping it bare,

while 

screams

and bombs

and warring

fill the air.

Your ancient eye

has watched it all.

This is why

your mournful song

is so full

of sorrow.

Your intelligence

is so vast

shamans and seers say

you have access to

the collective

unconscious

and can even see

our tomorrow.

Please don't tell us.

We can surmise

from flooding rivers,

melting ice floes,

forest fires,

earthquakes,

tsunamis,

drought and famine,

a story

far too terrible,

a harvest

we have

sown.

Sister Whale,

what have we done

to our planetary home?

We have forgotten

basic truths

that once

were known.

Sing your mournful song.

Swim through

the murky sea.

Together

we share

a heartbreaking

history.

Let's leave

the future,

while we still can,

shrouded in

mystery.



The Migration of 1997

photo by animal.discovery.com

[When this news broke, we in Clayoquot Sound were devastated and alarmed. The news article referred to drug running boats. But, upon reflection, we realized small boats could not have caused such havoc, that perhaps the official news release was intended to deflect awareness away from something larger that was going on. We never determined the actual cause of the whales' deaths.

I wrote this poem in a small effort to assist in the transformation of consciousness we so desperately needed then - and even more desperately need now - on this planet, struggling in the grip of the multinationals.

I highly recommend the Julian Lennon production of Whaledreamers, documenting

the arrival in Australia of aboriginal elders and shamans from around the world,

gathering in a sacred whale-calling spot to sing the whales in to shore as in days of old.]

february 25, 1997

Sister whale,

you begin your migration

along the rugged coast,

and I stand waiting

in the chill, late-winter dawn,

watching to see you passing by

on your ancient journey,

both of us caught

in the spell of a force

far greater than man's,

connected in the mystery

and the beauty

of the universal plan

that makes us sisters

under the skin,

that makes us kin.

Mystical swimmer

in the primal sea,

it's been your ocean

since the world began.

You have made your way

century upon century

from birthing grounds

to feeding grounds,

your babies by your side,

your steady progress

purposeful and true

through the perilous course

your corridor has become

since it became a corridor

man shares with you.

I have looked down

to see you from the air,

your body outlined

like a dozing giant

in the kelp,

and I have caught my breath

as,with a huge exhalation,

you surfaced right beside my boat,

with your wise, loving eye

seeing me clear,

looking like you wanted to offer

us bumbling humans help

to learn the ancient wisdom

you could share,

if only you could find

a way to speak,

and if only we could find a way

to hear.

Now they say you're dying

in massive numbers

in the Gulf.

Up north, we're weeping

as we read the news

that your corridor,

a whale highway

at this time of year,

is also now a passage for cocaine.

The news item says drug smugglers

are dumping chemicals - NK-19 -

that they use to mark drug loads

for detection

from the air at night.

The shining boats must make

a pretty sight,

but when dawn comes

there are your bodies

lying on the shore

in numbers too great to ignore,

from swimming through the sea

in total trust,

because you have no choice

and swim you must.

My mind, after

the numbness and despair,

begins to form a bigger question: how

can small boats dumping buckets

cause such hell?

Or is this just

a smokescreen

to hide the truth?

Is nuclear waste the story

they dont tell?

My heart is aching,

for what it's worth.

Should we put up a sign in Baja:

Detour this earth?

Soon we'll hear

that whales are glowing

out at sea.

Will we sell tickets then

to see the show?

Night time whale watching:

double the profit,

double the fun.

I'd say I'm sorry

and I'm not the only one.

I own the guilt of

belonging to

my species.

All I can do is write my pain

into a poem.

I know your heart

holds sorrow too,

everywhere you roam,

for I can hear it

in your mournful song.

What are we doing to your home?

What are we doing to

our planetary home?

Sister whale,

swim fast, swim free.

Some of us know

that together we share

a common destiny.

This Living Planet

Sproat Lake in February ~Lori Kerr photo

[Tonight a haze has covered half of the province, from the forest fires burning in Lillooet. Sunset will be a red fiery orb again, seen through the sm0ky haze. Everywhere, creatures are panting in the heat. Astoundingly, in this same province, trees are still coming down, as fast as mechanically possible, the lungs of our planet rolling out in logging trucks. The tundra is melting, the ocean is hotting up, glaciers are crashing into the sea. The Talking Heads may order a few new "studies" about What To Do; that should buy some more time. Argh.]


Mother Earth,
I hear what you're trying
to tell us.
So quietly, and with a mother's pain,
you watch as we make our foolish choices,
knowing we will do what we will do
until we come to a place of knowing
and begin to understand
the dream you wish
that we already
knew.

We take from you endlessly,
like human children from a human mother,
only rarely acknowledging
the precious gifts you give,
that we treat so heedlessly.
And what do we give back?
Your bare hillsides
weeping giant tears,
as we render plain
the proud beauty you once knew.
What is left is honesty and pain
and scars from the lances
with which we pierced you
through.

Under the crest of a wave
just breaking
a whale is diving deep, deep.
It is chasing memories of freedom
and its dive is wild and joyous
even while its soul is
aching.

The eagle's eyes pierce us through
with half-remembered truths
that we once knew;
from our half-sleep
of half-knowing
what is true,
we need only open
our weary eyes
to waken.
Mother,
the biggest truths
are always the simple ones:
we are one family
and this living planet
is our home.
I feel your pain
as you watch your children
stumbling
carelessly scattering
gifts so rare
that we wont share.
On the wind,
I hear you breathe
a mother's prayer.
It, too, is simple. Just
"Take care. Take care."

THE MIGRATION OF 1997

february 25, 1997
[I wrote this in an attempt to add my small "shift" to assist the transformation of human consciousness that is our best hope for this planet. As the icebergs continue to melt, it needs to happen pretty fast.]

Sister whale,
you begin your migration
along the rugged coast,
and I stand waiting in the chill late-winter dawn,
watching to see you passing by
on your ancient journey,
both of us caught in the spell of a force
far greater than man's,
connected in the mystery
and the beauty of the universal plan
that makes us sisters under the skin,
that makes us kin.

Mystical swimmer in the primal sea,
it has been your ocean since the world began.
You have made your way
century upon century
from birthing grounds to feeding grounds,
your babies by your side,
your steady progress purposeful and true
through the perilous course
your corridor has become
since it became a corridor
man shares with you.

I have looked down
to see you from the air,
your body outlined like a dozing giant in the kelp,
and I have caught my breath as,
with a huge exhalation,
you surfaced right beside my boat,
with your wise, loving eye seeing me clear,
looking like you wanted to offer
us bumbling humans help
to learn the ancient wisdom you could share,
if only you could find a way to speak,
and if only we could find a way to hear.

Now they say you're dying in massive numbers in the Gulf.
Up north, we're weeping as we read the news
that your corridor, a whale highway at this time of year,
is also now a passage for cocaine.
The news item says drug smugglers are dumping chemicals - NK-19 -
that they use to mark drug loads
for detection
from the air at night.
The shining boats must make a pretty sight,
but when dawn comes
there are your bodies lying on the shore
in numbers too great to ignore,
from swimming through the sea in total trust,
because you have no choice
and swim you must.

My mind, after the numbness and despair,
begins to form a bigger question: how
can small boats dumping buckets cause such hell?
Or is this just a smokescreen to hide the truth?
Is nuclear waste the story they wont tell?

My heart is aching,
for what it's worth.
Should we put up a sign in Baja:
Detour this earth?

Soon we'll hear that whales are glowing out at sea.
Will we sell tickets then to see the show?
Night time whale watching:
double the profit, double the fun.
I'd say I'm sorry and I'm not the only one.
I own the guilt of belonging to my species.
All I can do is write my pain into a poem.
I know your heart holds sorrow too,
everywhere you roam,
for I can hear it in your mournful song.
What are we doing to your home?
What are we doing to our planetary home?

Sister whale,
swim fast, swim free.
Some of us know
that together we share
a common destiny.