Dogs of an Eternal Winter

[photo by Maxim Marmur]

Kids, this poem is from last winter, when I came across this news story. I woke up this cold snowy morning thinking of these dogs, and all creatures who are trying to survive the winter outdoors (including many humans.) I thought I would post it again for our contemplation.

26,000 homeless dogs

roam the streets

of Moscow.

26,000 fur bundles

of love-

on-paws,

live hungry,

cold,

without shelter

in the freezing air.

Some are so smart

they know how

to ride the subway,

where the seats

are softer

than the frozen

concrete

streets

of the inner city,

and where for an hour

they share

some warmth

with the

human passengers.

Sometimes

they roam

together,

seeking

food and fellowship.

Hunger

is their

most constant

companion.

The city

planned

to send them

all to a gulag camp

outside the city.

Citizens protested,

knowing

they all would die,

and the news reports

ceased.

But keep an eye out

for sudden evacuations

by night.

No government bureau

is funded

to help

these most helpless

of

creatures.

A handful

of private citizens

do what they can.

The hungry dogs

of

an eternal winter

walk

the streets

of Moscow

with

questions

in their eyes,

and,

when they dream,

they dream

of spring.

Choices

Poets United's Thursday Think Tank's prompt is: Choices
[image from google]


"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud
was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
Anais Nin

"A miracle is just a shift in perception."
Marianne Williamson


[Traveler has learned about Choices.]

When she was young and
bad people harmed her,
she thought she was a victim
and that it wasnt fair.
No one ever told her
she didnt have to
let them hurt her,
that she could simply
walk away from there.

She put her heart
in cold storage
to protect it,
by avoiding love
trying to avoid the pain.
Then good people came along,
music and sunshine,
and the tight little ball of her heart
unfurled again.

Sometimes when the very
worst of calamities happen,
all that we can choose
is how we rise.
Those are the days of fire and ice
that hone us,
push us to make the leap,
and make us wise.

Dear fellow voyager,
if you are clinging
to the very end
of the very last branch
on the tree,
if you fear falling,
just rest, and trust
life's cycle.
All will be well,
and help will come
to thee.

Remember, Traveler,
this is the soul's journey.
If we lock ourselves away
too high a price
we'll pay.
Safety can in time
become a prison.
We sometimes travel blind
to find our way.


At first you think
you'll never trust another,
for he might wound you
like the last,
who was untrue.
But in the end
you're likely to discover
the only one
you need to trust
is you.


Despite ourselves,
that early sun
will warm us,
and slowly we'll unfurl
those icy leaves.
We have to grow.
To stay the same
will harm us.
We're at our best
when we
the most believe.

A bud may wish to stay closed

for a season.
If it fails to open, it withers
on the vine.
Unfurl your bud.
Come out to meet
the sunshine.
Expand in the warmth,
dear little bud.
It's time.

Teaching a Pig to Sing

Never try

to teach a pig

to sing.

It wastes your time,

and annoys

the pig.

-Robert Heinlein

Kids, I wanted to put something cheerful out there this morning. I am feeling under the weather, and am needing to lie down much of the time. I will still be online, as I cant not be; it's impossible to Totally Unplug. But I am way behind in both prompts and visiting, and will just participate as I am able, over the next few days till, hopefully, my Head rights itself and lets me sit up more of the time.

Nothing serious, likely a result of Overdoing, which I am so prone to. And a small injury which seems to have triggered a major landslide of symptoms :)

I hope to be back to normal by next week. We live, as I am so fond of saying, in hope!

The Wild

The wild

never leaves us

once we know

we are

its kin.

Wild Woman Sighs

The Pleiades Star Cluster, from Astronomy News

They say we come from stars

are are made of

molecules

of stardust.

But have you ever seen stars

fighting across the heavens

over the differences and variations

in their shine?

There is an intelligence

in the cosmos

we seem to be

sadly lacking

on earth.

Wild Wolf, Waiting

[image from google]

At Real Toad's, Fireblossom Friday's prompt was to write about the inner animal. This poem is more of an outer animal who lives within my heart and spirit. It's what came,so I will post it, though it isnt exactly what was suggested.

There is a wild wood.
In my den I stir
as the new morning
wakes me.
I sniff the wind
and sense your pain.
It breaks me,
for I'm forced to forge
a path
you cant yet
follow,
and I know
this leaves you
feeling
rather hollow.

I am a wild wolf.
To be with you,
I always had to
keep it tethered.
Now I can throw off
all my bindings
without minding,
not forgetting all the years                 
we spent together.

I am a wild thing,
but my heart
returns to watch you
when you're sleeping,
rest my nose upon your bed
and whuff a greeting,
though you are asleep
and never feel us meeting.

How can a heart be
wild and tame,
together?                                 
We forged a bond
nothing in life
can sever.
A bridge between
our two wild hearts
we traveled;
a bond that tight
can never be
unraveled.

I had to leave you,
but I never wanted to
and I am circling
the forest waiting for
your heart
to find me.
Listen for my call,
you are not far
behind me.

reposted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry March 24, 2013

Lessons of a Sand Dollar

Poets United's Think Tank prompt is a  seashell. The seashell I used to find most often in Tofino is the sand dollar, so I am writing about it instead.

When I walk along the shore,
my entire being feels
as spacious as the sky,
and as empty.
I have only to step onto the sand
for all cares to fall away,
where all I hear is
the endless rolling
of the waves,
the song of the sea,
where all I feel is peaceful,
like a blank slate
with only one word written on it:
Joy.

In my consciousness
is only the expansive
and eternal sound
of the waves,
the smell of the sea,
the cry of the gulls,
and my feet,
walking,
my heart
relishing these too-brief moments
in my spirit's home.
The load I usually carry
has been divested
in the parking lot.
I will pick it up
again
as I leave.

But, for now,
I am here,
my spirit in tune.
I am home,
my heart lilting along
with my footsteps
to the ebbing and the flowing
of the waves,
in their endless dance.

The hard-packed sand
stretches ahead for forever.
My heart  dips and lifts
above the wave-tops
with the gulls, and
with the  flocks
of tiny seabirds
that constantly rise,
fly up, swerve 
and resettle back on the ground
as a group, like dancing.


When it is time to leave,
I pocket a sand dollar.
I will carry away with me
the memory of the sea,
and the beauty of the shore,
where I have replenished
my store of peace
once more,
by letting the sursurration
of the waves
wash through me,
through my ears,
my brain,
my skin, my being,
until I am as calm as
the lull between waves,
as strong and silent
as the smooth stones
scattered along the ocean's shore,
as patient as the sand dollar
that spins its house
from the sand and grit around it
and carries it within.

Like the sand dollar,
I am made of the sand
and the sea,
and I carry home with me
every time I walk away.