MOTHER SKY / SMALL BIRD

Expansive Mother Sky,

in all your greys and blues,

your hazy autumn hues,

you hold my heart

the way the rugged maple

holds the twiggy nest

in which sits a wee brown bird,

serene, and softly singing.

***

Small bird,

with your sweetness

you are

the bodhisattva

of my morning.

Songstress,

you awaken me

to the plight of all beings.

***

You, 

who own only feathers,

are far happier 

than we.

Teach us your song.

***

One from 2015, to be shared with the Poetry Pantry at  Poets  United,  where you will find fine reading every Sunday morning.

Bittersweet Goodbyes

source

Sweet,

a pair of cooing birds

on my birthday,

his dark beauty

shining

as he gifted me

with doves.

Sweet,

the small finch

flying

to his hand,

his dark eyes

smiling at me

across the room.

Bitter,

the day

I told him

that I had to go,

his hand opening the door

of the dove's cage

and setting her free.

Bittersweet moments,

the rest of my life,

every time I hear

the call of doves

cooing

from the trees.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Bittersweet. Of which life has an ample supply of moments. Smiles. And for  Kerry's prompt at Real Toads: Goodbye.

That Farther Shore

When the angel of death

arrives at my bedside,

like the ferryman

coming around the bend

of the river,

plying his oar

with determination,

pulling alongside

and beckoning me in,

When I gaze at him,

my bed the shore,

wondering how to make

my earth-bound body

traverse the space between us

without falling,

I think I will trust

that the air will support me,

entering that bright darkness

interested in discovering

what comes next.

Yes, I think I will trust.

My life has been a voyage

of wonder and amazement.

I have made this journey,

head tipped back,

and grinning at the sky.

Trees have danced for me,

dogs and babies smiled,

my heart brimming with

the dazzle

of this beautiful world,

who performed her best

sunrises and sunsets for me,

draping the mountains 

with breathtaking mist,

always whispering

"watch this!" and then,

watch this!"

I have long loved

the stories of people

who rose - and rise -

from their heartbreaking situations

with hearts courageous as lions,

roaring their love of life

even as the hunter

raises his rifle,

not cowering,

walking into the darkness

with full hearts,

with dignity, with pride.

No surrender.

Yet when that dark angel 

comes for me,

I think I will surrender.

I will ride that bed-boat

out into the cosmos,

transfixed by all the stars,

wrapped in clouds of transformation,

soaring through the heavens,

breath held in awe.

The river of amazement

will carry me,

as it carried me

through this life,

to my next destination,

where I hope I will find loveliness

to equal or surpass

that of this world,

where I will meet

lost loved ones,

and furry tails

will thump in welcome.

At the end,

I will say

that, all of my life,

I have loved most

this earth and its beauty.

In trust, I will step into

the ferryman's boat,

ready to see what lies

on that farther shore.

Ha. I may not be that brave at all. Philosophizing after a hospice workshop. I may be a total wimp. Though in such a circumstance, there is little point in fighting. LOL. For certain, I will miss the beauty of this world. Which I hope to enjoy for many years yet.

The Music of My Years

The amber notes

of my dad's alto sax

waft down the hall.

The night is young,

hearts rising

just to fall.

When the band 

finds its groove,

the floor and walls 

all vibrate with

the jazzman’s beat,

up and down,
side to side,

with all those 

dancing feet.

“Someone turn on

the bubble machine!”

my father cries.

He is the hero of

the golden horn

- he glows -

its notes the background music

of everything 

I know.

“Stardust,” “As Time Goes By,

and "I'll Get By",

- my parents' theme -

I grew up marinated 

in their love songs,

the music that taught me
how to dream.

In counterpoint,

his alto clarinet,

the mellow notes

of summer afternoons,

mellifluously serenading

those tender years,

his beautiful music 

ending

way too soon.

for Jazz Poetry with Amaya at dVerse. And I will share it with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where there is great reading every Sunday morning.

  

Another Winter

The Christmas

after he died,

my sister gave me

a faux fur throw,

the colour of a wolf.

I held it to me,

rocking back and forth,

remembering 

my big, black noisy boy,

my grief

making my daughter 

cry.

It is another winter.

I sit in my cozy chair,

watching the rain,

the dancing trees,

and the small birds 

that come to feed

on my front porch.

Grief

is our way 

of honouring

the ones we have loved 

so well.

I hold it to me,

rocking back and forth.

Like the wolf fur throw,

it offers a strange comfort -

the joy and pain

of remembering -

at once.

for Rommy's prompt at Real Toads: Creature Comforts, to choose an object that comforts us.

Cedar Rose

source

Nimble fingers, 

focused eyes,

she fashions cedar

into the shape

of a beautiful

bloom.

Her grandmother looks on

with kind, smiling eyes,

as she learns the art

of her ancestry,

carefully weaving

strands of bark

gathered prayerfully

from Grandfather Cedar.

She, herself,

child of dreams,

is a beautiful

cedar rose.

cedar rose

for Sumana's Midweek Motif at Poets United : Flower - Rose. Here on the West Coast, the Nuu chah nulth people remove a patch of bark and some of the living tissue underneath from the huge cedar trees. They weave the strands into cedar roses, as shown. This does not harm the tree. Trees with such evidence of bark removed are termed culturally modified trees, and may not be "harvested."

Doors

Today I opened the door

onto grief,

that I have not put into spoken words

before,

shared some tears and a peek

at the losses

hiding under

the brave smile

I have worn

for so long.

And it turns out

it is all right
to cry.

for Brendan's prompt at Real Toads: Doors. Today I attended a grief workshop. I have always been a strong, stoic person. As a single mom of four, I had to keep on going through many losses, with no time to grieve. And then my dog died, and released my tears.  When they are long suppressed, they will eventually come out, as they have been doing for some time now. And that is okay.