No Easy Answers

I heard an owl this morning

just before dawn,

and I thought of you,

all these decades gone:

waking to the doves' gentle coo,

me amazed at waking next to you,

with your dark blackbird heart,

so lovely in my eyes,

soaring / captive Brother eagle,

both longing for

and fearful of

the skies.

Your beauty and your pain

held my heart fast,

fire and rain, I thought would 

for forever last,

a fire of passion

felt for no one other,

a rain of tears

when you could not tell me: "Stay,"

and so I 

slowly turned

and walked away.

"No easy answers,"

was what you always said,

with your so-easy smile,

and those compelling eyes.

There was an easy answer,

but you could not say the words.

You could not choose just one sparrow,

with the sky so full of birds.

We set the doves free when I left.

Blackbird was playing on the stereo.

I loved you then,

and love you still,

though you may 

never know.

I have remained, this lifetime,

a solitary dove.

The answer was, 

Brother Dreamer,

then and always,

only ever Love.

an old one from 2013 some of you will have seen before, to be shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United Sunday morning. Do come and join us.

Old Tree

Like an old tree,
I survived storm and drought,
the clipping and bending
and breaking
of my boughs.
I learned to stand steady
as winds of change
howled through my limbs;
thrust my roots down deep,
braced myself against
the slipping sands
under my feet.

Like an old tree,
I have endured,
weary of my labours,
branches drooping,
bark chipped and pocked,
the foreboding 
of an early frost
nipping at my toes.

I send messages
of encouragement
to young sprouts
popping up,
jostling me,
their growth encroaching
on my space,
as has been the grand design
through all of time.

They will carry my legacy,
my teachings, my dreams,
into tomorrow,
replacing my songs
with their own,
spreading their arms wide,
expanding in the sun,
all the while 
time
is bending me
slowly
into the earth.

For Sumana’s prompt at Midweek Motif, Poets United: What do I think of myself? I think: I am a tired old tree. I think: I have risen above my raising, yet been less than what I might have been.

And shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads. 

Better Than We Are

source

What do I think of myself
as a human being
when icebergs are melting,
wild animals becoming extinct,
whales and salmon
and every living thing
struggling to survive,
while babies wail hopelessly
in cages, uncomforted,
people bomb, and kill
and oppress other people,
when money is all that matters
to rich greedy corporate criminals,
who smile like gloating crocodiles,
as they lay waste the earth?

I think:
this earth was
meant to be a garden,
and we were born for bliss.
Instead we have caused
devastation and destruction.
Like humankind, as a whole,

I think:
I have risen above my raising
yet been less than
I might have been.
Separately and together,
we were meant to be
so much better than
we are.

For Sumana’s prompt at Midweek Motif, at Poets United: What do I think about myself?

A Note Into the Silence

source

It doesn't matter that the phone has gone silent,

that you are angry, not speaking,

believing I don't understand the extent

of your suffering, as, indeed,

my mother's heart understands

only too well.

I am still here, waiting,

as I have always been, will always be:

for your sun to shine once more,

for the day when you need to speak,

for the phone to ring,

for our conversation to resume.

for Kerry's Micro Poetry prompt at Real Toads:  to write a micro poem whose point of departure is "It doesn't matter", from the poem by Rumi.

You, the Seeker, My Lamp, the Moon

Little hummer,
irridescent rainbow in constant flight,
you whirred into the room at dusk,
thinking my lamp was the moon.
I swiftly clicked off the light,
to guide you to the window
where you beat frantically for a moment,
till you crouched in its corner,
terrified of the giant
whose hands were slowly lowering
to cup you gently.

You stilled, as I carried
your feathered lightness outside
and, when I opened my palms to set you free,
lay for a moment on your back,
surrendered to your fate.
Suddenly recognizing you had survived,
could once more see the sky,
in that same instant,
you were halfway 'cross the meadow.

Just so, do our hearts encounter
their similar terrors,
bring them down to size,
recognize the open door of freedom,
and, each in turn, take flight.

One from 2015 for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. At the farm, given I keep doors and windows open during all the warm weather, sometimes a small hummer would find its  way inside, and lodge itself in a corner of the windowsill. In my cupped hands, they felt lighter than a feather, flight itself, suspended for that one moment. I have hummers here, too, but they stay outdoors. At least so far.

Happy Solstice

Godfried Schalcken

He came walking across the sand

carrying a paper torch

in the early dawn,

sleepy little boy

with his smiling mom,

who is no longer

in this world.

We walked a labyrinth

drawn in sand,

between opposing tides.

As the waves met,

covering our feet,

laughing,

we outraced

the sea.

It was Solstice,

and the world and I

were young.

Life was unfolding

on a golden beach,

and every beautiful,

longed-for thing

was there,

within my reach.

And now 

I am back at the shore,

no longer young.

And at last my longings

and my home

are one.

Happy Solstice!

*for Gael and Clay

An Unhappy Refrain

John Moore, Getty Images

The news is an unhappy refrain,

the background of my days.
Babies scream in terror,
in the corners of my mind,
and there is no rescue,
no comfort being given.
Bad men with dead eyes
explain and blame,
the biggest con
we have ever witnessed.

Horrified, we watch
a country unraveling.
Humpty Dumpty is shattering
over a Wall.
How long will it take
to undo the damage done?

But, Dear Anne, stay hopeful,
and dream your dreams.
Before you are grown,
we will put this world
back together again,
having learned
just how much illness
and injustice
we need to heal.

We will resist, we will demand,
we will march and WE WILL VOTE!!!!!!
and we will undo the damage done.
We will reclaim
the country we know
still resides
under the abomination
of this present moment.


Marian's talented daughter, Anne, has given us the prompt: An Unhappy Refrain, which could not be more apt, in this particular week. Hatsune Miku invites us to tell her how we feel.  As we listen with horror to the uncomforted cries of terrified children, we wonder who is able to carry out these heartless, soul-less orders. I cant think of anything else. But Anne, rest easy. This will end and the world will return to the one we knew before a year ago. It wasnt always the greatest, but it sure was better than this.