Postcard from the Edge of the World

I'm standing on the rim of the world,

at the far edge of far, 

next stop Japan.

I am thinking of you.

The news is bad.

It is very bad.

But the view is beautiful

from here.

I send you

a small postcard

of hope

across the waves.

May it reach you
in time.

for   Kim's  prompt at Real Toads: to write a postcard from the seaside. I re-wrote a postcard poem from 2017 for this prompt. I had more hope the first time I wrote it. Smiles.

WHEN I COME BACK, I WILL BE GRIEF

source

When I lived by the lake 

- smell of cattails and weeping willow -
it was always summer.
I woke to the sound of water
slapping the side of the cottage:
my Grandma, watering things down
against the heat of the day.
Then she pulled the canvas awnings down
like sleepy eyelids
over the front windows.

Smell of sweet peas, peonies and pinks;
wisteria, mimosa.
Tall hollyhocks beside the hammock
where I dreamed away
summer afternoons.

I remember being

the only swimmer in the lake,

during an afternoon thunderstorm,

back then,

the air metallic,

pewter sky lowering,

rumbling, growling.

I was whole, then,
before the fracturing and distress
of living through my teens,

of growing up,

and men, and pain and calamity,

the rest of my life spent

reclaiming

all I had lost.

I will return to that wholeness
from whence I came, one day.
I will be cattails, 

standing dry, bent and broken
at the edge of the pond.
I will be wolf-pup, 

peering fearfully
from my den,
knowing, to survive,
I must elude
the predatory Two-Leggeds,

who are everywhere.

I will be deer,
fleeing the flaming forests.

I will be mother orca, holding
my dead newborn calf above the water
for three days, grieving,

unable to let her go.

I will be grief itself,
watching the world I love
burning itself up.

Puppy Dog Hearts and Hope

My friend Menina

I am made of puppy dog hearts

and soft silver moons,

blue skies and the song of the sea,

wrinkled dreams and

threadbare hope,

fatigue and

rich remembering.

I am made of ancestral stories

told by hearth fires,

ancient drumbeats, prophecy,

and visions of a

Rainbow Race, 

arising.

And i am made of

lost love and wolf howls,

tears and cackles,

forest wilderness

and birds singing

the morning in.

All of these songs

make their home in me.

I perch on the limb

of my inner tree

and sing them to you,

so you can see

how beautiful this life

has always been

to me.

I changed the last stanza of this older poem, and will share it with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where there is fine reading every Sunday morning.

The Word for Wilderness is Home

In the language of the original peoples of this land, there is no word for wilderness. The closest word

for wilderness is "home". They live upon the land -and with the land- not as a dominant species, as we mamalthni* live, but as part of the interconnected whole, which must provide for future descendants to the seventh generation. Each family is responsible for and to a territory, ensuring that only what is needed  is taken, with respect, the land then allowed to heal. Each tribe has its hahuulthi**, with its own protocols, responsibilities, and language, handed down over thousands of years.

People and land are one.

No word for wilderness

but "Home".

*mamalthni - white people
**hahuulthi - traditional territory


A very irregular haibun for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Wilderness

Distraught Sister Moon

source

Distraught Sister Moon,

I see you up there, pacing around,

wringing your hands,

"what to do, what to do, what to do?"

Down below, all hell is breaking loose:

bombings, shootings, drought,

famines, floods, melting icebergs,

forest fires,

wildlife fleeing in terror,

no where to hide,

dangerous people with bad hair

behaving badly.

I see you trying to efface your fullness

quickly, perhaps thinking

if you lessen your roundness

the populace can return to calm

under a slice of moon.

But when were we last calm?

Between the dinosaur era 

and Cro-Magnon,

was there once an age 

of hunting and gathering,

feasting and rejoicing,

before My Cave and Your Cave 

became issues and clubs
started swinging?

By your light, madmen and prophets collide.

By your light, poets seek truth and beauty.

By your light, we dream of a better world.

You have stopped pacing.

You like where this is going.

Okay, hear this:

By the Light of Your Silvery Moon,

on earth we dream, we dream,

we dream of peace.

I will share this poem, written in March of 2017, with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads. Sadly, things are even worse now, over a year later. I references the well known old tune in the last stanza. I remember how innocent life seemed back then. My Grandma would be horrified at what is happening now.

Sky Voyager

source

In dream, I am time traveling, 

winging through the  cosmos, 

my body its own spacecraft, 

nothing between my Self and all the stars, 

bathing in their friendly light, 

riding the vortex, upward hurled, 

traveling through Forever, 

awesome Sky-world.

Cosmic beings,
giant creatures green and blue, 

beckon me to join them,
this journey all the proof, 

(I always knew), 

that we are One, speaking a tongue
that needs no words, 

in a universe where we all belong,

each of us a note

in the universal song.

Then, as I waken, 

eyes open and for sure no longer dreaming, 

I see a painted mask, First Nations warrior, 

his face alive, suspended there before me. 

He looks at me, behind his paint and feathers, 

Medicine Man, intensely kind and wise, 

and, strangely unafraid, I do not hide, 

but hold his shaman's glance, beguiling, 

as he looks deeply, deep into my eyes, 

and smiling.

As I woke from this dream, his face hung, suspended, in front of me for several seconds before he faded away. His glance was so reassuring. I was ill then and my world was falling apart. I took his message to be that everything would be all right and it was, eventually. I don't often remember my dreams, but I remember this one.

I re-worked an old poem for  Brendan at Real Toads

One More Summer

My seventy-second summer,

and once again it is July;

so many blue-sky mornings, now, 

have I

awakened, with gratitude,

to the smell of earth

blessed by the sun,

the day already perfect,

just begun.

All my life, sky and clouds

have led me forth,

and kept me Looking Up.

All my life,

the beauty of All That Is

has filled my little cup.

One more summer

am I blessed with:

wave-top, skybird,

wind in the trees,

Sister Raven croaking hello

as she flies past

on the breeze.

One more summer
do I have

to hold the beauty fast,

slow down all the clocks,

and make it last.

for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Come join us on Sunday morning! It's a hoot!