My Musey Meez

I write surrounded by wolves
and nature: wolves and herons and elephants
gaze down on me, and a wall of trees,
green and alive, and full of birds,
thrives outside my window.
My wolf-pup's eyes gaze ever at me:
steadfast, patient, loyal, eternal.

Often, my  eyes go to the trees outside,
to watch them dance, to witness
my lone hummingbird coming to the feeder,
leftover from the summer past.

My meez offers keys or pen, in invitation.
The muse is balky; it starts and stalls,
then spits out a few words or lines.
I look into the eyes on the wall:
the eyes of the wild that I love
and celebrate in my work,
that companioned me throughout my life,
that I live and die for.
A wolf howl is lodged in my heart.
Now and then it escapes
into a poem.


for Toni's prompt at Real Toads: to write about our "meez" - the actual physical place where we write. Mine, as you can see, is surrounded by wolves and nature: my greatest inspiration.

In Love With Place

When you are

in love with place,

the winds

blow love your way.

Every day

begins and ends

with pure contentment.

The white, soft sand blesses

the bottoms of your feet;

dune grass

burns golden

in the amber light

just before dark,

when the sun goes down.

Your heart

takes flight

on every eagle's wing,

when you are

in love with place,

and it knows

your name.

sharing this with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, my friends, where there is good reading every Sunday morning.

Monster of the Ghostly Shore

source

He is an upright monster
who doesn’t know he is a beast.
He devours all in his path,
cares not the price tag of his feast.

His thoughts are tormented
as he walks the ghostly shore.
He knows only one word:
“More. And More. And More.”

Under his footprints,
ecosystems collapse
and species go extinct.
Beings tremble at his passing,
and are gone in a blink.

The locals think the nightly wails
are his grievous sighs,
but it’s the sound of all things dying,
that we hear; their mournful cries.

His song : “I Can’t Get No
Satisfaction,” ‘cause there
never is Enough.
He fears the Others might unseat him
so he blusters extra tough.

He treads the shore wearing
the ball and chain of his desire
and nothing more.

He is immune to reason and to plan.

He is the species known as Man.

For Isy’s  prompt at Out of Standard at Real Toads: to write about a monster. The most destructive one, to me, is man.

Invincible Hearts

Having crossed the Siberian winter

of the heart,

with nothing living,

I came to a green valley,

where smiling people,

living gently on the earth,

were planting seeds.

source

"Come in from the cold," they said,

making space for me,

and giving me some time

to feel safe.

They knew the warm sun,

safety, love and trust
would do the rest.

My heart began to melt.

It hurt, and I resisted,

but they told me

it was time.

Time to spread my wings and fly.

And so

I flew.

albernichamber.ca photo

Now they and I, one by one,
are crossing another valley -

the Valley of Trust.

I learned its language long ago,

in the Green Valley of Melting Hearts
and Flowering Buds.

It is the language of love,

of acceptance, of holding close

and letting go.

It is Memory, lit golden

by those years when we were all

Forever Young.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Winter. The title is from the Camus quote: In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer.

Tofino October Sunset

Glorious colours at the shore last night! Yay!

Fairy Tale Treasures

source

When I was young,

I couldn’t imagine being brave enough

to climb a beanstalk into the sky.

But, in life, that is exactly what I did,

stepping off into the abyss,

a bemused Ms Magoo,

somehow managing to land 

more or less upright.

There were times I felt

the giant’s hot breath on my neck,

but I was nimble,

I was quick,

and hopped fast away.

The goose that laid the golden egg

eluded me.

My treasure was found

in the forest,

by the sea,

in golden friendships,

in music and the love of words,

in dogs, and all wild creatures.

My journey taught me things

I have been happy to pass along,

- not that anyone wants to listen -

they are all too busy leaping off

their own precipices.

I now sit in my counting-house,

counting golden memories.

My treasure still lies

in the heart-lift to be found

in that vault of blue fairy-tale sky,

the sheen of that

shimmering rainbow,

in windsong and the sight of

birds on the wing,

and the memories of so much love,

                      the memories
                                        of so much love...

I revisited a poem from 2016.........to share with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Wishing you all a sunshiney day.

The Beans of Autumn

Sunset on the Somass River, Port Alberni

Lyndon Cassell Photography

This used to be the season
of gathering the garden in,
storing it away to
feed my children
through the winter.

Now, there is just me to feed.
The CoOp has a sale on beans:
kidney, chick pea, black beans, lentils.
I lug them home,
tuck them into the cupboard
like nuts for a winter squirrel.
I have an abundance of beans,
a surfeit of  succulence,
a   sufficiency of legumes.     

Let the Southerly blow in
the gales and lashing rains of winter.
I dream of steamy soups
bubbling on the stove,
a   perfect plenitude of  potted plenty,
thick with a preponderence of petite  potatoes,
a veritable Enough of Enough-ness
to see the winter through.

For Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Abundance.