Small Bird (Singing Her Song)

Source

"Come into the Darkness," she enticed,

voice seductive and encouraging.

"It's nice in here,

and you'll find tons of friends."

I was thinking about it;

it was tempting to join those

who felt doomed,

as if we could be

no better than we are.

Then I saw a small yellow bird,

sitting on a branch,

singing the sweetest song,

as if there will always be

sunlight that doesn't burn,

and trees for sitting in.

And we owe her that.

"I think I'll stay out here," I said.

In the Light, we can see all that is wrong.

But also, so many hearts and hands

and voices,

striving for what is right,

dreaming of what Could Be.

And for the sake of

all the innocent creatures

and children in the world,

I join Small Yellow Bird

in her song of Hope.

For Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif at Poets United: Darkness Is.......

DUSK: A PANTOUM

Sunset at Radar Hill,

many years ago

When dusk slides into evensong and shadow,

and songbirds trill in flower-scented bower,

crickets sing sweet night-songs in the meadow,

peace and gratitude abide, this gentle hour.

When songbirds trill in flower-scented bower,

the skybirds find their nests. The stars wink on.

Peace and gratitude abide, this gentle hour,

the world adrift until the morrow's dawn.

The skybirds find their nests. The stars wink on.

The garden fills with fairy folk and firefly.

The world's adrift until the morrow's dawn.

We light candles to do our dreaming by.

The garden fills with fairy folk and firefly.

Crickets sing sweet night-songs in the meadow.

We light candles to do our dreaming by,

when dusk slides into evensong and shadow.

sharing this pantoum from 2018 with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads. I'm away from home all week, kids, so will make the rounds as I am able.

A MAGICAL SEA

Along the Medicine Way I journeyed,

dipped my toes in a magical sea, 

laughed with the wind, danced in the rain,

and my soul was returned to me.

I bow to the sky, I run with the wind,

the raindrops cleanse my thirsting heart.

Water gives all creatures life,

is sacred from the very start.

The great bowl of the sky above,

the earth below, so brown and fair,

humble and mothering, offer gifts

to humans, all so unaware.

Wheeling seabirds, laughing waves,

are luminous under a midnight moon.

I chart my path where there is no path,

knowing I'll head homeward soon.

We are born in water. At the end,

to the dying, water is our last friend.

I lived in love with the ocean's roar.

My heart could not have asked for more.

One from last year, kids, as I wake each day so grateful to be here, the sea singing to me every day. Shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, good reading every Sunday morning.

My Heart Falls On Its Knees

source

My heart falls on its knees

in its journeying:

it flies in my mind up north,

to the melting glaciers,

to the drowning bears,

the thawing tundra.

It comes back home

to where the salmon and whales 

are dying,

and the wolf families

have no where to hide

and raise their cubs.

It shudders with the trees

at the sound of the chainsaws

and the heartbreaking thump

as the great giants fall,

to make way for cars, for humans -

for us.

Will we miss being able to breathe

once they are gone?

What to do? What to do?

This family of humankind,

who desires so much to live -

can we put down our warring ways

and work together

to heal and save

this planet we all love?

The world is calling to us

as the sea levels rise,

as the forests burn,

as climate refugees make

their hard journeys away

from hopelessness

towards hope -

she calls us to
put our love into action,

feet on the ground,

votes in the booth,

demands to elected officials,

tree sprouts into soft, welcoming earth.

Prayers,

for if ever we all needed 

to pray and to act,

it is now.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Climate Change

The Beauty of This World

Dear Mary Oliver,

I read you to him
as he drove us up-Island.
He listened, he smiled.
He was a hello, and so soon a goodbye.
When I got home, I read some more,
pausing when you wrote, of your parents:
"May they sleep well. May they soften."
Life is a long list of letting go's.

You wrote:
"A lifetime isn't long enough
for the beauties of this world."

It's true:
all those years spent earning a living,
instead of joyously living a life.
"And I am thinking: maybe just
looking and listening 

is the real work."

I look, now.

I listen well.

I am a poet, reading a Master, and you tell me:
"....the poem....wants to open itself
like the little door of a temple."
You say: "It may be the rock in the field
is also a song" and I know this,
for I have heard it, singing songs
of centuries ago.
You say: "Maybe the world, without us,
is the real poem."

I was a woman of sixty, when I read:
"I am a woman of sixty, of no special courage",
and my last love had been and gone.
I and my black wolf were in love with the wild
and it - and we - were enough.

I read your book to the living,
and I read your book
to the dying woman in a coma,
to whom I wanted to give a gift.
I felt the energy in the room change,
as the gift was received,
and walked outside into a rainbow.
And all of it -
the dying woman, your words,
the sky, my heart -
was enough and more than enough.

You said:
"Remember me......I am the one who told you
that the grass is also alive,
and listening."

I close the book in gratitude
for the words that help me
better love this world.

A poem from one year ago, re-posted in honour of my favourite poet, Mary Oliver. The quotes are from her The Leaf and the Cloud, a slim, book-length poem that is truly amazing, so full of life and death and all of its beauties. I may share this with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads on Tuesday. 

What She Taught Me

She taught me that

"the grass is also alive

and listening."

She taught me to see 

the beauty of the earth

even more clearly.

She gave me gifts of sky

and bird and song.

Her words helped me

better love this world,

and my "one wild 

and precious life."

for Magaly's prompt at Real Toads: to write keeping in mind Mary Oliver's words, that poetry "mustn't be fancy".

WILD WOMAN KNOWS WHAT SHE KNOWS

(Truth:
Wild Woman knows
what she knows.)

It is time, Wild Woman,
to bring forth all your gifts,
for the seasons now are quickening,
and swift.
Sing out your songs,
sing loud and strong and clear.
Write all your poems,
to say that you were here.

A Wild Woman creates her own way.
She runs with her inner wolves,
and she has a lot to say.
She speaks with an authentic voice,
avoiding angst or wrath.
She follows her intuition,
along the unmarked path.

(Truth:
Wild Woman knows what she knows,
and she'll share her wisdom well
before she goes.)

She steps into new territory - no fear.
She follows her heart, in trust,
honest and sweet and clear.
Her spirit has been
forever on the rise,
the long journey having made her
compassionate and wise.

She no longer harbors life,
brings new visions forth instead,
that she sees with eyes located
somewhere else besides her head.
She feverishly transcribes dictated words.
Her songs she then gives freely
to all the singing birds.

Follow these pawprints into the forest,
Sister mine.
They will lead you to a home
Grandfather Cedar makes so fine.
An owl with piercing yellow eyes,
a cat with Cheshire grin,
will be on the doorstep watching,
waiting to let you in.

There is a conjuring old woman
living there,
her spirit fixed between
the sky and earth.
She has lived apart from others
since her birth,
doesn't care at all what people think.
Listen well to every incantation,
for all of them
are linked.

Wild Woman has fallen bewitched
by the beauty of the earth.
Before the fire,
she is singing over the bones.
When she finishes her song,
(it won't take very long),
she will welcome you 

to the Sisterhood of Crones.

from 2013, Just Because. Smiles. To be shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United on Sunday.