Tahlequah

Midst the pandemic -

news: Tahlequah is pregnant -

note of joy and hope

for earthweal's open link: https://earthweal.com/

Tahlequah is the orca who carried her dead calf on her nose, grieving, for seventeen days and a thousand miles some time back. She broke all our hearts. I pray this time her calf will live. Which depends, as always, on humans.

POEMS HIDE

Poems hide

in the rafters, growing dusty

on days when we don't write.

Bored, they grow restive,

waiting for our us to pick up our pens,

gaze at the ceiling, brains slowly moving

into inner space, trusting words

will arrive, as they always do,

most often unspectacularly.

Poems hide

in the midst of a pandemic,

when the number of the dying

grows beyond what a mind can encompass;

when the level of hostility in the world

keeps us hiding, along with our poems,

in our safe living rooms,

tending our wounded hearts,

our dashed dreams,

our floundering hope.

Poems hide

when we wonder

if we will ever again

write a lyrical poem

about sunshine and flowers and beauty;

they hide, like our dusty old dreams

of a world where justice and integrity lead

and the rest of us follow.

Wild Writing inspired by "Valentine for Ernest Mann", a poem including the line "Poems hide" by Naomi Shihab Nye.

IN THE PRESENCE OF THE SACRED

This is the Hanging Garden Tree, on the Tall Tree Trail

on Wah'nah'juss, otherwise known as Meares Island. 

This island lies across the harbour from Tofino,

a sacred forest filled with ancient beings

and wild creatures. I have felt a sacredness 

there more than in any cathedral.

On Wah'nah'juss, 10,000 Nuu chah nulth lived pre-contact. Only a few hundred survived, by going deep into the forest for years, to wait out the devastation of the smallpox epidemic brought by the settlers.

I am Hanging Garden Tree,
my thick trunk hosting
an abundance of life forms,
diverse and vital;
garlanded with root and vine,
with fern and flower,
a universe within my leafy bower.

I am home to Sky Creatures, all the winged ones,
Owl and skyhawk, murrelet and swallow;
small furry-pawed ones dart among my branches
and nestle soft within my sleepy hollows.

A thousand fern fronds
drape fringed shawls along my shoulders,
soft moss, green lichen and fat mushroom clinging,
climbing vine that wraps itself around me
and, in my hair, a hundred starlings, singing.

Myriad insect worlds I tend and harbor.
I shelter bear and wolf, am food for deer.
To all Two-Leggeds who come before me, seeking,
I offer peace within my silent arbor.

Young Standing People upon my branches grow.
They came through me, nurtured the best I know.
Roots fattened with the seasons of my living,
they stretch beyond my reach now, one by one,
as I support their separate struggle
towards the sun.

In this the season of my deep reflection
I'm tired now; I have endured an age.
At dusk, Sky Woman comes,
serene and sage,
to scatter stars about my weary head,
while Sister Moon

sends me such perfect dreams,
I'm spirit-fed, and morning comes
too soon.

In this grove we're in
the presence of the sacred:
sharing our breath,
our tenancy of earth and sky,
interconnected to all the Four Directions
by the Love to which we all belong,
under the grace of a Celestial Eye,
all singers of the universal song.

The Hanging Garden Tree has an abundance of life forms growing on it, ferns, mushrooms, moss and smaller trees. As a single mother of four, I relate to the strength it takes, to support so much growth.

Shared with earthweal for Brendan's prompt: Sacred Landscapes. I am fortunate to live on such sacred landscape, close to these ancient beings.

Love In the Ruins

[title from the poem of the same title by Jim Moore]

I remember when tables had tablecloths,
fancy ones kept folded in a drawer,
used only for special occasions,
one plain and serviceable
for every day.

I remember my Grandma's small living room,
with card tables set up for the ladies'
afternoons of bridge: tea in Baleek cups,
small, damp sandwiches. The women
wore hats and white gloves to the wrist.

I remember when ironing was a weekly chore,
when washing was hung out on the line
Monday before 8 a.m.,
and women compared the whiteness
and looked droll over the neighbour
who got her washing out late.
(I don't remember ever seeing
underwear on my Grandma's clothesline.
Underwear was unmentionable back then,
along with so much else.)

I remember when love lived
at my grandparents' house,
and the aunts and uncles were all
beautiful and glamourous,
coming out the door of
the little wartime cottage
in those days of apple orchards,
fresh-smelling mornings,
and sweet lake breezes.

I remember when love itself was in ruins,
my heart like a battered little boat,
trying to make its way to safety
across perilous seas.

I remember when love was a black wolf,
who had a toothy grin and made me laugh.
He is still love, ten years dead,
missed every day.

Right here, right now, covid is spiking again,
a thousand deaths in one day in the USA,
where masks have become a political issue,
instead of a means of
keeping each other safe.

Right here, right now,
on my tv screen,
goons in camoflauge,
sent by the President,
are yanking mothers off the street,
taking them away in unmarked cars.
Yes, I mean America; not a foreign country.

Right here, right now, our long-ago dreams
of peace and justice have long since died.
We're living in the ruins of our best hopes,
looking for leaders in a world gone mad.
We're hoping we'll survive.


Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner

When You Love a Wild Thing III

When you love a wild thing,
you can never again return
to being tame.
He'll take you farther
than you'd ever go alone,
after which you'll never
be the same.

He was a wild thing,
and he shared my wild
and wilderness-y  heart.
We gamboled endless
sandy beaches, never apart
through the happiest
and wildest of our years,
and, when we had to leave,
we mourned together
our lost home with inner tears,
the way all wild
and displaced creatures
grieve.

He was a wild one,
and in all my life,
he was my dearest friend.
He was himself,
black wolf who loved me,
to the end.
He made me laugh
as untamed wild things
always will,
living all his life
with a spirit too big
to kill.

He loved me more
than anyone I ever knew,
so it was harder than I dreamed
when our years together
were through.
And, when he went away,
though he tried so hard to stay,
most of my heart went with him,
for pain is the price
love pays.

Forever now, I'll listen
for his song.
I will miss him every day
all my life long.
From the moment
his heart stopped beating,
from the hour we had to part,
I've been a weary wolf woman
with wolf howls
in my heart.


Another poem about my black wolf, written in 2018.  I have written a book full of poems about this wonderful creature. He shared my happiest years. Ten years after his death, I still miss him every day. The phrase "a spirit too big to kill" comes from my friend Annell, who wrote it soon after he died. I am so grateful for our fourteen years together.

Shared with earthweal's open link.

What Belongs To Us

Not the rented rooms
where I live my present life,
not even the rented breaths,
never knowing when the last one will come,

not the four chicks sent out into the world,
their inner clocks set to Forward,
no looking back to see me
waving on the shore

not the dogs I loved and lost,
their smiles and hearts and devotion
missed every day of my life since

not even these words,
coming from I know not where.
I set them down on the page,
to capture them,
but pages can be burnt,
or lost, or discarded
by those who come after me.

What is ours? In the end,
only the love we have given
and shared, the memories
we have made, the stories
others will tell about us
after we are gone.


Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner, from a poem by Marie Howe

Birds

A poem should always have birds in it,

the poet said. And
A person wants to stand in a happy place
in a poem.

My poems are often full of birds.
But they are having a hard time out-shouting
the black-hearted rhetoric spewing
from my tv screen,
that makes my heart sink
and forget how to sing.

How can we stand in a happy place
in the poem of our lives
while stormtroopers are beating
and firing upon peaceful citizens,
and veterans and mothers?
While people are abusing animals
and hating each other?
Where the world is in survival mode
and has forgotten how to be kind?

I can tell you that, down by the shore,
herons are picky-toe-ing peacefully
along the mudflats.
I can point out the eagle, surveying
his kingdom from the top of a scrag.
I can show you my balcony
full of chattering jays
and swift little hummers,
all living in blessed ignorance
of the weight we humans are carrying.

Bless them.
When we look up for a moment
to track their heartlifting passage
across the sky,
we remember what it once was
to dream.

inspired by "Singapore" by Mary Oliver. The italicized lines are hers.