MAGIC

28 years ago, he sang his Magic
the night we shut the Peace Camp down.
It was the Summer of '93
and we had saved the forests
of Clayoquot Sound.
Hippies were dancing joyously
 in a clearcut,
under a full, round Grandmother Moon,
following the song with
a long and loving
"Ooooooooommmmmmmm"
and a group hug.

Next day, driving out past Kennedy Lake,
I was singing Magic along with the cd:
"I thought I felt some love
from the mountains all around".
As I gazed at the clearcut slopes
across the lake,
my heart broke; how I cried.

So many trees to save.

"I was thinking of a time
when all the creatures
shared the earth" he sang;
how far we have come
from that time;
how many creatures have died.

28 years, and now tree defenders
are standing on the road
trying to save Fairy Creek,
one of the last old growth forests
on the Island.

2.7% of old growth left,
as the global temperature rises.
How insane to be cutting down
the very things that are here
to cool the planet.

I'm looking for some Magic
because Reason has
left the building. The corporate
bottom line cares nothing
for myth or magic,
nothing for sacred green spaces,
nothing about the world
our grandchildren and their children
have to live in.

I'm thinking of that magic time
"when all the creatures shared the earth."
I'm thinking of how many creatures
are now dying, how the trees
are falling, how each summer
keeps getting hotter.

Day 4

THE WORK OF THE POET IS TO NAME WHAT'S HOLY

 

National Observer - Will O'Connell photo

The work of the poet is to name what's holy:
Fairy Creek, ancient, mystical,
habitat for the non-human realm,
lungs of the planet.
The holy work of saving old growth trees,
the last of their kind, from being clearcut.
Wolves, their howls at midnight
as they search for a safe place to hide
come morning.
The neighbour's dog,
whose light-blue eyes - spooky, half-wild -
his toothy grin, smile at me.
His huge and perky ears.

The work of the poet is to
write it all down; capture the moments
tinged with the shine of memory,
and those with the immediacy of right now:
this moment of the pandemic
when the race is between the variants
and the vaccine, when people are tired,
and we seem to be losing the race.

So here I am, on a grey rainy day,
tapping away at the keys. By now,
I have worn the letters off some of them.
The hills are wrapped in clouds,
like a shawl over a grandma's shoulders
on a chilly afternoon.
My fireplace is on, cheering me.
Old tunes full of memories
spin, taking me back,
serenading me here.

Life is moving
but I am staying still, 
listening within. Waiting,
with tears in my heart, 
as the last of the Standing People
fall. 

Inspired by "The Work of the Poet is to Name What's Holy" by Diane Ackerman. Wild Writing with Laurie Wagner. This week the courts ruled in favor of the logging company. The tree defenders trying to save Fairy Creek will now begin to be arrested. The corporate criminals backed by law; those trying to save the planet being charged and held. It makes no sense. The photo above is on the chopping block. On Vancouver Island, there is less than three percent of old growth left.

WILD WOMAN, SURFACING

 

Wild Woman lifts her antenna,
swivels it around like a periscope,
assessing  the territory. Much has changed,
herself most of all, on this journey
of sending sea-soaked words
out into the world.

The last of the old growth is falling.
Let the world fall silent
to ponder this grievous fact.
The Old Ones who provide habitat
for the non-human realm,
the lungs of the planet
that sequester our carbon,
will soon be gone,
as the planet warms
and the ice floes melt
and creatures everywhere
 - including us -
struggle increasingly
to survive.

A vast quiet has come to live
inside her chest.
Wild Woman is running out of words
of warning, of grief.
Resignation, a weeping sky,
Hope, a tightly curled, pink-edged
cherry blossom almost ready
to bloom.

Day 3 

Being the Observer

The Broken Group Islands
off the Wild Pacific Trail in Ucluelet

Star dreamer,
singer of ocean songs,
gatherer of beach rocks,
I whisper to cedar,
commune with ravens,
send love to the wolves,
give deep bows to the sunrise,
wrap morning fog
in ecstasy
around my throat,
hobble along the shore,
eyes ever alert
for treasures.

I am at the time of Watching,
of Being the Observer.
I sift and sort
a plentitude
of memories,
noting with gratitude
the winding path
that brought me here.
I am a Gatherer,
bundling up
life's daily gifts,
with reverence
and wonder.


Since I am retired, (and very tired!), my current job is observing this world, so full of beauty, human-created disasters and earth-borne delights.

One from 2018 for earthweal's open link

Wild Woman Sings the Blues

 

source

The words might not
soar
as they did before
but Wild Woman still
has a cackle and a grin
with which to begin.

Nouns and verbs trot out
like obedient ponies,
flicking their manes
and smiling a pony grin.

Wild Woman may not
tame them
or have the energy 
to dress them up and
make them spin,

but she is still here,
happily watching
for Whatever Comes Next,
and the only blues
in her song
are Sky-tones
all day long.

Day 2 of hobbling the trail with Elizabeth Crawford. 

Like Ram Dass and the Neighbour's Dog

                         

There is that moment, in late afternoon,
when the quality of the light changes
from day, to a warm golden amber,
spilling over trees and hedges, across the pasture,
warming the flanks of the deer and
the early springtime horses,
who nicker softly, looking towards the house,
waiting for the humans to come out
and feed them supper.

I always went outside to see it
goldening the trees,
the huge maple in my front yard,
the blackberry bushes
along the road, the fields beyond.

My heart would lift up
and over the mountains
to the sea on the other side.
I ached in the golden light
for all I had lost, remembered
to be grateful for all I have had.

There is a moment we have to be
paying attention to notice:
that shift from one time to another:
afternoon to evening, winter to early spring,
and that soft slide into old age,
when we Become the Observer, patient, wiser,
more accepting, smiling wryly
at the clamour of the young, who are busy
learning Everything.

I am mastering, like Ram Dass
and the neighbour's dog, how to
Be Here Now,
more present than I ever was, more attuned,
here, now, this moment in late afternoon,
moving so swiftly towards twilight
and  that dark impending Night.

Inspired by "Into the Mystery" by Tony Hoagland

Thoughts Like Happy Dogs In the Sun

 

Granddog Cali,
rescued from a kill shelter,
joyously happy to be alive

"Be the Observer," my friend told me, once,
when someone was behaving badly.
And so I Observe, and try to remember
each of us is on our own journey,
at our own pace, and that
I don't have to be the same as you,
or you, me, to be okay.

"Name your thoughts," the poet said,
"you might be surprised to know
how many thoughts are judging
instead of loving, of criticizing
instead of accepting and letting go.

"Never put anyone out of your heart,"
she says, and I am caught
on the point of my own invisible sword
that I raised to protect me.

For humans are difficult.
They are not dogs.
A dog may fear, but he does not judge.
He may flinch, but he has little choice
but to trust the hand coming toward him
will not hurt him.

Words hurt. Our gift of speech
is not always a gift.

I wish to  loose my thoughts
like happy dogs circling in the sun,
tongues out, grins drooly and delirious,
running and leaping with each other
on a long sandy beach
where nothing exists except
this moment of being present -
just perfectly,
       and ever so gratefully
here.

Inspired by Susan Browne's "Buddha's Dogs". The italicized words are hers.