I Always Knew

 

My kids on Knox Mountain
in Kelowna, where we often hiked.
I taught them to love all these things too.

I always knew I loved the earth, with its
smell of sage and ponderosa pine,
the rattle-snaked brown hills of my childhood
dotted with yellow blooms in springtime;
lake-scented summer mornings, sweet pea
and hollyhocks in my grandmother's garden.

I always knew I loved rivers, swirling through
rock-walled chasms, salmon leaping up
impossible stone rapids each fall, just when
the world turns orange and red and golden;
and, most of all, the sea, with its wild song,
its white-maned horses galloping in to shore,
and the ancient forest full of treed beings
I stopped under, to feel their history
and listen to what they might be
whispering to me.

Even before all that, I loved sharpening
a brand new pencil, the soft curls pungent,
falling from the sharp lead point; and crayons
to colour a world brand new, and jars
of sticky white paste. Fresh pages, and my dismay
when inevitably the sharpness of my nib,
clotted with ink, made a hole in the paper
doing writing exercises of big OOOOOO's
across the page; my fear of spilling the inkwell,
(my wonder now that it never happened.)
I remember blotters, and how my love of words
started then; I remember paper dolls with
their paper clothes, cutting so carefully; and
BOOKS! armload after armload, week after week,
a treasure trove carried home from the library
for 70 years. And I remember
how we folded paper into triangles, writing
messages on each space, putting them on our fingers,
opening and shutting them like mouths,
till you received your message, hoping it
would be good.

Now here I am, a lifetime away, remembering.
How rich life is, in seasons, in colour,
in beauty, gifting us with sunrises and sunsets,
trees and flowers, wild wolves and whales,
mountain peaks and soft yellow valleys
where deer gently circle in tall grass
to sleep through shimmering summer nights.

And stars! and bioluminescence! and devoted
doggy hearts and wagging tails! and music,
to serenade our youth and remind us,
once we're old, of how once, long ago,
(and yet in an eyeblink of time),
we dreamed. We dreamed. We dreamed.

Inspired by Things I Didn't Know I Loved by Nazim Hikmet, a Turkish poet, shared by Wild Writing's Laurie Wagner. I always knew I loved all these things so I took the positive route.

Moon, with Raven

 

After rain, I gazed into a puddle

to see my future.

There was a raven picky-toeing

around the moon.

Blue, all around her serene

silver countenance -

peace in my heart,

gazing down, gazing up
at my two moons.

I gazed into a puddle

and found my present.

There was a raven picky-toeing

around the moon.

A little something for The Sunday Muse

Loving the Trees

 

Fairy Creek - Will O'Connell photo

In the forest dark and deep,
the shaman whispered “Hush.
The trees are whispering a message.”

"Do you hear the drum?"
I think I heard them sigh.
And on the wind, I heard
their steady beat, like the heartbeat
of the forest, tapped out gently
by forest defenders
come to save the ancient trees
from the loggers’ saws.

Emerging into a clearing,
I saw the tree people,
gentle souls, singing to the trees
with tears in their eyes.

“I love the trees!” one called
as the police carried him away.
Another and another, lifted
from their place on the road,
put into vans and carried
off to jail, because they know
these trees are sacred. They know
the planet needs every old tree left.
They watch the future sliding away
so corporations can make
an extra billion.

“Jobs” the government croaks, jobs
for a few more years more important
than long-term survival.

“No jobs on a dead planet,”
the land defenders mourn.
In two years, or three,
the loggers will be just as unemployed,
but the last of the old trees
will be gone.
Too late then to listen for
the forest's song.

Humanity needs a dream;
we need transformation.
We need to find our way
back to the garden.

“Plant trees,” the shaman said,
handing us magic seeds.
But even planting trees,
we need the old growth
still alive
in order to survive.

This was inspired by a dream Truedessa had and related to me. She describes the dream in her poem at this link. It is amazing. I wrote mine before reading hers, so mine is about my grief at the battle being waged to save Fairy Creek. The tree above is on the chopping block. Unthinkable. 

The police have exclusion zones, refusing journalists the right to film and report on what happens during the arrests. Unconstitutional. Protests are going on in many cities in B.C. but the government doesn't care, isn't listening. Jobs, jobs, jobs is all you hear. But when ALL of the forests are clearcut and the Island is bald, (we only have 2% of the old growth left), they will be just as unemployed and these ancient beings will be gone. It is breaking my heart.

One good thing. The other day, 95 seniors showed up at the blockades. The police took one look, and went away. They did not dare arrest 95 seniors with their canes and walkers. Go, seniors!

Sanctuary

 

Tonquin Guardian

By Christine Lowther

ƛaakašiis

Forest of green

on the far edge of town,

along your well-trodden paths

I walk

on hallowed ground.

Temple,

monastery,

sepulchre and tabernacle,

bird-world,

home and refuge to

All-that-is-not-us,

teach us how to be

so we

regain your trust.

Shelter, refuge,

in my need,

forest serene,

my sanctuary blessed,

it is 

to you I come,

when I

seek rest.

Sadly, friends, the arrests have begun of the forest defenders at Fairy Creek. This beauty above - a conscious being, irreplaceable - is on the cutting block. People are demonstrating. Most of B.C. believes the two per cent of old growth left should be saved. But government has deaf ears. They send in 30 police cars, giving the strong message who is going to "win" this conflict of interest.......making us all losers in the end. I am not well enough to be there. But my heart is there, singing to the trees with the land defenders.

For earthweal, where the prompt is Sanctuary. Tonquin forest is a short block away from where I live. Half of it will soon be clearcut for housing. Some of us have worked towards protection of its significant trees. We have had to accept the loss of half the forest. As long as they dont then want the other half.

 

Reasons Why My Heart is Broken

 

Fairy Creek - tree protectors, arms raised

In the power salute, singing "Earth my blood,

Fire my spirit", breaking into

Calls of support as arrestees are led away.

So few old growth left. Will we save any?

Wild salmon disappearing from the West Coast,

A calamity, caused by fish farms and pollution.

Whales and bears and wolves starving,

Looking at us with eyes that say

"You are the problem."

Horrible suffering of animals,

Wild and domestic, at the hands of humans.

Governments not working for the people,

Allowing corporations to destroy the earth.

Humans with crazed ideologies, behaving badly.

Wars. Conflicts. One sends a rocket,

The other bombs whole buildings.

Everyone suffers. Nobody wins.

Especially the children.

The transformation of consciousness 

I hoped for is happening; but 

are we transforming the wrong way?

Stay tuned. Hope is a sturdy boat

On a rocking sea. But living without it

Is unfathomable to me.

Working on my tablet, not as good as my computer. The idea for the title and this poem came from Wild Writing.

From Cage to Butterfly

 

Art by Catrin Welz-Stein

From cage to butterfly
took approximately 40 years.
Wild Woman has always been
a slow learner.
Plus she had helpers
in the suppression of her spirit.

Soft hues gave way
to a world of
vibrant colours,
bathed in bioluminescence
one dark midnight -
an event that marked
the line that said
Before and After.

Wild Woman is in love
with the sea,
with old growth forests,
with wolves and dogs,
and she has been free
to come and go 
since she picked that last lock
and left
domestic jailers
behind.

for The Sunday Muse

Inventory

 

Three tiny rooms, full of wolf pictures,
amethyst, feathers, stones and books;
one small plant with yellow blooms
brightening my desk, surrounded by stones 
that say: Gratitude, Remember, Hope, Peace
and Believe. A carved wooden wolf on
my window sill; a photo of my black wolf
staring at me as I write;

the world of online poets and poetry,
connecting me with poets all over the world,
without which I'd be lost; friends,
on the other side of the screen as we tap
our way through the pandemic we never
expected to experience;

a big window, through which
I watch the sky; eagles, starlings,
hummingbirds zipping past,
and a white wolf dog with spooky
light blue eyes, who stands on his hind legs
to peer at me through the pane,
cavorting giddily when we make
eye contact; music, which takes me back
to earlier years, years more full of dreams.
Now my years are more a harvest
than anticipation. Now life has a sameness
that is comforting to those with low energy;

a tv, which brings me news
of discord and disaster,
but also the heroism of
front line workers, and the kindness
of people towards others who
are suffering, since we're all in this
together;

books, which nightly take me on journeys
into other lives that travelled more than mine,
though while my life has not gathered many air miles,
I have travelled such a long journey
from where I started out;

poems, that chart the journey I have made,
that say I was here and tell what that was like:
bread crumbs to leave behind
for others to read once I am gone;

a computer, my connection with the world
when covid turns me into a hermit
who feels safest indoors.

An inventory, suggested by Laurie Wagner of Wild Writing.