She Has Horses

She had horses who lived in her dreams.

When she was little, she would gallop

around and around the back field,

long hair streaming out behind her,

galloping to the rhythm

of the hoofbeats in her heart.

She was trying to be a horse, and

we smiled as we watched her

- da-dum, da-dum, da-dum -

head nodding, mane flying.

When she got big, she had horses:

a brown mare who lived in the country

while she worked in town, then, later,

an Arabian, a Grande Dame of horses,

finally a horse in her back yard,

who lived long, and ruled the small farm,

bossing all the horses who came later.

This mare gave birth to a tiny foal,

his arrival an unexpected miracle.

This magical foal was her child,

she who had never had children.

Because his mother would not nurse him,

she hand-fed him. He was her heart horse,

all of her joy and, when he died too young,

all of her heartbreak.

She did not stop crying for a month.

She still can't speak his name.

Some things you never get over.

Some things you can't speak about,

because the pain goes too deep.

She has always had horses.

What this means is knowing,

when you love animals,

that after some years of joy,

there will be heartbreak.

Her farm has a burial ground

where lie the bones of
all the cats and dogs and horses
she has loved.

Their spirits are content,

because they are still at home.

The horses she has today,

circle the burial ground on their track.

In wet weather one area moves

and puffs up, then deflates,

as if the ghost horses are galloping

underground in their dreams.

Sometimes the live ones above-ground

kick up their heels and toss their manes,

bringing us joy as we watch

through the farmhouse window.

The horses have calm hearts

and shy, wise eyes. They look into our souls;

they know who is kind, who is not.

They bring their big soft noses

over the fence-rail and whuff

in our faces. Their gentle, seeking lips

nuzzle our hands, looking for treats.

If they find none, they nibble our clothing,

or the top of the fence, and sigh.

They daydream about carrots and apples,

and sweet, young grass.

They love their small barn, their round track,

and their people, staring towards the window,

where their humans live,

waiting for their next meal of hay.

She has always had horses,

who visited her in dreams

until they came to her in life:

each one with its own story,

each one a heart in search of love,

soft voices, gentle hands, sweet hay

and safe stall.

She has horses, and loves them,

and so she gives them

all of that, and all of her heart,

and more.

Inspired by Joy Harjo's She Had Some Horses, and for Shay's Word List, based on Harjo's book with the same title. And by my sister, and her horses, all of whom I got to love, too.

In the Mansion of Memory

source

In the mansion of memory

there are goblins and ghosts,

invisible wings flapping

down the hall

presaging a death,

hoofbeats galloping

the twisted lane

under a midnight moon,

no horses in sight,

whose riders

never come home.

A little old gnome,
a grandfather recently deceased,

sits at the foot of the bed

and points a gnarled finger

at Ivy,

who dies in a week.

The madwoman shrieks

in the bathroom

and rends all the towels.

A heavy tread stomps

up the stairway,

stair after stair.

Pure dread and shivering

under the blankets:

the Monster is here.

There is a long dragging step,

and chains,

above the ceiling.

Bats perch on the windowsill,

looking fierce:

Let us in! Let us in!

A pale ghostly woman

appears on the

second floor balcony

and peers through the glass.

And somewhere between

the earth and sky,

a soul books passage

to Eternity,

finds herself walking across

a barren landscape.

There is a river ahead

and, around the bend,

she can hear people

dipping their oars

and singing.

They are coming to get her,

but then she wakes up

and comes back from the dead.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - Ghosts. 'Tis the season! My family is Irish, so there are many ghost stories in our family, some of them in the poem above. (Not the chains or monster, though they appeared in different guises, human-made. Smiles.)

DANCING THE PARADIGM

 

On the cusp of Samhain
the time when the veils between the world
grows thin, can you hear the Ancestors
urging us to expand our perspective
wide enough to change
the earth's music
to a brand new song?

To breathe an evolution,
a revolution, an expansive flowering
of every good intention
dancing the edge of
a new paradigm?

A shift is happening
on Planet Earth.
Our souls rise to meet it
with joy.

Come, let’s trip the light fantastic,
prancing and cavorting like giddy reindeer
under a waxing polar moon,
conga into winter sunshine with hopeful feathers
all aloft and glistening,
caper into the dawn, vibrant and smiling
and never so alive!

Join me. We’ll pull on moss
like sweet little socks,
tiptoe through the forest
like sprites, dip our tippy-toes
into the Pond of Peace
set all our dreams alight
with the shine of sunset
over the wilding sea.

Mother Earth is calling us
to a new paradigm,
a more conscious way
of being on the earth.
A birdsong symphony is playing,
so crank the music loud,
and dance,
my fellow wood-sprites.
Dance for all you're worth.

A caveat: This sounds more hopeful than I actually am at the moment, but I am heartened by things I am reading that encourage us to change our vibration to one of living together on earth in a way that nurtures life, rather than destroying it. I once believed this shift would happen in time. But my hope remains that it will happen, if only in response to the calamities we are beginning to experience. When everything feels impossible, what is left is the Possibility of Change.

Kinfolk

 

Walk into a grove of trees

or sit by a body of water

as the sun is going down.

Can you hear it?

The longing of Mother Earth

for us to live in harmony

with other beings, and the earth herself.

We are kin, she whispers on the wind.

Be an ally, not a conqueror.
What happens to one,
happens to us all.

Do you hear the heartbreak

of the great whales, whose calves

are dying for lack of food

in a warming, polluted sea?

Do you feel, as great winds

blow our houses down, and floods

cover the land, the dis-ease of the earth

growing too hot and tempestuous?

Turn off the toxic rhetoric

meant to distract us from a planet in peril.

Listen to the wild ones, the raging rivers,

the roaring winds, Mother Earth's

warning cries.

May we rediscover kinship

and become the earth's  allies.

Only 73 orcas left in the Salish Sea. Of the last two calves, born this spring, one has died, and other is failing from under-nourishment. And Brave Little Hunter was last seen in July, so she has likely swum on, alone, into the spirit world. 

Desert Dreaming

 

In her dream, she was crossing a vast desert:

brown sand, bare and colourless,
dotted with sage.

A river lay ahead. Around a corner,

she could hear paddling,
a boat full of people, singing,
coming towards her.

They were coming to get her,
to take her to the spirit world.

Just before they came in sight,
she awoke.

Not time yet.
Not yet.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Desert.

Butterfly Wings on a Pyre of Fading Hopes

Caitlin Welz-Stein

A butterfly wing can change the world

they say, each vote another flutter,

choosing which ideology is uttered,

and which flag is unfurled.

My hope rises, fragile as a kite,

and as buffeted by chance,

as humankind goes through

it's changeable and fitful dance.

Her heart is otherwhere, as she is voted out.

How odd, in an atmospheric river,

to see folk vote for climate change deniers,

an idiocy of dunces, conspiracy theorists
and louts.

I toss a handful of chrysanthemums

on fading hope with teary eyes, 

a funeral for a kinder world run by

folks who are wise.

Once, once only, and never again

will we have this moment in time,

to torch the rhetoric of the past

towards a higher paradigm.

The italicized line is from A.E. Stalling's poem Another Lullaby for Insomniacs.

for Shay's Word List.

Here in British Columbia, our provincial election is so evenly tied, they still dont know who won: the New Democratic Party or the rapidly rising far-right "Conservatives" who sound like Republicans and are gaining ground as quickly and inexplicably. We had an atmospheric river, flooding many areas, on voting day and our wonderful Green party candidate lost her seat in Legislature. She said "It is strange that people came out during an atmospheric river to vote for climate change deniers. But that's where we are." I think we in North America  are going to be experiencing the results of these improbable choices in the years ahead. And it won't be pretty.

The Magic Bag

Zoey

My sister's dog thinks my bag is magic.

Every time I visit, she knows 

there will be a toy inside for her.

She joyously sticks her snout right in,

grabs the toy and runs away. We say hello

a little later. She lurks around 

my bedroom door, gazing longingly at it. 

To her, it is always full,

Endless forever toys. Magic!

When I cross the room to go out,

she follows the bags (both of us, lol.)

At the hospital for tests,

I have a stuffed toy to give her

when I get home. With my crazy hair, 

and stuffed toy peeking out of my bag, 

I look like my care aid

should be accompanying me.

Maybe I am on the wrong floor.

At home, all the local dogs know me.

I hear yips and barks from passing cars,

howls and commands under my window.

"Treats!" they plead, pulling their people

on leash, heels skidding, across my yard.

I'm such a dog magnet.

You'd better bury my bag with me,

so I can give treats to all the dogs in heaven.

Fill it up, so I don't run out.