No Red Shoes for me

[image from deviantart.com] [sparked by the writings on many of the blogs right now about red shoes]

I know about women and shoes,
but I seem to be
missing that gene,
so any poem written by me
on that topic
has to be about not-shoes.


What I wear on my feet:
Crocs,
for slipping on
to run the dogs in and out
and down the street,
calf-high mud-boots
for heading to the barn
in rainy weather,
a battered pair
of running shoes
with clunky laces,
that have to be
wide enough
for comfort
-rather like
a flat-bottomed boat-
to accomodate
my egg-sized ankle cyst,
and which I replace
when the soles fall off
every three years,
give or take
whether they need it or not.
(Note: this month
the bottom sole
of my left shoe
was actually flapping
before I noticed
it was Time.)


I have a daughter
who wears
a fascinating array
of footwear,
including combat boots
for Kicking Ass,
cool strappy things
for dressing up,
anything from platform heels
to fitness shoes,
and all that lies
between.


She did not get
her sense of style
from me.
When we go out,
beside her
tall, beautiful elegance,
I feel like the frizzy-haired
Witch Down the Lane,
in my baggy sweatshirt
and only pair
of jeans.


Yesterday I met
an old hippy
over in Coombs.
Our laughing eyes
recognized each other.
(It must be something about
The Frizzy Hair:) )
He told me
he was in Haight Ashbury
Back in the Day,
that he wore
thigh-high leather boots,
with buckles,
in which he promenaded.


Back in the Day
I wore polyester
and pushed a buggy
with three little kids in it
inside the strait jacket
of a conventional marriage
where I didnt fit,
with my big unwieldy
unconventional spirit,
that kept bumping up against
the edges and the confines
I was kept in,
till the madwoman finally
burst out
from her prison
and was no longer mad.


In those days,
while in desperation
I pushed my buggy,
I watched,
with awe and envy,
the benign, coolly-dressed and
totally FREE-spirited beings
wandering smilingly
up and down Fourth Avenue,
wondering how
they learned
to be so free,
to be so much Themselves,
while I still felt
such a non-person,
trying on a role
that didn't fit.

I just missed
that  freedom bus
by five seconds,
pushing my buggy along
a parallel street
just one block down.


When I broke free,
I remember pushing
my giggling babies
in that same buggy,
as I hippety-hopped
down the hill,
laughing and leaping,
heading us all
towards a happier life.


I made up for
missing the 60's
later,
in coffeehouses
in the 80's, and in
the Land of Refugees
from the 60's
in Tofino
in the 90's.


My spirit never tried
to stuff itself back
into that little box
again.


The only red shoes
that ever spoke to me
were Dorothy's,
on that journey she made
away from
and back to herself,
where she found
she had always
had the power inside her,
and found her home
within,
where she had started out.


I have worn out
a lot of running shoes
this lifetime,
walking through
some of
the most beautiful
landscapes
in the world.
All I ever needed
was a pair
that fit me,
that can carry me
into the wilderness
I love.
A  pair
I kick off
at the door
when I come home
tired,
slide back into
every time
I'm heading out.

How many more pairs
and pathways
are there left me?
There's no knowing,
but there's one thing
I know for sure:
when music
from those years
calls to my spirit,
I can still kick them off
and dance a lick or two
across my empty room.

The Gong of Time

[image from eurocosm.com]

The gong sounds

Incense wafting

Alive in the present moment

Nurse Log

Nurse log

home to new life

lit by the sun

Belle and Sundance~A Rescue

Belle - photo by Matt Elliott

Note Belle's skin worn away by frostbite from lying on the snow

Sundance photo - Monika Brown

Sundance's mane was hung with icicles

"You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."

The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

In the winter of 2008, it was discovered, to everyone's consternation, that two horses, Belle and Sundance, had been abandoned by their owner up in the alpine, high atop Mt. Renshaw. This mountain sits  in northern B.C., one of  the Canadian Rockies,  where winter temperatures regularly plummet to forty below and snowdrifts reach from six to ten feet  high routinely.

The horses' owner had taken  them up-country in the fall, and through inexperience had taken a wrong turning, forcing the pack horses through an overgrown bog. The route was avoided by knowledgeable bush and horse people, as being far too dangerous.  They somehow made it through the bog to the high alpine. But then, apparently, the man couldnt figure out how to get the horses back out, and left them there, thinking they would find their own way down the mountain. (Or simply not caring.) However, remembering the difficulty and danger of the bog they had traversed, the horses were averse to repeating the journey. They stayed where they had been left, waiting, as horses, especially domesticated horses, do.

Sundance ~ Matt Elliot

At first, they were all right. Grass was plentiful and fresh water near at hand. During the fall, hikers and quad enthusiasts were startled to find two horses on their own up there and reports trickled back to the RCMP. RCMP found out who the owner of the horses was, and contacted him. The man told them he would return to pick up the horses. RCMP thought the matter had been dealt with.

Then winter came. Belle and Sundance were now trapped in the mountains,  with no source of water, only snow to eat for moisture, no warmth, no shelter, no food. For a while, they stood head to tail, as horses will, to give each other warmth. They ate each other's tails in an attempt to evade starvation. Finally, they started to give up and just stood waiting  for the inevitable.

photo by Birgit Stuntz

In the nearby town of McBride, population just over seven hundred, winter snowmobilers and snowshoers came upon the stranded horses, who were now in acute distress, and came down to tell the locals there were two horses in bad shape up Mt. Renshaw who needed to be put down. A few locals went up in their snowmobiles to check the story out. They took hay with them, and a rifle. When they got there, the horses were standing, heads down and listless, head to tail, trapped in an area where snow had risen so high around them, they only had the space where they were standing to move around in.

The locals assessed the pair. Knowledgeable horsepeople, they looked for the spark of life in the horses' eyes, to see whether they still had the will to live. The spark was there.

 photo by Matt Elliot

Carefully, they fed the horses a scant leaf of hay each, so as not to  induce colic. They cleared a more sheltered space for the horses and moved them to it, deciding , somehow or other, they were going to rescue these animals.

                                    

photo by Matt Elliott

Next trip up, horse blankets were brought, and more hay. The SPCA arrived to assess the animals, determining they could be saved.

 

photo by Carla Trask

photo by Monika Brown

Snow was melted to provide water for the horses.

There was talk of helicoptering the horses down the mountain, but it was determined that would be too stressful - and too cold with the wind-chill -  for the already suffering animals. The only possibility seemed to be the digging - by hand - of a one kilometre trench, through ten feet of snow, along which the horses could be led  down to the nearest  logging road. From there, they could be walked to safety. 

photo by Carla Trask

photo by Tim Brown

Digging the trench took several days. Only a handful of locals showed up - first they had to travel 45 minutes by snowmobile, up the mountain in the freezing cold,  feed the horses, melt the snow for water, and then start digging. By midafternoon, they had to feed the horses again, then head back down the mounatin before darkness fell. People at the bottom of the mountain started digging the tunnel upwards, as those in the high alpine dug their way down - they hoped to meet somewhere in the middle.

Finally, the trench was dug. By now, CBC Radio had alerted the province - and the rest of Canada -  to what was going on in the Rockies. We were all holding our breath for the frozen, starving horses, and loving the young folk who spent the week before Christmas that year digging a trench through the alpine to save two animals  whose owner had criminally and cruelly abandoned them to a horrible fate.

photo by Marc Levigne

Finally, the trench was finished and the horses were led down to the logging road.
They readily followed their rescuers and made it safely out.

photo by Marc Levigne

From there, it was a much easier walk along the logging road - though it was a 30-kilometre walk - down to warmth and safety, where the horses were adopted, fed back to their normal weight, and since then have been happy, friendly and doing well.

The former owner of the horses, an Edmonton LAWYER (!!!! without even ignorance for a defense!) was charged with causing an animal to be in distress and was fined a mere thousand dollars and prohibited from having animals for two years (but only in BC - he lives in Alberta and has  several other horses.) . He also had to pay restitution of five thousand six hundred dollars to the SPCA for costs incurred during the rescue.

Not nearly enough.

This story is told in a small book, The Rescue of Belle and Sundance, by Birgit Stutz (0ne of the rescuers) with Lawrence Scanlan.

 

Crescent Moon

[image from ilmfruits.com]

Crescent moon,
in an indigo sky,
two bright stars
shining
port-side,
I know right now
you are looking down
on a world
of pain:
where mothers
are losing their children,
where massacres
are taking place,
and where
starvation is claiming
the lives of many;
a world where
hopelessness and pain
are global.

Forgive
my heartbreak
over losing
this one old wolf-pup,
now spending
his last
remaining weeks
with me.

I know that,
in the grand scale
of things,
this is
a small
and manageable
heartbreak;
that the fourteen years
he has been
by my side
is a gift.
I know that 
the best gift
I can now
return to him
is a kind death,
in his own home,
surrounded by love,
not in distress,
not in crisis,
not in
unbearable pain.
I know
that I can do this,
for him,
because
I love him,
given mothers
are watching
their children
die tonight,
and I have two
-maybe three -
more weeks
before
it is
Time.

Moon,
I see your beauty
and your serenity
up there,
free from
the turmoil
and the cost
of living
on this earth.
My wolf-dog
has howled
to you
on lonely midnights,
when he
most missed
his pack.

But then
he'd come
inside
and flop down
right beside me.
There was
nowhere
that he
would
rather be.
He waited
fourteen years
to let me know
that he was leaving.
He waited
until I could bear
the loss,
knowing that
the best gift
I can
give him
is to return him to
the wilderness
he loves,
that he gave up
to be with me,
through first
the best years,
then the worst years
of my life.

The vet says
he is hanging on
by a thread.
This morning
I thought
I had waited
much too long.
But up he got,
after collapsing,
one more time,
because
I asked him to
and he
will always
try.

She says
"Two weeks-
maybe three,
it is The End time."

Because it is not
Today
I can keep going,
but I am counting down
the days, now,
each by each,
till I release him
finally
back
to his
beloved
beach.

January Skies

[image from flickr.com]
Posted for the Poets United Thursday Think Tank prompt: Observation

The January skies
are weeping
grayness
all over the valley,
sheets of gray
streaming down,
a gray mist rising up
from the meadows,
meeting in
a bowl of gray
with no horizon.

There is no sky
today,
just lowering
wetness,
falling on roofs
and cars
and horses
and steaming up
every window.

The river is swollen
to bursting,
fat with
fish and raindrops,
and lipping
the topmost bank,
almost spilling over.

There is no other color
to be seen,
except for
misty green
of the dark
dripping trees,
and a handful
of cheerful rosehips
on bare winter twigs
by the roadside.

On Gods and Goddesses

[Three Goddesses image from crystallinks.com]

I read that

some Taoists believe

each of us has gods

and goddesses

living inside us.

When we are kind

and are good

to ourselves,

and to others,

they are well pleased.

When we are unkind,

or abuse ourselves,

or others,

they get up and leave.

Perhaps that is

what has gone wrong

with some of our

more sinister

fellow humans,

why it is possible

for them to

commit

such unthinkable

acts.

They first lost

their kindness

to self,

then to others,

 then lost their way,

and,

in despair,

lacking hope,

their deities

have left them.

The Great Ferris Wheel in the Sky

[image from etsy.com]

Here's what spoke to me today:

"Guatama said that when the Great Ferris Wheel

Stops turning, you will still be way up

There, swinging in your seat and laughing."

This is from Robrt Bly's poem
Hiding In a Drop of Water,
in the volume of verse titled
My Sentence Was a Thousand Years of Joy.


I like to think of us
all up there,
in the stars,
swinging and laughing,
saying "I didn't know Death
could be like this!"

Alive in the Land of Poets

[image from trekearth.com]

In the land of poets,

Fireblossom is Queen
and Hedgewitch
Royal Scribe,
Poet-to-the-Queen
and Chief Collaborateur.

I read their words
in awe,
then retreat
to a dark corner
to quietly 
rend my garments.


I growl and mutter
to my Muse:
“Can you send me
an IDEA????
ANYTHING???????”


My Muse turns over
in bed,
and groans.......
"toooooo sleeeeeeepy!"
I poke her,
and hiss:
"I havent posted
a decent poem
in days,
and everyone is
Writing Greatness.
WAKE UP!"

Because I have to,
I keep doing
my poor scribbling,
stick scratching on 
my little slate.


Fireblossom sits
on the mountaintop,
tossing down brilliancies
upon the hour.
I sit on a bench at
the foot of the mountain.
It is now afternoon.


But.....
somehow,
in the reflected glow
of her brilliance,
my layabed Muse
wakes up,
begins to stir around,
and agrees that
there is still Writing
to be done,
let's just try to not let it be
Total Crap.


The fair Elizabeth
now shows up
in this discussion
just in time,
and tells me to
remove the word crap
from my vocabulary,
to stop listening
to my fatigue,
To listen to my soul
instead
and write to that.
She gives a gentle nudge
right when it is
most needed
and I cant argue
with the truth
of that.

I nudge my Muse:
"It's time!
I really really mean it.
We may not
write greatness
today,
but we can
write the truth
in the voice
that is ours.
While
we're still alive
I will be grateful
to be writing
anything 
at all."


I am rolling up my sleeves.
I am Getting Ready.
I am Plunging In.

Note to Readers:
No, the words do not flow as in days of old when they were a rushing torrent,
my fingers not fast  enough to keep up. But the words that come are mine,
sent out by a good, if exhausted, heart and true. I am happy to be alive this day and still writing.

And I am MOST happy because you are there, on the other side of this screen
this gray winter morning, my wonderful rich new world of poet friends, whose words shine their light on my soul and bid it step forth in return and answer the call of poetry.


My words will come a little easier and will strive to reach a little higher
because your eyes are reading them.


Bless you for that!

A Word from Camus

In the depth of winter,

I finally learned

that within me

there lay

an invincible

summer.

Albert Camus

The Icy Slough

I was thinking this morning about Sylvia Plath, about what makes the difference between those who encounter pain too great to be borne, who end their lives, and those who somehow, against all hope,  hang on until a better day. Is it inborne, having a resilient outlook as opposed to a despairing one?  Is it having people depending on them that they cant abandon, or having  someone in their life who believes in them?

I was writing the poem below and thinking about a particular pond in town, when I decided to make the Ultimate Sacrifice, layered up, left my hot pumpkin spice tea behind (a cup sits steaming beside me right now) and went to get some pictures for you, to illustrate the poem.

The slough of despond
is lined with
dead bullrushes
and cattails,
broken stalks
poking through
the ice
that covers
the pond,
thick frost
etching
every leaf

does every heart visit it
in winter
to look
with the same
deadened eyes
upon a vista of
nothing living?

how does it remember,
in those times,
that spring will come
again,
when no birds sing
and chirp
in the winter garden?

Traveler,
you have choices:
one can trudge
right through,
sinking into the sludge
with mud-filled boots
that get caught fast
and will
never rise again,


or one can go around
by the
marked pathways
where others have trodden,
signposts pointing the way,
to wait for
a better day.

one can visit briefly,
then turn one's back
and search for a sunnier slope.
what makes the difference
between the one who puts
her head in the oven
and the one who hangs
grimly on
to hope?

whatever it is,
please believe me
when I tell you
that despond
is a temporary
station
take the next turning
you come to
and believe,
for winter is short
in duration.

Weary Traveler,
take the path
we've left
behind
for you.
There lies
a beautiful valley
on the other side
of the slough.

              

Dear Earth

The Elaho River

Photo by Jon Merk

Dear Earth,

You look so beautiful

this morning,

with the sun shining on you

out of a cerulean sky,

and the white frost

coating all the branches

and grassblades

like diamond etchings.

But my eyes dont have

to travel far

to see

where we have gouged

your hillsides,

laying them waste

taking the best timber,

leaving the rest to rot,

wasted,

on your bleeding slopes.

I watch the news

and see pollutants

in your waterways

poisoning the water,

the marshlands

and all who dwell therein.

I see the ocean warming up

and its teeming marine life

threatened

as food sources and plankton

disappear.

I watch humans

on the screen,

each seeing otherness

instead of shared humanity,

fighting everywhere,

discord and hatred

like angry boils

on living skin

that longs only for peace

and an end to pain.

I see multinationals

to whom greed and profit

are the bottom line,

who spare not one thought

to the cost to the planet

and its people,

to the future

of the earth

and humanity itself.

I see leaders who need

to legislate tough measures,

who are cowed by the multinationals,

and whose hands are tied by the opposition,

so we all watch as the situations worsen,

we all grow faint with apathy,

like the frog in the pot of water,

slowly heating up,

feeling helpless,

trying to hold onto hope,

while nothing changes.

We need a grass roots uprising

all over the planet.

We need to make our leaders hear

our voices

in numbers they cant ignore.

We need to defend you,

planet that we love,

upon whose heartbeat we live,

whose air we breathe.

You are speaking in

as loud a voice as you can

as the water levels rise, the tundra melts,

distress, tornadoes, hurricanes, fires,

tidal waves and floods are everywhere.

How much louder can you howl?

Even the whales know

they are on the road to death

while the powers that be

continue to live as if it is still 1950

and "jobs" and "profit"

are the only

words that count.

I look at your beauty

and could almost be lulled

into thinking

that  we will all be okay:

One more day

on Planet Earth

with sun shining off

the snowy peaks,

mountains standing tall

with endurance

as they have for millenia,

rivers rushing through the rapids

and away,

the ocean waves rolling in,

with a voice that has sung for longer

than the land masses have been alive,

singing us all into sleep and false security:

"it's all the same,

it's all the same",

while the earth and sea

heat up,

the waters rise,

and the ozone depletes,

all predicting a future

too terrifying to look at

but which must

be looked at.

Dear Earth,

I so love you

and want to save you.

But I need six billion

other voices

joined to mine.

Bring us,

whichever way you can,

the thousand years

of peace

that have been promised.

Bring peace

and sanity

into the hearts

of Man.

Two Poems on New Year's Day

[google images]

[These two poems were written on New Year's Day in Tofino some years back. I am posting them to celebrate this New Year's Day ~ the first day of a year of possibilities,in which anything can happen - in which I can make anything happen, if I choose to. Wishing you a year of days, to be opened like Christmas packages, one by one.]

On the first day of this new year,
in silence,
looking into the heart of flame
of a flickering candle,
I ask the universe to guide my way,
lead me in the direction
I am meant to go,
and use me as it will.
Not making resolutions,
but listening
for the voice within
that knows.
In the stillness,
a message comes:
those I am meant to meet
are expecting me.
The way will open
and I need only follow.
"Be grateful for all gifts"
I hear, and
(in all my striving
for growth, for deepening
and for truth)
"do not overlook what is
already right here,
shining."

[I felt that voice was going to lead me away from that place I loved so much, and sure enough, it did. That voice is making rustling noises once again. As much as I am enjoying my little home, there may perhaps  be another move, another new start coming. Life is full of such leavings, such starting overs. ]

CONTENTMENT

I awake in the dark,
just before morning breaks.
Utter stillness means
the power is out:
no machines drown out
the peacefulness
with sound.
Opening the window,
the wind is melody,
playing through trees
that nod and bend,
one looking like giant broccoli,
the others tall, bearded
Oriental gentlemen
stately, distant, bowing,
that seem as if
they're just about to do Tai Chi.
From behind the forest,
the ocean's voice
is muted roar.
The sleepy drone of the lighthouse
at Lennard's Light
tells of white shrouded sands,
dark driftwood shapes
looming in the mist,
upon a ghostly shore.

Above, two eagles,
wings spread wide,
serenely circle,
spiralling high
in perfect tandem,
eye to eye,
coasting on the wind-currents,
wind-surfing the sky.

Smaller birds call sharply,
waiting for morning seed
and, underneath, in the bushes,
sparkly little raccoon eyes
are waiting for their breakfast
to apear.

Down the hall,
to light my morning fire,
I make my way,
enjoying the comforting crackle,
the spreading warmth,
the homeyness of home
this winter's day.
I pour tea into my dark blue cup,
and, sipping comfort,
breathing peace,
content,
I know my cup
is filled
right up.

I light two fat white candles
just for pleasure,
feeling the spirit
living in the flame,
whispering "thank you"
with gratitude
too great to measure
to a Source
that doesnt need a name.

In these simplest of gifts
my morning brings
the most profound of blessings
and my heart has wings.