SONG OF THE RIVER

The Narrows, Stamp Falls

March 30, 2002

Song of the river wild,
Song of the rapids leaping
Through the chiseled rock-walled chasm
Green with weeping,
A plunging torrent
To the ocean seeping

Song of the sea-green foam
Song of the white froth dancing
Sun-dappled baby wave-tops prancing
In the sunshine, all my dreams
Romancing.

Song of the green rock wall,
A vessel for the river's journey,
Guiding the flow along the channel churning
To the ocean and as it's
Returning.

Song of the tall green trees
Rootbound and stoic in the deep crevasses
Rooted in bedrock holding up the mountain,
Sentinels for every year
that passes

Song of the laughing brook
Below the rapids green, swirling and babbling
Huge salmon leap,
Fall back in shallows dabbling,
Plunge forth to lunge again,
Leaping and scrabbling

Song of the river wild,
You sing my tattered soul a new song,
Bless the silver beauty of this new day,
Make me know the path I'm on
Is not wrong.

Song of the seasoned soul
That knows the underlying message
Of the river:
Flow with me,
Not against me as we journey;
Travel lightly,
Not a taker,
But a giver.

LOVER OF THE SKY

January 31, 2002

I am a lover of the blue sky.
Perfect clouds
like a dream sail by;
of a green walk in the wild wood;
of tall trees dripping on me
where I stood;
of mist rising up
where the river bends;
of the small sweet song
of a striped-headed wren.

I am a lover of the burning flame
lit for world peace
in hearts the same.
I am a lover of the morning sun,
already radiant
the day begun.
I am a lover of the whale, leaping,
of the blue, blue hills
in the sunset sleeping.
I am a lover
of the eagle's cry,
who sweeps and soars
without a Why.
I am a lover
of life alone,
of the heart's peace
when it's at home.

I am a lover
of my old dog's smile,
of his warm brown eyes,
of his lack of guile.

I am a lover of the warm spring rain,
of the smell of earth stirring
to life again.
I am a lover of the ocean's roar,
of the sandy beach
stretching all before.
I am a lover of rock and log,
of driftwood shapes
looming through the fog.
I am a lover of clouds, of stars,
of the falling dark,
of soft guitars,
of the meadowlark,
of the summer breeze,
of days of struggle,
days of ease,
of heartfelt love
gone away too soon,
of goodbyes
under a slice of moon.

I am a lover
of fresh-cut grass,
of children's laughter,
of dogs I pass,
of babies all
innocence and rapture,
of the bent and aged
who tremble after,
of the falling leaves,
of a job well done,
and I am a lover
of beasts that run,
of water that moves
and creates its own way,
of the journey made
and the price I pay.

I am a lover
of brand new books,
those journeys that
I never took.
I am a lover of music that sings
songs of the heart,
the hope it brings,
and the flight of poems
for a brand new dawn
that knows this life
is Moving On.

Like the heron, stalk-still
at the water's edge,
makes a sudden leap
I am the same.
Poised to dive
from a tilting ledge,
the horizon lit
with a golden flame,
I'm waiting
to hear
Someone
call my name.

SKY FULL OF RAINBOWS

(thoughts while walking the dog, looking up from my worries

to see more than one rainbow in the sky - glorious!)

January 25, 2006

When you are hanging onto

the very last edge

of the edge

of the skinniest branch

and you feel your grasp slipping,

look up!

There's a sky full of rainbows,

row upon row of them,

shining up there,

to tell you that

all will be well

all will be well

all will be exceedingly well.

God's in His heaven

in the so clear air,

and all will be

exceedingly well.

When the grayest of rain clouds

has just dumped its deluge

upon you,

and you are mopping your eyes

and wringing out your hair,

look quickly!

You just might glimpse

the shine of angel wings

hovering there,

at the very edge of

your peripheral vision,

to encourage you and I

that, on the other side

of this trauma

or sadness or challenge,

the radiant dawn

of a brand new day

lies somewhere

waiting,

just waiting

to break across your

morning sky.

When you have reached

the very limit

of what you feel you can

or should

withstand,

when the stress has

weighed you down so far,

you're not sure exactly

how you will

pull through,

go out to where the water

meets

the mountain.

See the waterfall

tumble down its slopes

for you.

Watch the eagle

lift out of the mist

into the shrouded skies.

Take a deep breath

and believe,

just like the eagle,

your spirit, too,

your spirit once more

will rise.

SONG OF THE MOUNTAINS

Clayoquot Sound, photo through Friends of Clayoquot Sound

[This poem was written as I ferried down the Inside Passage from the north, where I had wintered, (hibernated!), back home to my beloved Tofino. Joy accompanied me, every inch of the journey.]


Song of the green, green hills,
Song of the porpoise leaping,
Ice-pack down the mountain seeping
A sudden torrent, like a giant weeping;
Prayer of the silent earth,
Deep within, where the springtime's stirring,
Gratitude into my heart creeping -
My spirit waking, which had long been sleeping.

I'm alive as the waterfall,
Cascading downward, like a fountain.
Its living waters carve an ageless path -
Eternity upon the velvet mountain.

Song of the evening sky,
Soft colors fading, end-of-day to starshine,
Each star a promise of a new tomorrow,
Song of the hopeful heart that is mine.

Surge of the sea-green foam,
Sound of the mountains singing,
Joy within me ringing,
Thrum of the motor bringing me,
Lift of my heart winging me,
Song of the mountains singing me
All the way home.

FLAWLESS MAGICIAN

july 14, 2002

twenty thousand

four hundred and fifty days

upon this earth

have I

gazed up in unceasing wonder

at the

fascinating

Sky,

each morning opening

my eyes upon

a brand new canvas

lit up by the dawn,

ready for

brush strokes

by a Master Artist's hand,

in hourly transformations

bright and clear

across the land.

I look away, look back,

and all has changed.

Unseen, the canvas

has been

re-arranged,

like a flawless magician

whose magic is

too pure to understand,

our eyes drink in

the beauty

and applaud

the sleight of hand.

No two canvasses alike,

each one supremely

unflawed,

an ever-changing masterpiece

created there

by God.

IN THE PRESENCE OF THE SACRED

July 20, 1999
[This was written as a Tofino writers' group exercise: what kind of tree would you be, if you were a tree? I chose the Hanging Garden Tree, on the Tall Tree Trail on Meares Island. Many life forms grow upon its branches. As a single mother of four, grandmother of four, I could relate to this tree:) The title could be a response to Jerry Mander's In the Absence of the Sacred. The air in that forest was more holy than any cathedral.]

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,
Murrulet 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 sparrows, 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:
feeling our shared breath,
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 a universal song.

Hymn of Praise

October 4, 2001

Wind whispers

through the canopy

like lake ripples

through the trees

Small leaves spiral

thick as raindrops,

pixies dancing

on the breeze

Sunlight consecrating trees -

almost I hear an organ sound:

I, pilgrim and acolyte,

the golden forest

hallowed ground

Birch bark like ancient manuscript

writ by a gnarled and pointy hand

tells tales of olden times long-gone,

bygone days upon the land

Once again, the breeze-song swells,

upon the wind a hymn of praise:

to these blessed simple days,

these days we have,

a hymn of praise.

*** *** *** ***

July 22, 1999

Graceful heron

swooping across

the evening sky

like a pteradactyl,

Prehistoric bird

perched on a treetop,

My heart swoops with you,

then stills,

standing by the silent pond,

waiting for the night to settle

around us both

softly as feathers.

*** *** *** ***

SONG OF THE FROGS

July 9, 1999

Song of the frogs

in the fading light

soft fade the hills

in the falling night

God touching earth

with a gentle might

and all is beauty

within my sight

soft falls the light

on garden walls

a rose-hued mountain

as day's curtain falls

a froggy symphony

serenades the night sky

and grateful, grateful, grateful

I.

*** *** *** *** ***

meditation on green

july 1, 2001

the color of life, of growth,

tall, spindly pine

draped in old man's beard

a thousand fern fronds

under whose umbrella

twin blooms

small as a baby's tears

peek pertly

jagged stump

covered in soft thick moss

framed by tall cedars

among whose lofty branches

songbirds flit

their trill echoing across

the sleepy forest

winding trails

through the silence

paths springy, living

underfoot

where we walk

heads thrown back

-alive!-

one with the ferns the fronds the trees

the height that teaches us to strive

the sky

a compass for

all our flighty dreams

clouds drifting by

one breath two breaths

leafy breath

and human sigh

birdsong

ringing through the silent

canopy

piercing me

through

with each piercing

I'm made new

becoming

becalming

forest floor alive

under our live feet

step so lightly

dont crush the mosses!

fairies drinking dewdrops

from the white bell-shaped blossoms

frogs in the skunk cabbage

yellow jonquils

line the deadened pond

the forest holds its breath

and waits

it waits

till we are

gone.

*** *** *** ***