Tofino Time

My beloved Pup at Wickaninnish

One looks back, down all those shambling, lost,

 bewildered, laughing, hilarious years,

at a kaleidoscope of memories, 

shining more golden, now,

for being past,

all jumbled and amazing,

the journey we took before we realized

we were following songlines laid down

in the long-ago.

We walked in wonder through it all,

visited by angels and by demons.

In time, we understood the demons 

were angels in disguise

for all we learned, how much we grew,

because of them.

Time now moves, sometimes, like a beautiful dream,

memories close, the years 
all the more dear for being gone.

I just learned I now belong to a demographic

called the Grey Tsunami, not the first time

I have been called a force of nature.

Boomers all, we sandbag the shore before us
pushing it  out, out and away, 
trying to avoid the inevitable,

the fact one day it will swoop back in

and carry us away.

The kaleidoscope turns and turns,
memories pop out,
I laugh, I cry.

Shining brightest are the years

when I lived my dream
on Tofino Time.

for Mary's prompt at dVerse where she is tending bar today, our topic: time or clocks. Of which, mine is ticking far too fast for comfort.

Fallen Heroes

google image

When heroes raised so high

fall off their pedestals,

the disappointment

runs deep.

When one barters his soul

to keep the glory,

the price is too high

to be paid.

-for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motif: the Tour de France which, to me, for so many years, always meant Lance Armstrong. Sigh.

WEEP, LIKE A PALESTINIAN

child of an anti-war activist in Palestine

aol.com

Weep like a Palestinian, 

as the bombs rain down

and the structure crumbles.

Weep like the small child 

sitting beside his wounded mother,

his two years having been spent in terror,

knowing no safe place,

all life in peril.

Weep for the displaced and the hated

who, when they find a homeland,

hate and displace their neighbors, in turn.

Weep because Otherness is all that is seen,

and not our shared humanity,

our shared longing for peace,
for life.

Weep, for the turning of the centuries, 

hate upon hate,war upon war,

as humans, unawakened, 

come from fear and hate and power,

and never seem to find another way

to live on this land together.

Weep, because this earth was given to us

as a gift, to live on in harmony,

nature and every living creature,

and look what humanity has wrought:

a fallen, clamoring, toxic, warring  Eden.

Weep for the angels that fall 

from the sky in planes,

in a world where geniuses 

discovered how to fly,

then other minds 

devised their deadly rockets.

Weep for the beauty of this world,

for hearts yearning for peace

in the midst of war,

and for the proven folly

of ever thinking

anything but further hatred 

can ever be won

with bombs. 

Weep because,

wherever God lives,

He must be weeping too,

at the slaughtering of his children

of every color, race and faith.

This Poem Travels in a Circle

This poem is a cool gray summer morning 
in the country.

This poem is a wish, a wistfulness,  and a wondering.

This poem will not travel far from its doorway today.

In this poem, the grass has not yet burned away, 

and the horses are grazing peacefully,

whickering from time to time, and swishing their tails.

On the porch, the chimes sound like Tibetan singing bowls,

transporting the poet to the Himalayas,

right out of this dusty little mill town 

where somehow she has become stranded.

Still, there is much to be said

for a cool gray summer morning in the country.

In this poem, the poet's heart is trembling on the brink

of accepting a compromise she does not wish to make,

whose cost is too dear.

She longs for what is not, struggles with the  acceptance of what is.

She wonders what the lesson is, and is puzzled: 

haven't there already been enough lessons?

This poem is doing a lot of wondering.

Today, the poet will stay home.

She may even stay in her pajamas.

She will make her way between her desk

and her couch, as she so loves to do.

She will connect with her online friends,

and then disconnect by plugging in a movie,

and escape to someone else's reality.

This poem will travel full circuit

from worldview to living room and back again.

This poem will writhe and complain and mutter

and, in the end, find its way home.

This poem is willing to find the contentment

of a cool gray summer morning in the country.

This poem does a lot of wondering, but has enough philosophy 

to come to grips with What Is and find the good in it.

This poem thinks it is staying home,

but has actually traveled a very long way

without ever walking through the door.

Hannah's challenge at Real Toads is to try out her new Boomerang Metaphor form which I love to bits! This time i just played with it a little, and enjoyed its possibilities. I love this form, Hannah, and especially love the poems you have written in it.

Another I, Another You

It's Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads and Shay has devised the most intriguing prompt: looking back, at possible parallel paths one might have taken, what might your life have looked like if you had made one different choice? There was one definitive moment in my life, with the one man I truly loved, where I walked away instead of staying. That is my biggest What If.........I put my children first, which felt like the choice I had to make. But I have been mostly alone since then, never found another I felt the same about.

What if, Brother Dreamer,

I had followed my heart and stayed,

instead of leaving?

Might we have made it 

through those years

of clamoring teens,

who turned our tables upside down

with their restive and resistant spirits,

that blew apart our dreams?

I walk back through that door

on Richter Street,

and find you in the greenhouse,

where we would always meet.

A small bird flies across the room 

and lights in perfect trust

upon your hand,

you turn that slow smile on me,

without words, 

we understand.

Our hair is silvery now,

and our eyes meet

with that deep recognition,

soul to soul,

that I felt the first time

 I ever saw 

your face,

as if I knew you from

another time, another place,

and finding you again

was this life's grace.

We two are loners

and, when loners love,

the love goes deep.

You had awoken me

from my long sleep,

but happiness, this life,

has never long been mine

to keep.

You opened the door 

of the dove's cage 

on that last day.

Out she flew, 

upwards and away.

Out I flew, too,

though I longed for you

to say the only words

that could make me stay.

And while my heart, 

all these long years,

stayed true,

I had to learn the route

of the lonelier path,

of living

without you.

Poets - This Way

Poem of Love by blogbucket.org

The fountain of creativity

slows to a trickle

without community.

Poems lay fallow in neglected notebooks.

The pen was capped,

until the blogosphere curtains parted

and a sign indicated

"Poets - This Way".

Up and down the blogroll I galloped,

famished, delighted,

gobbling morsels of wit and wonder

that made me smile,

then sent me back to the barn

to ponder, and put pen to paper

once again.

Tentatively, I offered two or three

and, amazingly, some of you came to read,

and leave encouraging comments.

Whoa!

Instead of sitting in a book, unread,

my words were being absorbed and understood

by new close friends from far away,

who came back the next day

just to see what I might say.

The fountain was replenished.

The poems queue in my brain.

And 'thank you' is not nearly big enough to say

for the gift of writing you all have given me

simply from knowing

that you are reading

on any given day. 

-for the three year celebration of dVerse, a poets pub staffed by poets with big hearts, who speak with encouraging words. And to thank all of my readers, who gift me more than you will ever know, simply by reading, and appreciating, sharing and understanding.

Snake in the Grass

factzoo.com

Snake, slithering greenly through the grass,

keep to your route and let me pass.

Slithering makes my hackles rise.

You've snuck a wee mouse as your prize.

Into the deadened pond you go,

your journey calculated, slow.

I fear that some dark night we'll meet,

and you'll slither over my bare feet.

for Susan's Mid-Week Motif: celebrating world snake day