Sunny Day

by Sebastian, age 6

Gloomy grey day,

colorless, chilly,

indoor weather.

Then,

"Sunny day for you!"

the little one says,

handing me a bright orange sun.

And suddenly -

it is.

for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motif: the sun

WILD WOLF WOMAN

Wings for Wild Woman

 by Ellen Wilson of Ella's Edge

Wild Woman carries the heart of a wolf

in her chest.

Its rhythm pulses in time with her wild sister,

who runs, wraith-like, through the forest, 

stopping under a midnight moon

only long enough to tip back her head and howl.

Her true being only comes alive

within sight and smell of the sea:

the hackles rise along her spine,

as she raises her nose to scent the wind,

determining her direction by the keening call

of the wild.

Wild Woman belongs to each of us, and to us all.

She lives in the space between heartbeats,

and in the thoughts between words.

Listen for her knowing voice

at your right ear, whispering:

"Come, this is the way."

Then follow, with perfect trust,

for no one knows better or truer

than the Wild Woman Watcher within.

Wild Woman moves through worlds seen and unseen,

emerging at daybreak to slake her thirst

at the River of Solitude.

At close of day, the forest rolls out

a soft mossy carpet for her bed.

In between, you may follow her

when she is Wilding, but not too close.

Be respectful of her space and of her growl.

And when she shape-shifts out of sight,

look down quickly.

You may just see the pawprints

she has left behind.

Wild Woman is the one we run from when we are young,

and run home to when we are old.

She is an ancient singing through our bones, a wise smile,

the knowing eyes of a Watcher in the Woods.

If you are quick enough, you might just spy the furry tip

of her tail peeking out from under her billowing robe,

and trailing behind like moondust.

Follow her, embrace her, for without Wild Woman,

our spirits shrivel up and begin to die.

With her, our vision expands, and we learn,

finally and unfathomably,

to fly.

- written in 2012 and found in my draft folder this morning. 

Four Toads

google

She opened her mouth

and four toads popped out,

startled, yet relieved 

she had opted out of eating them,

or at least so they believed.

Hands to her mouth in consternation,

flustered, she intoned,

"I only intended to eat the legs,

but wanted them de-boned."

Well. I'm sorry. It has been a long day and this is all that's left of my brain. For Karin's prompt at Real Toads: to write about something edible. Four toads seemed appropriate.

What Aging Spectre....?

google image

But soft! What is that tapping:
tap, tap, tap?
It is her cane, her other arm outstretched.

How daft! her tilting step the very brink

of yon balcony skirts.

May she not lean too far.

What aging spectre dims the smirking sun?

I tremble with horror at what time has wrought.

Her neck, once swan-like, now has definition naught,

spilling like bedtime candle. Who didst thus plot?

'Tis Juliet! How can this be,

my lady-love grown so old?

Can such transformation be time's laughing truth?

Forsooth! and verily, 

verily and forsooth,

methinks yon Juliet,

once so passing fair, 

is now a beldam

grown too long in the tooth.

An obvious spoof on the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet, re-posted from the archives just to give you a smile this day! The sign on the balcony just slays me.

A Phenomenal Man

In coffeehouse days, his songs thawed the ice
around my heart:
Gentle Jonathan, Silver and Gold,
guitar chords strumming in the ambient light,
as all our hearts took flight.
We thought we'd be forever young, back then,
when a few of us became forever friends.

Our souls both belonged to the wild,
so in my Tofino days, he'd come. 
We'd stalk wild beaches at sunset, 
cameras in hand,
seeking truth our souls could understand,
joyously beside the ocean's roar,
Beauty above, below, beside, before.
hearts so full one wanted nothing More.

Then he'd play an evening concert just for me:
all the songs I loved, opening my heart
and setting feelings free,
the music pushing me
to the point of pain,
then mending it again.

He told me once
"I'm embarrassed to be a man, 
because of the violence men have done 
to women since time began."
His heart is gentle; he honors the woman he loves.
"Sometimes I raise a glass
to all the men my wife has ever loved,
and then set free,
because they helped shape her 
into who she is
for me."

He writes, this gentle soul, 
composes and performs his lovely music,
he paints, he ponders the meaning of life,
looks deep into his soul.
His trip has been a spiritual journey
that he makes with gratitude and peace.
He is in love with rivers, and with mountains.
Within the river's song
he finds release.

He says "I love you" to the trees, 
to bushes,  rocks, and passing bees.
He tells me, smiling, that of love
there is no lack.
"After a few minutes of saying 'I love you',
to all I see,
I can feel everything in the world
loving me back."

He is one of the two men in my life
who won my trust, whose friendship remained
platonic, unwavering and strong.
Our coffeehouse days shine golden in memory:
music, and friendship,  laughter, love and song,
a place in this old world where we belonged.
We recognize the Members of our Tribe
and, when we find them, they become
our family, trusted, safe, life-long.

He made a journey these past weeks
through the fire. We almost lost him.
But he rallied, the surgeons did their skillful work.
He will return home to his cabin by the sea,
to his sunsets, his wood stove,
his wife and his cat.
And I am eternally grateful, for that,
for his presence on this earth
means all the world to me.
And I'm waiting for what he saw
when he was cosmic-traveling
to show up in a painting,
so we all can see.

Matthew, they asked me to write about 
a phenomenal man,
so I've been looking back down all the years
as best I can.
How does one say "thank you"
for friendship that has lasted half my life,
that weathered all my storms and tears,
my ups and downs, my loves, my fears?
You helped me grow, 
and when I had no clue which way to go,
you taught me all you know,
the best was how to just let living flow,
like the rivers that you love.
Our friendship I am so proud of.
You are a gentle man, and true.
This poem's for you.

for Mid Week Motif at Poets United: write about a phenomenal man.

I could have chosen Mandela, Gandhi, Martin Luther King. But Matthew has witnessed the last thirty-five years of my journey, and we compared notes  all the way, as we were traveling. For having had such a direct impact, he has been the phenomenal man in my life.

Windigo Wind

crystalinks.com

When your heart is heavy with the weight

of the world's suffering,

take it for a walk along the river.

Shed your pain as the willow 

sheds its leaves in the fall,

so they may nurture next year's growth.

Listen for the cry of the eagle, 

the mystical murmur of the owl.

There be spirits here.

Along these banks, you follow 

in the footsteps of shamans.

They whisper wisdom into ears 

primed for listening.

The rattle of their gourds, 

their guttural chants,

can be heard in the river's song.

The record of their journey is etched

on the canyon walls, green with weeping,

which hold ancient history

through the everness of time.

Do you hear Windigo Wind,

as it howls through the forest?

Can you hear coyote's mournful cry

above the water's roar?

The earth is calling us now,

urgently, through the voices

of her creatures,

who are in distress.

How we answer

will make all the difference.

Do You Want Me?

Sweetie Sweetie

Could any child be more vulnerable?

photo by Daniel Berehulak of the New York Times

When her mother, dying of Ebola, 
was loaded into the ambulance,
she climbed in too.
She tried to care for her mother
as she was dying.
Orphaned, no one even knew her name.
So they called her Sweetie Sweetie.

Sent to a group home, she waits,
watching the world with eyes
that commune with ghosts.

Workers from care agencies
walk through, from time to time,
assessing need.

Sweetie Sweetie's need is very simple:
a home.
"Do you want me?" she asks the people
as they pass.

*source: An Ebola Orphan's Plea: Do You Want Me?
by Daniel Berehulak of the New York Times

I seem to recall a news story about this little girl, walking away happily hand in hand with a young man who first cared for her, when her mother was dying. One small child's tragic situation hopefully resolved.