March Rains

westcoasttrailbc.com

I enter slow the bitter bog.
I perch upon a fallen log,

survey the gloom and forest fog,

while tall trees drip and mosses sog.

I wrap my cape against the chill

and grumble, as we humans will,

resisting this late-winter chill.

I plod on, while resisting still.

Where is the spring, the sun, I ask.

Has winter not fulfilled its task?

My muse has donned its sleeping mask.

It needs some warmth in which to bask.

I turn homeward, with a will,

or else I would be walking still,

searching vainly, as one will,

for spring is only promised, still. 

The March rains  have kept our skies grey all month and my Muse has curled up like a gestating hog and refuses to send me even a glimmer of an idea. Sigh. So I decided some humor might jog a thought or two loose. March rains do not a-Muse me, LOL. But they sure beat snow, which my son and daughter-in-law still have, in Regina.

Captivity

google image

His every cell remembers

climbing trees

and running through the grass.

Grey Muzzle Rescue and Sanctuary

Fourteen years in chains,

and legs that no longer work.

But still, a loving spirit.

abc.net.au

She has never known

anything but bars

under her feet.

opendoorgroup.org

The worst captivity of all:

a spirit too beaten down

to exit the open door.

for Susan's prompt at Mid Week Motif : Captivity

A Kaleidoscope of Beauty

The Farm, 2015

photo by Lori Kerr

turn the kaleidoscope of beauty
in memory
and what pops out?

bioluminescence, 
on the ocean at midnight,
spume outlined in radiance,
under an upturned bowl of stars

a flock of swans on the river, 
huddled for warmth in the mist

the mountain's snowy peak 
turning rosy pink just before sunset

snow geese flying in formation 
across a winter sky

an owl, head turned towards me, 
looking deeply into my eyes as she flies past,
my mother's message from the other-world

hills rounded, looking  like a lumpy giant, 
lying along the shore
under a pomegranate moon

a hummingbird's lightness in my hand 
as I rescue it from the window ledge, 
then open my palms to feel 
its feathery release

a brand new puppy, wriggly, all-joy,
a heart-lift of hope,
a full measure of love

the endless, always-changing sky,
celestial sphere, that forever
enraptures my eye

the peace of an old growth forest,
full of wolves and hidden bears ~
unseen, and yet we feel 
their spirits there

a child's wide-eyed, 
open-hearted trust
when one has earned it,
as each trusted adult must

the heroism in human hearts 
that strive, through the worst of times, 
to seek and find the beauty
of being alive

for Mary's prompt at dVerse: true beauty

The Landscape of Memory

Snake River

en.wikipedia.org

The spiritual terrain of memory* 
is filtered with golden light.

Its landscape is a vast brown desert

halved by a river, with voices singing

in a boat out of sight around a bend.

They are coming to meet us

as we walk this unfamiliar passage

on our way towards the welcoming sky.
Beings appear on either side,
to accompany us and light the way.
They are kind, very kind, some in brown robes,
some in light-filled wrappings, incandescent.

I am dreaming, now.
Can you tell me, am I dreaming?

As we walk, moments from our lives

flash before us, and we re-live each one,

but quickly, as swiftly as thought,

each moment full of the emotions 

felt, not only by us, all our lives,

but the others around us as well.
This is what pains us, to see from all sides
what, until now, we saw only one way.

An overwhelming sensation, like a tap pouring

enough memories through us to drown us,

as we accept yet fight against the drowning.

We realize how much of the time 

we were living unconscious.

This hurts.
We realize how much time
we wasted complaining,
instead of being grateful.
This stings.
But the guides are gentle. They say,
"Even then, you were beloved,
even then, you were learning."

We have never
felt so loved.

The paddlers slow their chant, to give us time

to recover from the seeing of our lives -

what our being here meant, to us, and to others.

Then they arrive around the bend,
the spirit guides.
They are all kind and smiling,

and they beckon us closer.

It seems we have a choice.
We can step into the boat,

or we can shake our heads and return,
follow our footsteps 

back across the desert
to our left-behind lives.

Only, if we return,

we will be much more aware than before

of how every single word, smile,
moment and thought,

impacts the entire world around us.
Each of our words, then,
each of our moments,
will be blessed.

* "the spiritual terrain of memory" is a phrase borrowed from Alan Dienstag. It seems this led me to describing a near-death experience. My grandma actually told me this story of her friend's return from a coma, when she hovered between life and death, several decades ago. She found herself  crossing a desert landscape, hearing people singing in a boat around a bend. When it arrived, the woman was told she still had work to do, and she came back to life.

In my readings on NDE's, they say our life review lets us know how each experience impacted not only us, but the people around us. This is what must bring pain, as we see the effect our unthinking words and actions had on others. But they say it is not to punish us, it is for our soul's  learning.

Anyone interested in Alzheimer's, or whose family is impacted by the disease, will find Alan Dienstag's article (click on the link) very interesting. 

Love Water Day

This is my eco-warrior heroine, Ta'Kaiya Blaney of the Sliammon Band, a singer and environmental activist since she was ten. This girl is an inspiration. Today is love Water Day. We take it for granted in the northern hemisphere. But, even here, water is becoming finite, especially in the southern USA. 

"Aquifers provide us freshwater that makes up for surface water lost from drought-depleted lakes, rivers, and reservoirs. We are drawing down these hidden, mostly nonrenewable groundwater supplies at unsustainable rates in the western United States and in several dry regions globally, threatening our future."

- Dennis Dimik, National Geographic

Take a moment today to reflect upon the living gift of water, to thank it, to promise to never waste it.

The Last Train to Nepal

by Ouyang Hongsheng

Morning fog rises above

the river valley.

Sun turns the sacred mountain

to golden fire.

We wake in the gaze of the gods:

Chomolungma, 

mother goddess of the earth -

we rise humbly, that we

not provoke her ire..

With all my big and little sisters,

I chant, I bow, I pray.

Then, wrinkled, smiling Aama beckons:

it is time to toss and sift the grain

for the first meal

of the day.

The yak bells tinkle as the herdsmen

slowly move the beasts along.

All life is joining in

to sing this simple

morning song.

touristnepal.com

Prayer flags flutter everywhere,

carrying  modest human dreams 

to the heavens

which, in this place,

is much closer

than it seems..

The wisdom eye watches

benevolently,

with kindness,

over all.

I awaken as I'm catching

the last train 

to Nepal.

I am reading a wonderful book right now, The Violet Shyness of Their Eyes, by Barbara Scot, who spent six months living in Pokhara. Each night I am transported to a peaceful, simple world. It wafts through my dreams so beautifully that I resist awakening.

GOING PHISHING

searchenginejournal.com

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LOL.........for Susie's prompt at Real Toads: to write a Spoem - Spam Poetry. My Spam is so bad it isnt even spelled correctly, never mind having any subject lines that make any sense. So instead I selected some lines (slightly embellished in places) from the Spam emails themselves. Cool prompt, Susie.