Friday, August 12, 2016

Walking Lunabella In the Sun



Walking small-town streets, pushing Lunabella,
I count up sixty years of steering strollers
full of sleeping babies in the morning sun,
past rows of cottages behind white picket fences,
domestic sounds tinkling
through open kitchen windows,
the shush-shush-shush of sprinklers 
in flowery gardens.

Gentle is the muted call of dove,
in the big old tree above me.
The steam train whistles in the distance,
round low hills circle the town
like those of long ago,
and I am transported back to long-gone days
of dreaming of a cottage of my own,
and later days when I finally had one,
stuffed with leggy children, 
laughing in the sun,
when life and I
were young.

Life repeats and repeats the same refrain,
then comes full circle, under this big old tree
as Luna slowly wakes, 
opening her Old Soul eyes,
her gaze pure spirit,
smiling her sweet smile, 
pure love and joy,
her presence in my life,
the gift of my old age.



Wednesday, August 10, 2016

Young Cougar


Linda Dahiman photo


We flushed him out of his habitat,
chopped down all the trees,
leaving him bare hillsides, 
decimated deer populations,
and no place to hide, or rest.

Down the slopes he came,
skinny, hungry, 
searching for food,
into what we arrogantly call
"our" territory,
(as if it ever was anything more
than loaned to us
to preserve and protect).

Young Cougar has had to learn
to co-exist
with our noisy presence,
the shriek of chainsaws and helicopters in the woods,
to dodge our speeding cars, 
put up with our racket,
our paved streets and row upon row of houses,
our Everywhere Presence,
encroaching further and further 
into a vanishing wilderness.

This week, Young Cougar lay down in her yard
and stared at her through her window, unafraid.
His look was not threatening.
It was curious, assessing.
Finding no threat,
he lay down for a few moments, to rest.

But calls have been going in to Wildlife
and what is euphemistically called Conservation.
And now they are hunting him
with guns and dogs,
to shoot him for being so unafraid.
Instead of taking him far out into the wilderness
and setting him free,
they will shoot him
for being hungry and homeless.

Who the predator?
Who the prey?

If we can remember that,
over the course of centuries,
we all may have been
both hunter and hunted,
predator and prey,
warriors and warred upon,
perhaps we can spare
some mercy
for other creatures (and other humans)
who are also simply
trying to survive
in this shrinking, calamitous world.



Nicole Shanks photo

Run fast, young cougar.
May you survive into your old age.

I tried to copy the video on facebook of this youngster lying down looking through the window, but it would not copy beyond facebook. Sigh.  This is for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Predator and Prey. Timely, given the several cougar sightings around town this past week. We had a cougar move through our creekbed across the street, out behind my old trailer. He left our livestock alone. But Mama Deer, who has been visiting us with two fawns, now arrives with just one. The way of the wild, sad though it is to think of the terror the deer experienced in those terrible moments. 

We are out of town a ways, so our cougar may survive. The one in town is being actively hunted and will likely not last the week. He was seen eating a deer and has not so far threatened humans or domestic animals. But his presence within the city limits puts him in peril.  How they expect him to know the boundaries of the city limits, i have no idea.


Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Blackbird



I loved  your darkness, blackbird singing in the dead of night*, caught somewhere between the earth and sky, soaring, captive. I saw your beauty plain. And I am remembering, remembering, again. I wanted to love you into the sun, release your pain. How your dark eyes smiled the morning you pulled a string that opened the curtains across the room into the sunny morning, and I caught my breath with delight! Your eyes, smiling at me, as a bird flew across the greenhouse and landed on your hand. You gifted me with doves on my birthday, whose soft coo gentled our awakenings that short year of our loving. One dove was captured and killed by the cat. A portent.  I knew I would love you forever. But you could not commit to only one, when there were so many beautiful birds in the sky. Your eyes, if not your heart, had wings. When I told you I was leaving, you reached over, opened the door of the dove's cage, and off she flew. (Forever circling, ever circling back to you, if you but knew.)

Blackbird, captive heart,
who so wanted to fly free,
do you think of me?


a haibun for  Toni's prompt at dVerse : A Little Romance *quote from the famous song that always takes me back to those days. We had five teenagers between us, none of them on board with our being together,  another significant factor in my leaving.


Blackbird



I loved  your darkness, Blackbird, Beauty, singing in the dead of night*, soaring / captive, caught somewhere between the earth and sky. I saw your beauty plain. And I am remembering, remembering, again. I wanted to love you into the sun, release your pain. How your dark eyes smiled the morning you pulled a string that opened the curtains across the room into the sunny morning, and I caught my breath with delight! Your eyes, smiling at me, as a bird flew across the greenhouse and landed on your hand. You gifted me with doves, whose soft coo gentled our awakenings that short year of our loving. One dove was captured and killed by the cat. A portent.  I knew I would love you forever. But you could not commit to only one, when there were so many beautiful birds in the sky. Your eyes, if not your heart, had wings. When I told you I was leaving, you reached over, opened the door of the lonely dove's cage, and off she flew. (Forever circling, ever circling back to you, if you but knew.) I was to remain a solitary dove, still tethered to your name.

Blackbird, captive heart,
who so wanted to fly free,
do you think of me?


a haibun for  Toni's prompt at dVerse : A Little Romance *quote from the famous song that always takes me back to those days. We had five teenagers between us, none of them on board with our being together,  another significant factor in my leaving.


Sunday, August 7, 2016

La Loba, Sing



La Loba,
in your dark cave,
under the full moon,
sing.
Sing as you gather the bones 
of my brother and sister wolves.

Sing as you lay them down
on the ground.
Place them end to end,
tenderly, carefully,
piece by piece, 
until they are whole.
Then breathe life into them 
and watch them leap up,
joyous-eyed, tails arcing,
teeth snapping and smiling,
around the fire.

Sing,
as they take my heart with them
and run away,
beautiful, laughing and free,
into the welcoming
midnight forest.


from 2013, my friends, shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. La Loba is a mythical woman of the Pueblo people. I found a fascinating description of her powers here.


Friday, August 5, 2016

Message in the Tiles



When I try
to understand something,
the world grows quiet,
attentive, helpful.

He cried,
There are times
when I remember,
then falls silent.

Gone are the castles, the Queen
and summer dreams.
Ghosts are afoot in the land.

Children, be slow
to leave the nest.
Family is important.
(Something easy
to understand
while danger
stalks the land.)


From a magnetic poetry kit.  These words popped out at me. I added just a few of my own.


Thursday, August 4, 2016

The First Song



Small Bird,
you carry my message 
to the spirit world
on your feathery wings.
You embody my longing
for freedom, for flight,
for Seeing Below
and Rising Above.

Your song sings
in my heart,
of hope and sunshine,
 trees and Beauty.

Long ago,
Bird Woman,
dressed in skins and pelts,
sat by the fire,
looking up at the stars,
feeling a longing she
had not language for.

Beside her, her wolf-pup
raised his muzzle to the sky,
howling mournfully.

She began to thump,
hand against knee,
the beat growing
in rhythm and intensity,
until she, too,
tilted her head far back,
making guttural, keening sounds
in her throat,
that had no interpretation,
but described her longing
perfectly.

The first song.


A revised and expanded version of a poem from 2014, for Stacie's prompt at Real Toads: Voices, Spaces and Songbirds