TYKE

source

Row upon row of grinning people, munching popcorn, 

eyes on the ring, ready to be entertained,
and in she comes, huge grey beast,
prodded by sharp poles, yelled at by trainers.
She sullenly complies till, one sharp jab too many,
she turns on her keeper, knocks him down,
rolls him around the floor, enraged,
charges out of the tent, folks screaming and scattering,
is shot in the street, paying for her captors' harshness
with her life - this life she did not choose.


TYKE was an African elephant, not suited for circus work, (what elephant is?) yet made to perform anyway, for years,  until the day in 1994 when she snapped, killed her trainer, and ran into the streets of Honolulu. She was shot and killed by police, who fired 86 bullets into her. There is a film about her, (Tyke: Elephant Outlaw) explaining how owners had been advised against continuing to force her to perform, advice ignored in the interest of finances, as usual. She was not the outlaw, in her run for a freedom found only in her death. This breaks my heart.

for Kerry's prompt at the Sunday Mini Challenge at Real Toads: ten lines on the theme of "This is not what we came here to see."


source: Wikipedia

NOCTURNE

photo by Jon Merk

And now the little nightbirds all are sleeping.

A froggy chorus rides the evening air.

High in the cedar, mourning doves are calling;

in the topmost branch, they've found

some purchase there.

The dusky light creeps softly down the mountain.

The heron on one leg folds up her wing.

Owl swoops the tall grass searching for her dinner.

Around the pond the noisy crickets sing.

Onto the darkening pasture 

creeps the nightfall,

atop the barn, a silver slice of moon.

The stars wink on. The twilight turns

to darkness. It's time to sleep. 

Morning will come too soon.

One from 2013, my friends, shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Blessings

I open my eyes to another day of living, (eyesight, life)
open the door of my little room (shelter, refuge, safety)
to the fresh morning, tinged with
hints of autumn. (new beginnings, sky, air, trees, weather)
Doves coo, horses whicker and
kick up their heels in the field,
fat dogs loll about on porches, happy, panting.
A mama deer and her baby nibble  grass
at the far side of the meadow. (Birds, animals, pets, wildlife)

All is peaceful.
All, all is peaceful.
I live in the deep silence of solitude. (A choice, the right one for me.)
I breathe in gratitude. (A nose.)
I breathe out thankfulness.
I wrap the morning around myself
like a cloak, (I love mornings.)
and count my blessings. (Peace, solitude, many things for which to be grateful)

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Blessings, which we in this part of the world have many.

Star Voyager

source

I swirl and swirl around the ceiling,  then it vanishes, and I am flying through the radiance of the stars, awesome Sky-World. Down below is the planet, blue and green, radiant and beautiful, at peace, a cloud-draped snapshot of the way it's meant to be, peopled by loving human hearts, everywhere a sanctuary for furred and flying and skin-covered beasts. I look again, and now an oil-spill slicks and sticks along the coast, no place to land, herons and dolphins,  seals and whales, all sputtering and gasping in the inky sticky black. Now forest fires  crackle, swallowing hillsides with flame, deer and wolf, bear and cougar, fleeing side by side in terror, no safe place anywhere. Toxic fumes thicken the grey air, larger cities obscured by smog. Fire and flood, the earth is heating up from within and without. The last iceberg melts sadly into the sea, and all the polar bears are gone. I want to un-see what I have seen, our cancer spreading across the beautiful land, and, as this is a dream, soon all is blue and green and whole again, if only it were that easy.

I fly Up, and there are Beings here who beckon me to join them, and I know, (have always known), that we are One, as bright as stars;  we are singing, each of us a note in the universal song. Then I am back in my soft bed, my eyes wide open, and for sure no longer dreaming, and I see his face before me, First Nations warrior, his eyes behind his mask so infinitely kind and wise. Oddly unafraid, I hold his gaze, beguiling, as he looks deeply, deep into my eyes, and smiling.

Oh Medicine man,
your chants on the wind sing me
ever into hope.

***   ***   ***   ***

A mixed-up attempt at a haibun, for Fireblossom Friday at Real Toads: Dreams. (Sorry for the haiku part of the haibun, Shay!) I merged two dreams into this piece. The shaman remained in front of my open eyes  for several seconds,  before fading away. I don't often remember my dreams. But I remember these two.

Big Boy

source

His name was Big Boy
and he was black, fluffy and regal.
Imperiously, he would miaow to go out,
and switch his frothy tail,
that had a kink in it.

Her name was Grandma
and she had a wicked sense of humour.
She would open the screen door enticingly:
soft summer morning air,
birds chirping,
inviting green grass where he ardently needed to go........
memory of the screen door slapping on his tail
not all, but some of,  the other times.

He would calculate:
the depth of his urgent need,
the space from here to the door,
how swiftly the door would slam
once she let it go.
Would this be one of the times?
Dare he trust her for a pain-free exit?
Life is so random.

Hmmmm.............
scented air, pressing bladder, her smiling invitation,
"Come on, Big Boy," so sweet and lilting,
her hand just waiting to let go.
And he would streak, screen door would slam,
an outraged yowl of pain and betrayal,
Grandma chortling back to the kitchen.

All quiet. Until the next time.


This now horrifies me, on the one hand, but Grandma's sense of humour was so zany - and infectious -  that I can't help smiling at the memory. Poor Big Boy! Life is such a crap shoot. For Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Cats

Talmud Angels

Sometimes  

we are the Talmud angel

and sometimes

we are the blade of grass,

needing an angel's whispers.

Sometimes 

we are heavy-laden,

and sometimes

we're heaped  and running over

with gifts to bestow 

upon others.

Sometimes 

we are our own True North,

and sometimes we need

a little help to find our way.

The earth, our lives, 

our cosmic journeys ~

all are circles.

We step in

and step out again

at varying turns

of the karmic wheel.

Sometimes, 

we are our bodies,

our etheric bodies connecting us

to higher realms,

of which we are 

not always aware.

The veils part;

and we catch 

hidden glimpses.

On our journeys,

we somehow find each other.

I will be your Talmud angel

when you need one.

And, times when you

may feel alone,

Just Breathe,

Breathe

upon your own blade of grass

and urge it:

"Grow!"

an oldie from 2010, my friends, for Real Toads' Tuesday Platform, where the emphasis is on caring and sharing.

Wild Woman Knows What She Knows

lifeinthenorthwoods.com

Truth: 
Wild Woman knows
what she knows.

It is time, Wild Woman,
to bring forth all your gifts,
for the seasons are now quickening,
and swift.
Sing out your songs,
sing loud and strong and clear.
Write all your poems,
to say that you were here.

A Wild Woman creates her own way.
She runs with her inner wolves,
and she has a lot to say.
She speaks with an authentic voice,
avoiding angst or wrath.
She follows her intuition,
along the unmarked path.

Truth: 
Wild Woman knows what she knows,
and she'll share her wisdom well 
before she goes.

She steps into new territory - no fear.
She follows her heart, in trust,
honest and sweet and clear.
Her spirit has been
forever on the rise,
the long journey having made her
compassionate and wise.

She no longer harbors life,
brings new visions forth instead,
that she sees with eyes located
somewhere else besides her head.
She feverishly transcribes dictated words.
Her songs she then gives freely
to all the singing birds.

Follow these pawprints into the forest,
Sister mine.
They will lead you to a home
Grandfather Cedar makes so fine.
An owl with piercing yellow eyes,
a cat with Cheshire grin,
will be on the doorstep watching,
waiting to let you in.

There is a conjuring old woman
living there,
her spirit fixed between
the sky and earth.
She has lived apart from others
since her birth,
doesn't care at all what people think.
Listen well to every incantation,
for all of them
are linked.

Wild Woman has fallen bewitched
by the beauty of the earth.
Before the fire,
she is singing over the bones.
When she finishes her song,
she will arise
and welcome you into the very
Sisterhood of Crones.


One from 2013, kids, just for fun. Shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.