The River Wild

In the piney-woods,

the path is scattered with pine cones

and fallen branches,

ground soft and springy underfoot,

smell of canopy and trees,

song of the river

wild in winter flood.

The rough bark of Grandfather Cedar

tells the story of a thousand years

of standing in one place.

When you look up,

when you lay your hand

against his trunk,

when you listen,

you can feel and hear his message:

Endurance.

Look into this little pocket of forest,

draped in moss and old man's beard,

salal springing up everywhere,

ferns and fiddleheads,

small white winter berries,

rosehips,

toadstools and wild morel,

every inch alive with myriad life forms,

an entire ecosystem existing here,

in a patch

no bigger than

your hand.

Listen to the silence,

alive with the forest's breathing,

and the secrets

only the forest knows.

If you take the time,

this old tree

will share with you

his wisdom.

Dan Aman Photography

The river is wild in winter.

It expends its force

tumbling and crashing over rocks,

rushing the banks

and frothing white and foamy

through the canyon.

Sit a spell.

Just Be.

Breathe the river in,

breathe your worries out.

The word I'm looking for, here,

is reverence.

for Grace's prompt at dVerse Poets Pub: The River. In my time in Port Alberni, it was the river that sustained me. I took Pup often, as it was the wildest place available to us, and it eased, for the time we were there, our mourning over the wilderness we had lost. I was unable to go back there, after he died. 

All photos other than the one credited are mine.

The Children of Syria

This is one of the most moving and beautiful videos ever......I don't know how the adults of the world can watch this and not rise up and put an end to war. The children sing of hope amongst devastation. May the leaders of the world hear their cries.

Sing, children of Syria,

your dreams of a world

where bombs do not fall

and buildings do not crumble,

a world where your laughter

replaces wails of grief

when family and friends

lay dying.

Sing your belief

in a life

where peace is possible.

Sing to those leaders

of a world

where hatred and division rule,

and soften their hearts

with your innocence and beauty.

May the words you sing

bring about

the world

of your bright dreams.

Gaia

Beautiful Gaia,

you gift us daily with your

moons and tides,

your dawns and evensong,

your blue hills and forests green.

Your wild creatures

and your beauty

bring us joy.

May you

our heartfelt services

employ.

May we repay you

with love, kindness and care.

May we grow ever 

more connected, more aware

of how to help you live,

in gratitude

for all the gifts

you give.

Finding Home

Walking to school in the morning,
passing by little cottages with picket fences
and milk bottles on the porch,
tears ran down her face,
she so longed for a home of her own,
a place of refuge,
peaceful and safe.

She grew up and created those homes,
many of them,
lost some and started over from scratch,
with nothing, as single moms do,
sleeves rolled up,
eyes bright and determined
and a heart high with the challenge
of rebuilding a nest for her four chicks,
one made with laughter and hope
and dreams of new beginnings.

Observing this sequence of events
backwards, hindsight being 20/20,
she recognized at some point
Home had become a place inside herself,
that she carried with her,
the way a turtle inhabits its shell,
or a sand dollar creates its home
from the sand and grit around it,
and carries it along.

Home was within,
and it also was as large as
the forest and the sea,
under the bright blue sky,
shared for a time
with a big, black laughing wolf,
whose heart contained
all the wild.


for Brendan's prompt at Real Toads: to write a poem about home. This was the quest of my life, since childhood. I spent years walking miles,  looking at houses I passed, imagining the lives lived within. This feeling of homelessness finally stopped when, in my early 30's, I had my first  real home, thanks to my mother's help, where I raised my children for a time. But there would be many more moves, and homes, after that. For one who only wanted to settle down, I did a lot of moving! Perhaps 40 times all told in my lifetime.........

WALKING ON THE WINDS OF MORNING

Beautiful photo made for me by

The Unknown Gnome

Traveler walks

on the winds of morning,

gentled by the soft mist,

attuned to the music

of the spheres.

Tiny birds alight

on her shoulders,

then lift off, twittering,

to follow her passage,

branch to branch,

through the sleepy forest.

She is Sky-Woman.

Though her feet are planted

on the earth,

her eyes never leave

the sky.

There are footsteps

softly padding along

behind her.

She does not turn

to see who comes.

She knows.

He is invisible,

but she knows those perked ears,

that arching tail,

that long black snout.

Walking on the winds of the morning,

their two spirits touch

through the veil of mist.

Their two hearts

are never

apart.

One from 2011, my friends, which I will share with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United this Sunday.

Kindness Heals

I carried in my chest
a heart frozen
like the wasteland of Siberia,
from the harm done to it
by one who had
abused my trust.

When I walked in that door,
I knew I was home.
Those kind people smiled
their sunshine on me
and melted my inner gulag
into puddles.

Kindness heals,
once we begin
to feel.

Brock and Friends Coffeehouse in 1980 Kelowna was an agent of change for me. I had known kind, gentle people must live somewhere on this earth, and there they were, giving me space just to be until, bit by bit, my guard went down and I began to bloom. I owe them a debt I can repay only by passing on that gift of kindness to others.

SUNFLOWER

Her round baby face was my sunshine

when she was two.

She shone golden as the sun

as up she grew.

But then came years of tears

and betrayed heart and betrayed trust,

as she sought love

the way true seekers

always must.

We both love sunflowers

for their brightness

and their shine,

and how they dare 

to dream the heavens

as they climb.

There is no happy ending,

just our lives,

flowing through

the ups and downs

that oh so slowly

make us wise.

But her voice has laughter in it,

these days, when I call,

for she found the love

she had been seeking,

learned to trust it, after all,

slowly opening her heart

the way a sunflower

gently lets

each

golden petal

fall.

An oldie from 2011, my friends, shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where you are sure to find good reading on a Sunday morning.