Sebastian and the Fishes

 When young Sebastian was visiting me recently, we  made a visit to the aquarium in Ucluelet. This facility is a wonderful place to visit. The good thing is that, at the end of the summer, the creatures are all released back into the wild. But through the summer, kids and adults get to enjoy them close up.

Children are allowed to gently cup some of the creatures in their hands, then put them gently back.

I was fascinated with the jellyfish, so mysterious and beautiful. I have seen them in a small bay, years ago, an incredible sight to  see the entire surface of the bay a-swim with jellies.

 The Ucluelet harbour, peaceful in summer sun.

MEMORIES OF JOY

Pup ~ March, 1997 to January 15, 2011

"There is no pain so great 

as memory of joy in present grief."

Aeschylus

Because men had abused my trust,

you came to me this lifetime

in a wolf-dog’s body,

but your eyes spoke to me

with human sensibility,

and you could read my mind.

Fate brought us together,

solitary wolf-woman and small wolf puppy,

lost on the mountainside.

I rescued you;

you rescued me.

Our bond went deep,

as wolf-bonds do.

We shared the wild.

I never knew how large

a presence

your absence would be,

or that it would continue

to the end of my life.

In the spirit world,

I know that you are conscious

how I grieve.

I can see the sadness in your eyes,

those eyes that never left me

in this life.

But you always went ahead of me

on the trail.

Now I am following

your padding footsteps,

listening for your call.

When next we meet,

there will be joy:

I can see you,

tail up, ears cocked,

with that old, wild gleam

in your eyes.

I have known those eyes before

for, lifetime after lifetime,

you have found me.

We made a whole, we two,

an unlikely but perfect partnership,

salted by sea-spray and forest trails,

peppered with loud barks and cackles…

Oh, we were wild!

And I never knew how deep

a grief could be

till you were no longer
walking, here,

with me.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Memories, in which the above quote was given. I miss my boy.

Always, A New Moon Rising

photo by Jon Merk

I am well water, salted with tears.

I am the chill in a September morn,

through an open door.

I am Memory

of other chilly autumn mornings,

come full circle,

as the many seasons pass.

I am evening closing in early.

I am bathing in

the reflection of the moon,

rising silver and serene 

in the evening sky.

I am a new blade of grass 

pushing up through the earth,

and I am the bent and brittle 

straw-like, yellow stalk

at the end of life's road.

I am river-breath and ocean-fog

and an old weary, wondering spirit, 

rising.

Looking through my eyes

is the one who is 

doing the looking,

the one who watches, still and quiet,

as I cavort about like a bumbling fool.

She knows. I know that She knows:

fire and rain, joy and pain,

and always a new moon, 

rising.

A poem from 2014, to be shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads .

Wild Woman Goes Out

helpful sign found on google

Wild Woman ventures out at night.

It's getting kind of scary.

Is the world really ready

for an out-at-night Sherry?

She teeters on hilly edges,

others clutching at her cape,

to keep her from falling over

as she stands with mouth agape.

"Look at all the pretty stars!"

as she slides down the cliff,

pretends she meant to go that way,

it's really fun. As if.

There's a sign on the balcony

but she's too blind to see.

The folks below just catch Wild Woman

finally flying free.

A Ms. Magoo kinda heart,

in a  world benign and funny,

Wild Woman cannot see the grey.

She keeps her blue skies sunny. 

Now she's out in the orchard

dancing - skip skip skip -

there's many a sorry stumble twixt

the high-step and the flip.

Follow fools into the meadow.

Let's all hoot at the owl,

dance with the chickens,

both fair-weather and fowl.

Smiling grimly 'top the steering wheel

and blinded by the light:

"Officer, I'm not impaired,

I just can't see at night."

Wild Woman rarely drives at night,

because she knows she's blind.

Thank God the policeman

was Canadian, and kind.

Each little touch of pixie dust

gets followed by an "ouch!"

I think it's safer keeping

Wild Woman on the couch.

A smile from 2014, shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. It's true, last time I drove at night, a policeman followed me home to ensure I wasn't impaired. As I had a back seat full of bottles for the bottle depot, and my eyes were red from an eye infection, he may well have been suspicious. Thankfully, I managed to speak somewhat coherently and avoided a ticket. LOL. 

This Poem

Joe Garcia and Heidi fleeing the flood

David J. Phillip, AP photo

This poem is an old woman's tears, 

watching news of floods, devastation,

humans and animals fleeing in terror.

This poem is Mother Nature crying her distress

with wildfires, floods, storms, torrential rain,

in the only voice she has.

When will we hear?

This poem is humankind coming to terms with 

how unconsciously 

we have lived.

Houston SPCA photo

This poem remembers being taught as a child

to respect our mothers.

This poem knows we have forgotten to respect

and care for the mother of us all,

on whom all lives depend.

This poem hears the cries of the natural world,

feels the fierceness of storms and floods,

the terror of people and animals fleeing for their lives.

This poem bears the weight of millions of animals 

drowning in floods, burning in wildfires,

or starving through lack of habitat.

This poem foresees millions of 

climate change refugees

on the move.

Young deer swimming for its life

AP photo

This poem is a heart full of sorrow 

from watching a planet in peril.

This poem is a mind grown weary 

from knowing what she knows.

This poem is a plea for 

the best and wisest in humanity to rise

across the globe,

to address our greatest threat -

the climate change we have caused -

while there is still a small window 

of time.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Respect

Waking at Two A.M.

"All i want to do is go to sleep,"
my heart said,
having been hurt beyond
how much one heart can bear.

But then, you came,
tapping on my window
at two a.m.,
and you woke me,
woke me,
from my long sleep.


For Rommy's prompt at Real Toads.

I took the seventh sentence on page thirteen of the book Peaceful Passages, a Hospice Nurse's Stories of Dying Well, by Janet Wehr, which was "All I want to do is go to sleep."

Earthlings

Mother Earth Speaks

source

My children,
my dear Earthlings,

I have given you so much:

everything you need and more -

enough for all beings, all creatures,

enough for trees and air and ocean

to survive and thrive.

I am hurting,

for you take too much,

you put nothing back,

and you are so many.

Fracking rips my innards apart,

the oilsands create dead zones

on my body,

the oil spilling into the rivers,

black death seeping in,

killing all in its path.

It grieves me to see 

threat to the living waters,

for water is life.
I weep for the forests coming down,
lungs of the planet, 
for you need air to breathe.
I  feel temperatures rising,
all creatures suffering,
and I worry for 
your children and grandchildren,
who are also mine.

I speak for my birds,

who have lost their song.

I speak for the wolves,

lions and elephants

who are dying out

as they try so hard to live.

I speak for the whales,

swimming in a warming toxic soup,
dodging your driftnets and propellers,

your garbage and plastic waste,

and i speak for the coral and plankton

which are already all but dead.

I speak for the salmon,

riddled with disease,

and for the polar bear,

swimming endless tired miles,

in search of diminishing

ice and food.

I speak for the forests

that are burning up,

 for the wildlife fleeing in terror.

I speak for the topsoil,

blowing away

on a hot desert wind,

and for pesticide gardens,

that poison the food

that feeds the people.

I speak for the animals

caged in too-small pens,

eating and growing,

and waiting to be eaten,

who know and live their unendurable fate.

I speak for the bawling calf

ripped from its mother and discarded,

so humans can have cream for their coffee.

I speak for dogs chained

for ten years outside in the heat and the cold,

their misery plain in their eyes.

I speak for the voiceless, the captive, 

 the tortured, the abused, 

who cannot speak for themselves

to express their misery,

at the mercy of merciless folks

who think animals have no feelings,

because they never dare to look into their eyes

and see the emotion, betrayed trust
and  despair

shining so plainly there.

My children,

your pain, your dis-ease, 
stems from disconnection 

from your Source,

which is life, nature, the universe, 

God, the All-That-Is,

and from your fellow earthlings.

Wake in the morning with a clean heart.

Step barefoot onto the ground.

Breathe in the precious gift of air from Sister Tree.

Give thanks for the water

as you make your morning tea.

Bless it.

Smile brotherhood to your neighbours.

Share. Give. Welcome. Spread joy.
Live in Hope and Trust,
in Gratitude and Wonder.

The lesson to be re-learned,

which the Old Ones always knew,

is:  You Are All One.

There is no Other,

only humans, animals, 

creatures that fly and swim,

trees, rivers, oceans, air,

each with its place
 in the grand scheme of things.

Help them. Help me.

And, in doing so,

help yourselves.

Remember:
everything that exists

just wants

to live.

for  Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif, at Poets United: Nature: Her Words

I reworked part of an old poem for this prompt and gave it a new slant, putting the words into Mother Nature's mouth.