WOMYN OF THE MOON

source

We womyn of the moon,

following in the footsteps of 

the shamanic dreamers of the past,

hearts attuned to the sound of the drum

and the voice of the Watcher within,

know that, in every sister's herstory,

is an old wise woman with wrinkled cheeks,

a cackling laugh,

and earth-based knowledge 

of how to Be,

how to be She.

In this grey-cloaked winter of the dream-time,

we must remember to water 

our parched womanly roots,

hold fast to the place in the earth that is ours,

as the winds whip our branches,

and the icy cold seeps at the edges of our being.

There be danger in this domain,

if we try to stay.

As the days slowly lengthen,

we reverberate with the rhythm of the tides,

those wild winter waves which knock our hearts 

off the shelf of safekeeping,

into the depths, where we rediscover

what we had forgotten

that we already know.

There will come a time, just before spring,

when a woman has to step from 

the shore of the familiar,

into the ocean of womynkind,

open our eyes in the space

between the old world and the new,

the darkness and the light.

There be no old maps to guide you.

You must follow in trust,

with a wild, instinctual, wolfish Knowing,

from which you will emerge,

keen of eye, imbued with wisdom,

to mother the whole world.

A poem from 2014, shared with The Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.

A Girl, a Book and a Tree

Heathcliff, you were
a dark figure of romance
who taught me
that love equals pain and loss.

But oh, Francie,
lit up in the window,
your arm arced overhead,
as you prepared
for your evening out,
your friend, the old tree, outside,
it was you who taught  me
to dream!


For Magaly's prompt at Real Toads, to write about what a book meant to you in 132 words or less. I used 50. When I was 13, Wuthering Heights was a book with great impact, but it was A Tree Grows In Brooklyn, that really spoke to my circumstances, and offered me hope,  a way up and out.

Just Before Dawn

Sunrise over the mudflats,

Tofino Inlet

The dawn is peeping a red and ribald eye

over the mountain.

No one is awake.

The morning birds will not yet sing.

The sleepy valley is still nestled

in the arms of night.

But out in the meadow,

in the mist rising up from the icy fields,

a young doe is dancing lightly

on her tiny hooves.

An elven chorus, murmurous,

is chanting in the veld,

and the skybirds awaken, 

all a-flutter.

In a feathered heap,

they tumble out of the trees.

To witness this magic,

you must arise

just before dawn,

and disguise yourself

as a shrub.

- One from 2014, my friends, shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. 

Coyotes at Last Mountain Lake

I heard the coyotes howling

as evening fell

at Last Mountain Lake,

and I thought of you,

my old wolf-pal,

and how you would tip 

your nose up to the moon

and howl mournfully

for all the wild places you loved

that we had lost.

Then you'd come to me and rest

your forehead against my knee,

wearily, for comfort.

We loved and lost so much together,

old pal of mine.

But, always, we had each other.

And now I am alone.

My nose tilted up

towards the moon,

an inner howl

expressed in secret tears.

Still missing our wild beaches.

And you.

From 2015. For Pup. When I wrote this, I was living inland,  missing the beach. And now I am - gloriously, miraculously - here. Life continues to give gifts as we journey. I am grateful. Grateful for all the adventures I have had in my life, grateful for this peaceful time of savoring and summing up, of just Being with the sea and the sky.

To be shared in the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

In My Next Life, I Will Be a Wolf

source: Huffington Post

In my next life

I will be a wolf.

I will run like the wind,

if there are still

forests to run through.

I will feed my young,

if there is still prey to be found,

and will keep them safe,

if protected spaces

still exist.

In my next life, I pray

I am not running through

an apocalyptic landscape,

paws burning,

cubs crying in distress,

falling behind.

In this life, 

a member of the species

that destroyed the earth,

the most dangerous 

and unthinking species alive,

in my next life,

for my penance,

I will be a wolf,

running through

a burning, apocalyptic

landscape,
paws and heart on fire.

As always, I think of the animals, who do not have the resources we humans do, who are suffering the results of climate change, in floods, storms and wildfires. Mother Earth is crying as loudly as she can, yet we are not mobilizing fast enough to assist her in her distress.

Book of Words

Serendipity?

that we came together

when we did?

It is a testament

to my belief

in the universal plan,

that I know

rapture such as that

had little to do

with man.

Hmmmm.............these words jumped out for Mama Zen's prompt, at Real Toads, to choose three words and write a poem in 66 words or less. I used 32. The words are highlighted.

WILD PACIFIC TRAIL II

The other day was a sunny September day,

unseasonably hot for the West Coast.

I headed to Ucluelet,

to explore the Wild Pacific Trail.

This time, I took the path to the left,

overlooking the Broken Group Islands,

popular small islands for campers, kayakers 

boaters.

The winter winds contorted

this trees roots and branches

into interesting curves.

My zoom works well.

It was a wonderful day, blue-skies, clouds, trees and ocean.