Moving Through the Inner Rooms

I move through the rooms of my body,

where my past is preserved:

the little room of childhood,

shot through with golden sunshine,

the loft in the treetops of my teen years,

where music and dreams led me forth

into a brighter tomorrow,

the tight, windowless room of marriage,

that I fled upon waking,

the rambling, noisy rooms 

where I raised my children,

full of laughter, and kites,

and lake ripples.

At mid-life, I discovered

the seat of my Knowing,

living in the centre of my being.

Her voice was insistent,

would no longer be denied.

She plucked me from 

my circumscribed existence,

lifting me over the mountains to the sea,

where I lived in a driftwood shelter,

no roof, and no door.

From it, I gazed at the expansiveness

of sea and sky, limitless horizons: joy.

Jonathan Livingston Seagull flew

through my inner rooms. My heart felt

the thump of his wings

with every heartbeat.

I live in smaller rooms, now:

constrained by age and the body

that feels all of its years.

My eyes rarely leave the sky.

They caress the rounded tops

of the hills sheltering the harbour;

I catch my breath at their slopes,

bedecked by clouds.

My body is in love with the sea;

my heart, with remembering.

This vessel that has carried me faithfully,

this  frame  that has contained all of

my hopes and my dreams,

my laughter and tears,

now accommodates

all of the rooms of  Memory.

Tinged with amber light,

the past shines brighter

than the present, now,

as I make this circular passage

back to where my journey began.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motiff at Poets United: Of the Body

The Song That Has No Words

photo by Jon Merk

All you have learned

is a book that nobody reads

because they are busy 

writing their own.

But in the moonlight,

at the edge of the pond,

still and silent,

the faintest of melodies

may stir in your heart,

that old familiar song, 

of mis-step and transformation,

that has accompanied you so far,

a song of burning, 

of being honed.

Like a butterfly encased in stone,

wounded, yet liberated 

by the mallet's touch,

you arise at last 

like a fluttering dream

on the edge of awakening,

and begin to dance

to the song that has no words.

Found this poem from 2015, and dusted it off for the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.

 

The Kindness of Dogs

source

They come to me with trusting eyes and doggy smiles, wig-wagging, accepting pats, nosing my pockets for treats that are always there. They are pure beings, whose emotions - love, joy, happiness, pain, sadness, grief - are written plain. They do not know deception, are confused by humans' changing moods, astonished by a sudden moment of cruelty, since their love, at least at first, holds no expectation of unkindness. I heard his yelp of pain, turned around and, from the way his hip hit the ground, I suspected a blow, perhaps a kick, from his person, who was "training" him with fear and intimidation. How many times can my heart break in a day, a week, a month, a year? It grows heavy with tears. For dogs, the moment is always Now; this minute's meal, or treat, or belly rub, or run on the beach - or hungry, frozen existence chained in the backyard - is all-there-is. Until the next time. The kindness of dogs is a religion I could believe in. I learn much from their unconditional acceptance, their lack of judgment for the humans of every type they pledge their hearts to. Their loyalty is limitless. May their humans grow to be the people their dogs deserve.

Black dogs, brown dogs, dogs
of all kinds - each doggy heart
wanting only love.


for the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

Happiness Is a Ticket to Ride

textandimagephotography.com

The painted horse went round and round, 

spinning to the calliope’s tinny sound.

She looked out at her parents’ smiles,

forgot the night-times for a while.

She wanted it to never end,

the painted horse her only friend.

For a time she could forget

the drinking, violence, uttered threat.

Happiness was a string of tickets,

her dad bought at the grated wicket:

ticket to a land of dreams

where she forgot those night-time screams.

Its big brown eye, its painted smile,

escape for just a little while;

her eyes of blue, wondering  and sad -

she waved each time she passed her dad.       

She dreamed, she dreamed

of a real horse with kind eyes

in a green field,

and a white house of peace

in the background,

so pretty it was almost real.

for Shay's prompt at Fireblossom Friday: Ticket

Three Doors

source

Behind trump's door:

the rich get richer,

while all other people, 

our fellow creatures 

and the planet suffer,

as two inflated egos

play Who'll Hit the Button First?

Behind the door of climate change:

hurricanes, floods, wildfires,

a warming ocean, melting poles,

mass extinctions, human and animal 

climate and political refugees -

all living things

struggling to survive.

Behind the third door:

our hope for a miraculous 

uprising of the people everywhere,

a transformation of global consciousness,

that is simply taking too long.

Never have I seen portals

so bleak.

When I saw Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Doorways, I was thinking about the story I read in high school about two doors, written by Frank Stockton in 1882. Behind one door was a beautiful lady. Behind the other was a tiger. Which one would the hero choose, not knowing which was which? I got to thinking about the doorways humankind is choosing now, and got so discouraged I didn't know whether to post this or not. But it is all I could come up with. Gah. My apologies. Sometimes hope doesnt float.

A Little Pool of Grace

Edgar Allen Crow

by Pennybright Studios

Wild Woman's pet raven 

is looking at her

through her pince-nez.

Sp(b)eaking in her gravelly voice,

she croaks,

"My dear, tired friend,

do try to stop

pushing the river.

Surrender

to the water's flow,

and soon you may find yourself

floating

in a little pool 

of grace."

Smiles. For Paul's prompt at dVerse: Grace. May 2018 be filled with it, somehow, in spite of the daily news.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Peer Garden Images at Tourism Tofino

As the old bedraggled,

disappointing year skulks away,

may you approach the new,

shining with possibility,

your eyes wide with wonder

like a Christmas child.

May you open the package 

of each day,

gift-wrapped in sunrise colours,

to find something in it

of beauty, of laughter, of affection,

of gratitude, of Hope.

May 2017 unravel its 

weeks and months

full of community, 

of working together

in the cause of social justice.

May the old year sing out the tears,

the   disillusion, the events

that broke our hearts,

and show us a new day,

tinged golden with the promise

of better times ahead.

I wish you hearts filled

with possibility and promise.

I wish you times at home

with loved ones close by,

faces shining in the firelight.

I wish you flights of poetry

to make your heart soar,

and dogs with thumping tails

inside your front door

to greet you as you enter.

Most of all,

as the new year dawns

and we bid farewell

to the darkness of 2017,

I wish you a happy heart.

I wish you Love.

I wrote this poem for my New Years Day feature today at Poets United, where the staff has gathered a posey of poems to welcome the new year in. May 2018 bring you all good things - and poetry!

Also sharing it with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads, where Sanaa is beginning the year with positivity and hopefulness.