Lady Liberty

CNN /  John Moore / Getty Images

I  cannot enjoy my liberty

with you at the border,

incarcerated,

your children removed,

because you fled

danger and death

seeking a better life.

The cries of your children

haunt my dreams.

Their terror hurts my heart.

What we do to one,

we do to all:

other humans,

other species,

the earth:

ourselves.

The day of political

and climate refugees*

has arrived.

But, until rich white men

are the ones who

march across deserts,

famished, thirsty,

homeless, desperate,

I fear humankind

will not change course

in time.

“Bring me your poor, your tired, your huddled masses, yearning to break free” – and we will take away your children, put them in cages, and detain or expel you. Never did I think such things could happen in North America, “the land of the free”. Yet here we are. 

* Climate change could create 150 million climate refugees by 2050.

(source: The Guardian)

For Susan’s Midweek Motif prompt at Poets United: Lady Liberty

The Forest's Song

I am fortunate to have this forest

within walking distance

If one were to join in

the forest's song,

one would need to attune

to the heartbeat of trees,

thrum the roots and connections

across the forest floor,

decipher the patter

of raindrops on lichen,

of sunlight on salal,

find the key that opens

the ancients' door.

One would learn to echo

the osprey's call,

the cry of the tern,

the seabirds, all.

One would sing down the sun

at the close of day,

blissed in a world

where we all belong,

if one were to join in

the forest's song,

and stop singing the song

we have gotten

so wrong.

Found in drafts and shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads

Everything Is Alive, and Listening

source

The stone in your hand, warm from the sun,

is alive, having traveled such a long journey

to fit into your palm.

Everything under the sun 

is as happy to be alive as we,

dolphins, leaping with joy in the silver sea,

whose squeals turn to pain and terror

when the death boats come hunting,

and the seas turn red.

Trees talk to each other, hold rooted hands

under the soil, all across the forest floor.

They whisper to those of us Two-Leggeds

who listen.

The mighty beings  quake
at the screech of the saws,

roots parting reluctantly from the soil

as their majestic bodies topple.

Everything in the world is alive,

and listening.

Water, too, is alive,
its molecular structure changing
in response to the love,
hatred, peace or discord

we beam at it.

If a drop of water changes structure
from dark to light,
in response to love,

should not the dark hearts of men
respond in kind?

The wild creatures feel all that we feel,

joy at being alive,
building their nests,

raising their young, but they also

feel fear and pain, the struggle to survive,

grief when they lose their kin,

gratitude when, tummies full, night falling,

they have survived another day.

That rock in your hand, warm from the sun,

having made its long journey

to this resting place:

place it back on earth, in testimony

to all that passes, all that will remain.

Found this in my drafts folder, written some time ago.........My heart is listening, these days, to the cries of mothers and children, ripped from each other's arms.

No Easy Answers

I heard an owl this morning

just before dawn,

and I thought of you,

all these decades gone:

waking to the doves' gentle coo,

me amazed at waking next to you,

with your dark blackbird heart,

so lovely in my eyes,

soaring / captive Brother eagle,

both longing for

and fearful of

the skies.

Your beauty and your pain

held my heart fast,

fire and rain, I thought would 

for forever last,

a fire of passion

felt for no one other,

a rain of tears

when you could not tell me: "Stay,"

and so I 

slowly turned

and walked away.

"No easy answers,"

was what you always said,

with your so-easy smile,

and those compelling eyes.

There was an easy answer,

but you could not say the words.

You could not choose just one sparrow,

with the sky so full of birds.

We set the doves free when I left.

Blackbird was playing on the stereo.

I loved you then,

and love you still,

though you may 

never know.

I have remained, this lifetime,

a solitary dove.

The answer was, 

Brother Dreamer,

then and always,

only ever Love.

an old one from 2013 some of you will have seen before, to be shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United Sunday morning. Do come and join us.

Old Tree

Like an old tree,
I survived storm and drought,
the clipping and bending
and breaking
of my boughs.
I learned to stand steady
as winds of change
howled through my limbs;
thrust my roots down deep,
braced myself against
the slipping sands
under my feet.

Like an old tree,
I have endured,
weary of my labours,
branches drooping,
bark chipped and pocked,
the foreboding 
of an early frost
nipping at my toes.

I send messages
of encouragement
to young sprouts
popping up,
jostling me,
their growth encroaching
on my space,
as has been the grand design
through all of time.

They will carry my legacy,
my teachings, my dreams,
into tomorrow,
replacing my songs
with their own,
spreading their arms wide,
expanding in the sun,
all the while 
time
is bending me
slowly
into the earth.

For Sumana’s prompt at Midweek Motif, Poets United: What do I think of myself? I think: I am a tired old tree. I think: I have risen above my raising, yet been less than what I might have been.

And shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads. 

Better Than We Are

source

What do I think of myself
as a human being
when icebergs are melting,
wild animals becoming extinct,
whales and salmon
and every living thing
struggling to survive,
while babies wail hopelessly
in cages, uncomforted,
people bomb, and kill
and oppress other people,
when money is all that matters
to rich greedy corporate criminals,
who smile like gloating crocodiles,
as they lay waste the earth?

I think:
this earth was
meant to be a garden,
and we were born for bliss.
Instead we have caused
devastation and destruction.
Like humankind, as a whole,

I think:
I have risen above my raising
yet been less than
I might have been.
Separately and together,
we were meant to be
so much better than
we are.

For Sumana’s prompt at Midweek Motif, at Poets United: What do I think about myself?

A Note Into the Silence

source

It doesn't matter that the phone has gone silent,

that you are angry, not speaking,

believing I don't understand the extent

of your suffering, as, indeed,

my mother's heart understands

only too well.

I am still here, waiting,

as I have always been, will always be:

for your sun to shine once more,

for the day when you need to speak,

for the phone to ring,

for our conversation to resume.

for Kerry's Micro Poetry prompt at Real Toads:  to write a micro poem whose point of departure is "It doesn't matter", from the poem by Rumi.