A Message from the Wolves

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Last night

two wolves

visited me in a dream.

They were suspended,

in a sleeping state.

They were dying,

and knew they were dying.

I was being with them, 

loving them,

but it wasn't enough.

"Is there anything more

I can do for you?"

I asked.

"Tell people,"

came their reply,

"and feed us."

I awoke.

It was four a.m.

I am telling the people:

the wild creatures need us.

We must topple

corporations and corrupt governments,

and reclaim our world.

May our every vote 

and choice

and action

reflect our love

of Mother Earth

and the wild beings

who need us

to speak for them

and save their lives.

"Feed us" I take to be wild creatures' wish for humans to stop all the killing and ravaging, to begin to nurture and protect the earth and its beings, so they can find safe places in which to live. I have to admit, my hope, once insurmountable, has declined, with the events of the last two years, when it seems darkness has the upper hand all over the world. But there are more of us than them, if together we rise. And there is power in our vote. Let us use it well.

Sharing with my friends at the Poetry Pantry at Poets United on Sunday. Come join us!

TUFF CITY

First Street - CoOp on the right

RV’s are everywhere,
all summer,
lumbering  along our narrow streets

like huge carnivores,
in search of elusive parking spots

in which to graze.

At the two four corner stops
tourists cluster, indecisive,
trying to decide which corner to visit.
Drivers wait, some patiently, some not,
for them to choose.
Folks are everywhere in August.
CoOp cashiers are polite, efficient,
but their eyes are glazed.

Finally, September comes.

Smiling faces come up the hill 

to the CoOp,
gather on the corner 

by the Post Office,
catch up on the news; 

observe the weather,
the slight touch of coolness
as the season slowly turns.

“I’m so glad it’s fall,”
I say to the clerk as I buy my wine.
“Oh, I KNOW!” she replies fervently,
and we share a smile.
We wait all summer for its end,
when the town returns to us
once more

and our local life

begins again.

  

The familiar buildings
invite us in.

We linger over produce,
make of our small purchases 

a social thing.

Our pace slows;

we can see each other now.
We smile as we pass.
“Beautiful day!”
“Oh, it is!”

Fourth Street dock

Down the hill on Fourth Street,
(we have four side streets 

and two main,
in our downtown core)
the water shines in late-summer sun.
Clouds wisp along Wah-nah-juss;
small aluminum boats putt-putt
across the harbour.

Totem carved by carver Joe David

and gifted to the town

The village is ours again;
we embrace the fog, 

the promise of coolness,
ready our rain gear,
anticipate the wildness 

of winter waves.

Tuff City basks and smiles
in the warmth of sweet September.
Its young people bicycle gayly
along the common path,
surfboards attached to the sides
of their bikes.
Seniors gather at
the Botanical Gardens for tea.

The shorebirds flock along the beach
on their way south.

And I am grateful
for it all:
each little thing.

Its beauty fills my heart;
it is the song I sing.

Too Many Kisses

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"Too many kisses,"

he said.

"How soon you forget

the time alone,"

I replied.

But he was in love with beginnings,

while I needed far horizons.

"Too many kisses,"

he  grumbled.

And soon there were

no kisses at all.

for Carrie's prompt at The Sunday Muse

MANDARIN MOON

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I awake in the deep dark

of the night to see

a huge round full-faced moon

staring in at me

as if it had zoomed close

with my eyes closed,

I catching it unawares

before it rose.

There she sat,

perched in the bowl

of my old tree,

like an over-sized Christmas ornament

thus adorning just for me

the starkly bare

and brittle branches and,

much more,

allowing me to see its beauty

closer

than I ever have

before.

I stare back:

eternal purveyor

of myth and mystery,

as if it holds the secret

of whatever is to be

and has ventured thus

to urge me forth

from out my purple bed,

to find a path

where all my dreams

can be

much better fed.

This radiant so-close moon

and I agree:

surrender to no man,

and yet in giving

I'm most free.

This silvery ambassador

is urging me

to give all that I can -

Mandarin Midnight Moon

that sailed here

last night

from Japan.

A poem from 2002. I woke in the night to see the moon so close, it looked like she was hanging in my big tree, as if she had zoomed close.....as I came more awake, she drifted back a ways. Smiles.

Sharing this oldie with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United this Sunday. Come join us!

In Search of the Snow Leopard

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Between the covers of a book,
cozy in the soft blankets of my purple bed,
I have followed the snowy footprints
of the snow leopard.
I have walked the mountain paths of Tibet
for ten years, searching for my husband,
to find he died, left for vultures
as a sky burial.

I have had my feet bound in ancient China,
have fallen in love in Burma
with a man whose fate was marked.
I have survived the bitter cold of the Gulag,
and heard the lions roar in the Kalahari.

I have galloped across the American plains
on horseback, sat around the campfire
in the evening, covered wagons
circled around us for protection,
the night so dark and wild.

So many places
I have been.

Once a week since age five,
I have carried home an armload of books,
keys to other places, other lives,
read through every evening of my life.
In their pages, I have travelled far
while staying in one place.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Literacy

A movie I love about literacy is the true story told in The First Grader, about an 84 year old Mau Mau man in Africa who insisted he be allowed to attend school and learn to read. It shows his life in flashbacks, a life amazing and difficult. He did learn to read, and became the teacher's assistant.

Drinking Tea :Celebrating the Ordinary

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Dipping the tea bag
into boiling water,
I am transported across the sea
to terraced hillsides
near the Himalayas
where, for centuries,
people have tilled the land,
tended the plants, and
harvested, sending tea leaves
on long sea voyages
that brought their pungent flavour
from Tibet
to my waiting cup.

Sipping, I contemplate
their lives: rising in chilly mornings,
drinking butter tea,
labouring in hot afternoon fields,
to make their small livelihoods.
A moment spent in the Himalayas,
whose great peaks call my name:
mystical land, home of the gods,
so different from the noisy,
soul-less West.

For this moment, I am simply
Drinking Tea,
thinking of people in bamboo hats
bent over in green  fields,
plucking spicy leaves,
their endless and heroic labour
bringing their aromatic tea,
and this peaceful, grateful moment,
to me.

source

Much of my happiness comes from the ordinary "small" moments, which are actually the stuff of life. I am so grateful for it all: tea, trees, sky, changing cloudscapes, dogs with happy eyes and wagging tails. Found this in drafts and thought i would post it. Am heading home today after a lovely family gathering at the farm. It is sweet to know my little place, and the last of my summer flowers, are waiting for me. With beautiful September ahead, and then the glorious winter beaches. Yay!

Inspired by Natalie Goldberg, who celebrates the ordinary so well.

Wild Woman Fairy Tale

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Wild Woman once was a damsel

who mistakenly thought

she was in distress,

with no prince to scale the castle walls 

or slay a dragon for her.

She thought Heathcliff was

the most romantic figure ever:

the moors, the angst, the ghosts

clawing at the window.

"Sign me up," she prayed,

heart beating pitter-pat.

She waited hopefully for a time,

till eventually a Questionable Suitor

stumbled across the doorstep,  

and rang the castle bell. 

She surveyed this drooping, surly creature, 

leaning against the doorjamb,

picking his nails,

with some dismay. 

But he was the only one who came

so, with a mental shrug, she let him in.

Maybe he was Heathcliff,

disguised as a Slightly Irritable Ingrate?

She set to work.

She had to machete a way 

through the thicket of thorns

to clear a path for him.

She had to challenge the fiery dragon,

while the Prince hid, quaking,

pretending he was busy

Attending to Business

with his six-pack.

Then he accused her of

“trying to wear the pants.”

Pretty soon she grew weary 

of hunting wild beasts for two,

tired of dragging them back to the fire 

to skin and roast,

tired of serving the meal

and cleaning up 

all the blood and gore.

Bad-tempered men no longer

seemed romantic; they were

curmudgeons who resisted

available happiness.

She could play them a love song;

but they would never hum along.

Let's leave them to their dark, angsty moors.

“I Can’t Get No

Appreciation”, she hummed,

a crooked eyebrow lifting

as she saw a portal opening

in her mind.

She banished Prince Cedric

to the Land of Men,

became a vegan,

fortified her turret

with a stack of good books,

surveying her new life with pleasure.

With her two black guard-wolves,

she roasted some marshmallows 

in the fire to celebrate,

then retreated to the tower

to survey her own

Perfectly Peaceable Kingdom.

313 words for my prompt at Real Toads: moors, castle ruins, the faint tinkle of a piano...........tell me a tale in poetry or prose, in 313 words or less!