Love In a Cold Climate

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I am dreaming of bears

under a full moon

in a land all white with winter.

I travelled there once

with my black wolf

for an arctic season.

We walked the river,

every afternoon.
Its wildness was the reason.

He sniffed the all-intriguing air,

gave a howl and  toothy grin.

When we went home for tea,

it was too soon.

I had to beg him to come in.

Next I visited the planet 

of human love

for a brief while.

Bumbling hero

in his own bad movie,

with witty words

he did beguile.

He quoted fragments of poems
under the moon.
(A clue:
he knew his lines too well!)

Mercifully,
although I fell,

the movie ended soon.

My wolf healed my foolish, 

and too-trusting heart,

looking at me with eyes that said,

"I could have told you,

had you asked,

right at the start."

I don't miss love in the cold and

calculated climate of earthly men.

I do miss the devoted heart

of my black wolf.

He taught me to run wild

along the shore.

He taught me how 

real love feels,

and so much
- so much! -
more.

for Carrie's Sunday Muse.

Prayer

Chris Lowther photo

When my heart has no words

when there is too much to pray for

and not enough justice

in the world

to right all the wrongs

When Australia is burning

as the climate naysayers bray,

I walk my speechless heart

into the forest

to try to find my way

Each tree

a living prayer

offering balm and breath

to the soul-weary

Each birdcall a note of hope

in the planetary song

humankind has

gotten wrong

When my heart has

only tears,

when there is too much
to pray for

and hope is fading
day by day,

I let the trees pray for me

Breathe their peacefulness

into my being

Listen to all

they have to say

Each tree

a living prayer,

each human adding either

dark or light

to our interconnected
planetary plight.

for the open link at Earthweal.

What Day Is It?

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"What day is it?" I ask
every now and then,
now that I am old and
every day is a Saturday.

I am so old I remember
when the Monday washing
was supposed to be
out on the line before 8 a.m.
and we compared whiteness.
As if it mattered.

I am so old I remember
hats and white wrist-length gloves
on Sunday morning.
The rest of the week,
the women wore cotton housedresses.
No one but farmers
had ever heard of jeans,
and nylons were held up
by garterbelts,
and had a stripe
up the back of your leg
that had to stay straight.
No one knew why.

There were years of busy days
raising children,
then years and years
of working days,
with never enough time,
when I lived for the weekend.

Now I am retired
(or just extremely tired)
and every day begins the same:
a cup of tea and
the whole, lovely, slow day before me.

"What day is it?" I ask,
every now and then.
But it doesn't really matter.
All the days are mine now.
Every day's a Saturday.

for Sarah at dVerse: What day is it anyway?

A Spring Haibun

On my small balcony, plant pots all in a row, green things are poking their heads up, having a look around. I put them out in the rain for a little drink, then pull them back under the overhang. Such anticipation of the blooms that will make me giddy all summer! The juncos are numerous, nipping at the seeds; sometimes they perch on the driftwood, under the overhang, out of the wind and rain. The jays are shrill, demanding more sunflower seeds, more bread, more of everything, please. My balcony replaces the large gardens of my life, now lovely memories. I watch the buds, the birds, the green cedar branches blowing in the wind. It is beautiful, and Enough. It fills my heart.

Spring rain pitter-pat
a westerly blowing through -
the trees are dancing

for Frank at dVerse: a Spring haibun

Renewal

Christine Lowther photo

Just as my heart, after trauma,
once made its way across
the frozen landscape of Siberian retreat,
melted, opened,
and learned to love again,

so, too, does Mother Earth
set to her work of healing and growth,
sending forth green shoots of hope
on a charred and blackened landscape,
growing baby trees on clearcut slopes,
trying to rid herself and her living waters
of toxins, the way our bodies
reject what would be harmful,
strengthen themselves against threat.

Everything in the wild world
wants to live.
The earth is programmed
for growth and renewal.
She has done this dance before,
the dance of life;
she will do it again.

Given the chance and some help
from those who care,
Mother Earth can renew herself once more

for everything in the wild world
wants to live.


for Brendan at Earthweal, where the topic is Renewal.

Ghost Riders

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At midnight, under  a full silver moon,
you can hear hoofbeats galloping
along the colonnade -
the wild ride of horses
who never arrive.

Their riders are now denizens
of the underworld,
seething with frustration,
brooding at how their lives were
so foolishly cut short
by a night of revelry,
that saw their wagon tipped
returning home
along that row of black poplars.

If you are faint of heart,
best not to venture
along that ghostly lane
when the moon is full.
Those who brave the dark
to hear the hoofbeats,
never do again.


Ha, in Kelowna, there is a long driveway off Guisachan Road lined with tall poplars, leading to  a small house. Near midnight, one night long ago, the daughter of the house heard hoofbeats galloping along the drive, but the expected horse and buggy did not arrive. The father and son, returning home after a night of drinking, had tipped their wagon and been killed. The local lore was if you went there at midnight of the full moon, you could hear the hoofbeats. Two local teens, when I lived there, decided this was hogwash, and parked there. Sure enough, they heard the hoofbeats and couldn't get out of there fast enough. They were so scared. I took poetic license with the closing, to make it even more ominous. Smiles.

for Kerry's Word List : colonnade, underworld, seethe, faint, brooding, foolish, silver

Raven's Gift

Ben Heine Art Photography

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Raven travelled the Sky Highway
to bring Wild Woman a gift.

"Here is a shiny key," she croaked
in her gravelly voice.
"Though I love its shine,
I have been told it is not mine."

"What doorway will it fit?"
I asked, rather afraid of the answer.

"The door of your heart," she replied,
"which you must keep open,
if you are to do any good at all.
Scatter the news that all is far from lost.
Grab a fistful of hope; creative forces
are swirling in the cosmos.
They are coming to help you."

"That is good news, kind Raven,"
I answered,
offering her crumbled biscuit
on my open hand.
She flew swift away,
bread in her beak, and happy.

A gift for a gift.


for Carrie's Sunday Muse