SURPRISE

 

The world is full of surprises:
the four brown wolves loping along the shore,
the grey owl, perched in a tree alongside the trail,
her gaze meeting mine - no startling, no fear,
just a placid gaze that says "I am here
and you are there, and we are Looking."

I don't know why I was surprised
that someone who seemed so close
could remove herself so completely,
leaving the "why?" hanging, unanswered.
Perhaps forever?

I did not expect, in my declining years, 
to see fascism rising around the globe:
the fascism I have spent my life studying,
believing it could never happen here.
And yet it has.

I did not expect, having been born
at the end of WWII,
that I would be watching a brutal war
on my tv screen: such suffering imposed
unjustly, the behaviour so cruel;
or the random mass shootings by people
so enraged they want to impose their pain
on innocent others.

I used to believe that good always
triumphed, that light outshone the darkness,
that everything would come out right
in the end. That we would save the planet,
and ourselves.

I wanted to be surprised by life,
and I have been. I have. Just not
in any of the ways that I expected.
Just not in any of the ways that I
once dreamed.

Inspired by "I Wanted to Be Surprised" by Jane Hirschfield. The italicized lines are hers.

Disappearing Fathers

source

Where do I start with disappearing fathers?

There was mine who disappeared into the bottle,

and then death. There was my children's father,

absent financially, whom they saw once a year

for three days. Then my youngest's, who did

the most thorough disappearing act of all.

I watched them, all my life, the fathers:

washing their cars in the driveway,

coming home at the end of the day

to their normal homes, their normal lives,

the husbands and fathers I had longed for,

who never arrived.

They were a breed undiscovered

and foreign: the ones who stayed.

At writers' group, when we read

the stories of our childhood, I listen

as if to a fairy tale, about summer nights,

fireflies, and happy families.

When I look up from reading my piece,

the faces are appalled, my stories

tales from the Brothers Grimm,

full of disappearing fathers,

strong, exhausted mothers,

and children longing for a Normal

they had never learned to recognize,

and so could never find.

Inspired by Disappearing Fathers by Faith Shearin

Old Bird

 

Old Bird is perched
at the microphone,
in readiness to speak,
fluffing all her feathers out
and pursing her small beak.

Tell me, Old Bird,
what to do with my heart
in this world
where being brutal
has been made into an art?

Old Bird tilts her head, perturbed,
throws a harried glance at me,
puts her cool John Lennon glasses on
to make sure she can see.

She thumbs through the Book of Possibles:

thumb thumb thumb.

Humans could save themselves
a lot of trouble,
she says,
if  they weren't so dumb.
Your heart, she informs me,
has a rubber soul.
It has learned to accommodate
the sorrow
of its growing whole.

But how will that help me bear
the inhumanity of man?
I ask.
Look through eyes
of love and peace,
she says,
and cherish what you can.

for Carrie at The Sunday Muse.  And sharing with earthweal's open link.

Holy Ground

It was an ordinary day,

until I turned on the news

and heard you were gone.

The CoOp had the usual people
sitting out front. There was a small line-up
at the post office.
Cars slowed, looking for
somewhere to park.

At your memorial, in the Legion basement,
people shared stories of you

with laughter and tears.

It can happen like that.

Anywhere we share stories,

grace flows between us.

Someone let your dogs into the room.

They ran about excitedly; we all smiled

in relief. Someone said, "Shannon,

if you're here, if you can hear us,

we miss you. We'll remember you
forever."

And just like that, suddenly, an ordinary day

becomes holy ground.

Inspired by Everyday Grace by Stella Nesanovich. The italicized lines are hers.

SUNDAY MORNING, EARLY

 

Shannon Boothman, R.I.P.

Sunday morning, early,* they found you,
no longer alive, alongside the road,
your faithful dogs sitting by your side.

It was storming; you were walking.
Hypothermia, they say.
Perhaps you fell. Perhaps the cold
seeped into your bones
and you drifted away. Perhaps
your dogs howled their grief.
I know they're grieving now.

Two things in life you loved:
dogs and Tofino, just like me.

Everything is a metaphor.*

Just this swiftly and unexpectedly
does the ferryman arrive
to spirit us away.
I take no day for granted,
for each is numbered.

Sunday morning, early,*
too soon you slipped away.
Every evening, now, I count my future
tomorrows, less one day.

***

For Shannon Boothman, age 52
May she rest in peace.
May there be dogs and beaches
where she has gone.

One of Shannon's dogs

*** Italicized lines are borrowed from the poem "Sunday Morning, Early" by David Romtvedt.

HOPE IS A RADICAL ACT II

"Hope takes root
in suffering and sadness."
- David Montgomery /
Washington Post

Hope is a radical act, 

a continuing to believe,

in spite of melting poles,

warming seas, warring countries,

that we humans can be better

than we are right now.

Some days, when the bodies

littering the streets of a small town

are seen on our tv screens

through a blur of tears,

hope is 70 orcas swimming

through the Salish sea.

It is the cherry tree blooming

springtime beauty,

- in spite of us, in spite of us -

frogs croaking in the creek,

baby everythings being born,

the endless cycle of the seasons
- miraculous -

arriving right on time, with a night-time sky

purple and green with the northern lights

thrown in for good measure.

A hopeful heart can take a beating
when global politics run amok.

Our hope has been whittled down

by the last five years of living.
When the heart begins to feel defeated,
when the news is unrelentingly grim,
now more than ever

does hope become a radical act,
a determination to not give up,

to keep on trying to save a forest,

or write a hundred letters of protest

to the powers-that-be, to clean a beach,

rescue a dog, plant a wildlife garden,

or simply sit in awe in front of

a thousand year old tree

and feel its beauty seeping into

our tired souls.

The whales, the frogs, the trees
keep on keeping on,
and so must we.

for Brendan at earthweal,  where we are contemplating Radical Hope. Being hopeful does feel radical these days. 

My Most Imperfect Offering

 

The practice of wabi sabi,

being with the beauty of

the imperfect, I have

turned into an art.

This is life, the poet said:

the aging body, the greying hair,

the slow days and fast weeks,

the gentle bending towards the earth

waiting to receive us.

Old age is deep time.

We sit in silent rooms

where the phone never rings.

But we know some truths by now

that the young have yet to learn:

we are the single drop; at the same time,

we are the ocean's wave.

This is how it is:

my heart, an undiscovered country,

my heart, an open book, still waiting

to be read
and understood.

My grandmother's eyes
look out of my face.
My mother's eyes
look out of my daughter's.
This is how it is.
We hold on,
we let go.

We keep silent
when the words don't work
and wait for time to soften
hearts and memory.

Reflecting, I scatter aged blossoms
to make a soft place
on which to kneel.
When I am ready, 
I ring the bell,
one solitary ring. 
I pray to the All-That-Is
to accept
my most imperfect
offering.

The first part of this poem was inspired by "Wabi Sabi" by Sharon Corcoran. The italicized words are hers.

Shared with earthweal's open link.