Watching the News

 

I am a quaking aspen, watching the news,

as missiles rain down in Ukraine,  rockets

on Israel, and China starts military drills

as a "stern warning" to Taiwan. 

Is this world peace on its way?

Let me count the ways a world implodes.

I am looking at spring blossoms, smelling

their fragrance, my heart blooming

with gratitude for the beauty of this world.

Do soldiers take a deep breath of spring

between the bombs?

Hope is a dream of ten years from now,

eloquent young black leaders

in the halls of power, rich old white guys

having passed from their posts,

their attempts to end democracy
and exert totalitarian rule

vanquished.

We live in hope.

I took a few of the directives from the NaPoWriMo prompt. You can tell I am watching the news again. Sigh. The two Justins, Jones and Pearson, representatives expelled from Congress by Republicans for demonstrating for gun control, are two of the brightest lights I have heard from lately. I hope one of them (or both!) runs for President one day.

An Aviary, a Dove, Your Eyes

 

An aviary, a dove,
and your dark eyes,
always lingering on the edge
of a wistful dream.
We wore love as clumsily
as bears or lumberjacks,
stumbling around a bullpen.

The cellists
were playing fiercely,
to encourage us,
but we paid them little heed.
We were too busy
scanning the sky
for attacking owls,
tentative, fearful,
yet radiant,
in our
slow and faltering
dance.

for Shay's Word List, inspired by the work of Zachary Schomburg.

Unspoken

source

 

Behind her mask are all the words she cannot say - would not be allowed to say. But her dark eyes speak, of pain, of loneliness, of not belonging. She whispers secrets to the crow who visits every day at noon, for scraps. She befriended him soon after coming to her mother-in-law's house, where she has low status. There is no one else to tell, besides the bird. To him alone, she whispers her dream that one day she'll be free.

Unspoken, all the words
she cannot say. In her hand,
the pretty bird who'll fly away.

Becoming Children of Light

 

In my dream, an indigenous elder

was speaking to us, telling us

we are all one, all is connected.

There was a baby among us.

The elder showed the baby how 

to arch his arms up over his head,

making a circle. Then he told us

to do the same. We all made circles.

We all were connected. We finally

understood.

Then I was at the farm, but the field

was wild and full of animals. 

My sister's dead horse came to the fence

to visit me, and Pup was there,

dull-eyed, and tired of waiting for me

for so long.

In the front yard, a man led

a gigantic kangaroo

on what looked like a dog leash.

It was Kanga, who survived

the wildfires in Australia,
who loved the old woman
who rescued him.

When I woke, I gently re-entered

my current reality. Was it dream or vision?

Vision or dream?

Whatever it was, the message was clear:

we are all connected. We must lift ourselves

beyond the ugly rhetoric and hate

and become children of light
once again.

A Soliloquy on Goodbye

 

Charlie Brown by Charles Schultz

Life comes at us fast, when we are young:

so many hello's, a cornicopia of people,

events, experiences, emotions, images

flashing past on an accelerated screen.

One begins to sense the built-in parallel goodbyes.

Homes,  loved ones, furry companions,

jobs, towns, dreams - we leave, or they leave us,

a plethora of goodbyes accumulating over time

until loss becomes as familiar as twilight,
blurred with love and tears.

We begin to take our wakings slow, as if to

familiarize ourselves each day with

where we have arrived, the decades

having sped past like a rocking train,

giving one long haunting howl

as it rounds the bend.

Looking back, all of it - all - were gifts:

all the beginnings and small homes and dogs,

children and friends, all the laughter,

the cackling gatherings, the times

that shine golden forever in memory -

so many gifts given, so many received.

Grateful, 

                    grateful, 

                           grateful

for it all.

Listening for Your Howl

 

A ghost is a being who left behind regrets

and unfinished business.
Or perhaps, like you, it did not want
to leave.

An owl once crossed my path, looking

deeply into my eyes, so close

I could see every feather outlined.

Spirit Messenger from the Otherworld.

In the morning fog, by the river,

your wolfy heart remembered

your wild puppy days with the pack

on the side of Lone Cone.

The wild cows of Opitsaht eat seaweed

during the long winters, and grow thin.

Sometimes a cowbird will settle

on a bony rump, for companionship.

When the veil grows thin between

your world and mine,

I listen for your howl.

~for Pup, as always

Protect What You Love

 

A wild love for the world has my heart

leaping and breaking at the same time: lifting

as the blossoms of spring repeat that age-old

miracle again; breaking, because humans are not kind,

and are destroying our home and each other

across the globe.

We have lost our way. Time is short.

I mourn. The work of our time has been

to save the planet from destruction, to love

and protect the other beings who share

this world with us; to learn

how to be a good creature on this earth.

The work of our time is to be kind.

My heart, my two hands, my love

are not enough to fix all that is wrong.

So I put my  love and tears into a poem

and send it off into the world,

to other hearts who also love and grieve

this shimmering, beautiful, conflicted

and suffering world.

NaPoWriMo's prompt today is to take a book title and write a poem. This one came easy as I just bought Joanna Macy's A Wild Love for the World: the Work of Our Time. 

Shared with earthweal's open link