I Remember Mornings

 

Sunnrise over the inlet

I remember mornings
when I would wake early, in time
to see scarlet wings spread across the sky
over the inlet,
mornings when my wolf-dog huffed
with impatience, waiting
for our walk on the beach.

I remember earlier mornings,
when I woke the kids with Abba on the stereo,
or by tapping the keys 
of my old Underwood,
writing another poem,
the shush-shush-shush of the sprinkler
whispering through the kitchen window,
watering the small tender sprouts
of spring.

I remember mornings, so early,
so tired, heading off to
one or the other of my jobs.
I remember boating to work
past small islands and eagles, and how
the moon would be disappearing
on my left, while the sun
was rising in the east.
I was tired, even then,
but, as always,
enraptured by the beauty.

I remember mornings
in my porch swing, sipping tea,
two dogs at my feet,
listening to the wind chimes:
one sounding like church bells,
the other bamboo, clacking,
making me think of Africa.

And now mornings find me
shaky, still tired, a bit unsteady,
but grateful to be here.
I take my tea outside,
sit in the sun,
watch the busy working world
go by, content enough
in my rocking chair,
just watching the blossoms fall,
eagles flying over,
another May unfolding its delights:
cherry blossoms, coral rhodos,
smiling people walking grinning dogs.
I wave as they
go by.

PRAYER IN MY POCKET

 

cabindepot.com photo

There is a prayer in my pocket
for Alberta, where a hundred wildfires
out of control (in early May!)
are chasing people and animals
away from their habitats,

and for B.C., where rapid snow melt
and raging rivers are flooding,
so more beings will be losing
their safe place in the world.

There is a prayer in my pocket
- albeit one not full of hope -
that legislators will hear the warnings
that each year is hotter than the year before,
that all of this will not get better
without enormous change.

I keep waiting to hear the words
we need to hear
and take the actions we so need to take
- lower emissions now! -
but think I might pray for another 70 years
for those in power
to care.

There is a prayer in my pocket
for the wild ones,
who do not get a voice or a vote,
who flee the fires and floods,
in terror,
who are losing so much more
than we are,
and who have done
no wrong.

WHERE I COME FROM

364 Christleton

[written in 2015, when Lori and I were in Kelowna when our uncle died.]

I come from apple orchards, and sweet-scented blossoms, from sweet pea and lilac, a canvas hammock slung under a weeping willow, wet bathing suits hung on the line, that didn’t have time to dry out before the next swim. I come from lake scent and marsh grasses, the smell of summer mornings taking me back fifty years to a little cottage on Christleton Avenue. I come from brown hills covered with wild yellow daisies, the smell of sage, songs about tumbling tumbleweed. I come from weeping willow and poplar, and the gentle lapping of baby waves against the shore, of bullrushes and horsetail, that I tried to pick apart when I was not as tall as the green stalks. I come from bike rides past old country farms, as evening falls, the meadowlark  singing its melodic song from the pasture.

I come from a cackling grandma and a twinkling grandpa, shiny dimes tucked into a tiny white envelope, to buy a popsicle and some Dubble Bubble.

I come from a small sleepy orchard town surrounded by mountains, the Big Blue Hills of my childhood, and a lake down the street where the best day was finding a log to bounce up and down on, when the waves began to dance.

I come from family visits where the stove never grew cold, pancakes the size of skillets with brown sugar on top, and strawberry shortcake served to the menfolk in serving bowls, with cackles and great hoots of laughter, Grandpa thumping the salt and pepper shakers every meal; they were never in the right place.

I come from a line of strong women and gallant, devoted men, all the beautiful aunts and uncles with the trademark round Marr eyes, so impossibly glamorous to we freckled awkward children, as the ice tinkled in the glasses, and the stories and laughter filled the happy hours. I come from a little house on Christleton Avenue that spawned generations of cacklers, and launched us all like little bouncing ships, that came and went from its shores, through the busy years, until, one by one, they came no more.

I come from dates in two-tone ’55 Chevies, with guys with slicked back duck tails, who showed up smelling of talcum powder in cars with leather upholstery. We would troll up one side of Bernard Avenue, through City Park, and down the other side, seeing and being seen, then do it all again.

I come from rose-scent and whisperings on soft summer evenings, in a small town full of rose and lilac dreams, from all the sad songs of broken promises and heartbreak, whose words would become prophecy: Blue Velvet, Mr. Lonely, Cryin’ Over You, a love of dancing in a girl who rarely got to dance once she was grown, a lover of song who slowly, over the years, forgot to sing.

When I go back to that town, I visit all the beautiful loved ones in the cemetery on the hill, where this week we will lay one more gently down, to join his parents and siblings in heaven.

I took my flock of ducklings back to this town to nest when they and the world were young and, when the fledglings had flown, I gathered the wind under my wings and made a prodigious leap across the desert, over the mountains, to the edge of the western sea, where the waves had long been calling me. 

And now I come from ocean roar and pounding waves, galloping into shore like white-maned horses, from sea and sky and scudding clouds, cry of the gull, wing of the eagle, small darting sandpipers, long-legged heron, long sandy beaches stretching to forever, forever and always, the song of the sea, waves advancing and retreating on the shores of my heart.

I am old-growth forest and morning fog, and the moo of the foghorn at Lennard Light, sunrises and sunsets, and the long lope of wolves along the shore, as dusk purples the sand and we take one last lingering look, then turn towards home.

 

When This Is Over

 

Art work by Bryony Bensley

When we get through this, I want

there to be a shift in the consciousness

of humankind. (Let's put the "kind" back

in humankind.) I want news anchors

to speak truth, with integrity and diplomacy.

I want world leaders to do the same,

to face the huge challenges

our survival as a planet depends upon -

and to make the corporations do their part,

instead of giving them a free pass

to destroy the world, and never pay.

When we get through this, I dream a dream

of the Rainbow Race rolling up our sleeves

and doing the work of recovery and restoration.

I dream we will all shop locally and vote green,

drive less, write our elected representatives

with our concerns, keep our footprints light.
I dream we will all hold

the natural world and its non-human creatures

in our hearts and in our thoughts, in everything we do,
so they may live too.

When we get through this, I hope we will remember

how terrible it was to be so divided, to not trust

those elected to serve, to fear the loss
of democracy, to witness wars being fought

in so many places, afraid
it could even happen here.
I hope we never forget

how many climate refugees there were, how many

homeless - the uncared for mentally ill 

and addicted - who lived their desperation

on the streets, and all the officials did

was take away their tents.

When we get through this, I want us to

lay a bountiful table, and invite everybody in.

Let there be heaps of good, warm bread,

and nourishing soup, and, after all have eaten,

a comfortable place for them to rest.

Let there be no creature on this earth

uncared for and unloved, 

when all of this is over.

Inspired by the title "When We Get Through This" by Maya Stein. May as well dream big, if one is going to dream.

And Then We Came

 

Tell the stories of all who have been lost,

the poet said, and so I think of them,

the nameless ones I did not know,

already gone, and the many

who are right now in danger of

passing from the earth: the orca, the rhino,

the mountain gorilla, the red panda.

All their stories, of life and death,
 are much the same:

they lived in a wild
and bountiful garden,

and then we humans came.

This Is Not the Time

This is not the time to make things pretty,  even though you live in a village full of happy people, close to an old growth forest, with miles of sandy beaches stretching to forever. One could keep on writing happy poems about beauty, if one didn't watch the news, about the poles melting, the ocean and the atmosphere warming too fast, too fast, sea levels rising, rivers flooding, extreme weather events, and the wildfires of summer heading our way. And if one didn't feel the frustration of knowing for 50 years that this would happen and yet, and still, they would rather spend billions on rockets and weapons of war than do the only thing that will save us: curb emissions. They talk about creating some sort of filter in the sky. They would spend money on that, yet say there's no money to do what we can do on earth to stop the rise: plant trees, stop cutting trees, make corporations operate sustainably, clean up their own messes, and pay their share of taxes. If they didn't subsidize industries that have billions in profits and try to convince us that this boosts the economy when what it boosts is greed at the top of the food chain and inflation and desperation at the bottom.

Sigh. 

This is not the time to make things pretty. But I could write - have written - a kazillion poems about this, and we could, most of us, agree. But until leaders LEAD, and legislate real change, all we can do  is our small part, which isn't enough, not nearly enough. And buy some fans for summer.

***

The lead-in line "This is not the time to make things pretty" is taken from Maya Stein's poem of the same title.  I took a different direction from her poem.

Trees

 

I hear them calling me, the ancient trees,

and so I go, stepping into
a world of green,

feeling my heart slow,
knowing I am seen.

Here is beauty, here is peace.

Here is the state of simply Being

with the Standing People 

who keep us all alive.

The wind whispers soft songs

in my ear. I hear the rustling

of small creatures in the bush.

Above, an eagle circles,

his flight like song -

a being who already knows

that he belongs.

Listen, the poet says.

Listen with your heart.

I hear the voiceless ones,

I hear the earth

singing her song of growth

and of re-birth.

Then all thought falls away.

The peacefulness is all.

We breathe together.

May these trees
never fall.