A Candle for the Dead

 

In ceremony, I light a candle for the dead.
So hasty was his leaving, I was not ready -
his face ashen, now, his spirit having fled -
so hard to find my footing, make it steady.

So hasty was his leaving, I was not ready.
I sing a lullaby to him, ring little bells.
So hard to find my footing, make it steady,
I build an homage, an altar of sand and shells.

I sing a lullaby to him, ring little bells.
We had adventures when the lad was young.
I build an homage, an altar of sand and shells,
remembering when our journey had just begun.

We had adventures when the lad was young -
his face ashen, now, his spirit having fled -
his song unfinished when it had just begun.
In ceremony, I light a candle for the dead.

A rhyming pantoum for Shay's Word List. This past week, a young teen I cared for when he was small died suddenly. For six years, when he was little, we walked forest trails, bought treats and then went home to colour together. He told me "You're like a grandma to me." He was only fourteen and so suddenly gone, it is hard to assimilate. And extremely sad.

SOLITARY STAR

Solitary star

is it cold up

where you are?

Through bare and brittle

winter branches

I can see you

sparkling clear,

shining your brightest

just before

you disappear.

The rooster is

softly crowing

in the barnyard,

a sleepy sound,

reluctant in the chill.

My wolf-dog pads,

silent and old,

beside me.

The day is coming

when he no more will.

Nine white swans

in formation

now come gliding

almost noiselessly

winging overhead.

Noses pointed west,

they're heading towards

the water.

Nine swans,

and yet they

mate for life

it's said.

Now daybreak crests

the silver-peaked mountains,

lighting the frozen rooftops

etched in ice.

Tall cedars turn

from black and

towering giants

to green again,

their beauty

beyond price.

I breathe the essence

of this winter morning,

wood-smoke on the air

as starshine fades.

My windows are lit up

and, warm and waiting,

is the cozyness

of this little home

I've made.

I feel the blessing

rich with

all life's worth,

just to have

another day

like this

alive

on Planet Earth.

I wrote this poem in 2010, in winter, when I was still living in my little trailer - Pup's kingdom. I loved that little place and this poem came to me while I was walking Pup along the road, looking in at the glowing windows, happy with our little home, but very aware that soon he would no longer be walking beside me. Sigh.

A Web of Friends

Much the way Grandmother Spider

sits in her corner,

diligently spinning her web,

to see what morsels

she might catch,

one day I tossed a line

out into a wider web.

Tapping on the keys,

I began to weave

my life

with words

that slowly

brought you to my door:

connections that I never would

have dreamed,

a window into the online community
of poetry and friendship,

that opened

a whole new wonderful world

to me,

and, at the same time,

brought me home.

 The web, and all of you, dear friends, has enriched my writing life beyond belief, bringing me friends from all over the world. I gratefully take this opportunity to thank you. It means more than you can ever know that people are reading my words. Especially now, when my pen has lost much of its former fluency. (I am grateful to still be writing anything, though, and will continue.) My friendship with each one of you - these most amazing connections - means all the world to me. And you know me best of all, because you read the words from my heart.

for Susan's prompt at What's Going On - About Friendship

Pink Rabbits and Too Many Candles

 

I thought to make a cake

for my birthday, full of sugar,

with candy all around the edge.

I opened seven packages of candles - seven!

And sat there, amazed, at the journey

I have made, chasing that pink rabbit

in a circle, then circling back,

until someone took pity

and handed me a compass

that helped me find my way.

Raven pointed her feathery wing

up over the mountains, and so I came

into the land of dreams, walking

like a somnambulist through beauty

that seemed too magical to be real.
And yet it was, and is.

I send you a cupcake of wishes,

wherever you are, and a complimentary

mug of tea. And when next you spot

a pink rabbit, I hope

you'll think of me.

for Shay's Word List - which sent me into a bit of a sugar high! I didnt really open all those candles. Just a token few, one for each decade. LOL. What a jouney this life is. I kinda love it.

The Land of Bones

Through gates of wisdom we,

most hopefully, step.

It is time for the dream of our life

to be coming true,

for the being of all that we truly are

to flower.

Why wait?

Time is fleeting, faster

by the hour.

I passed through the valley of elm and ash,

their branches entwined to form a protected path.

At the end of this path is the portal

to the land of bones.

I have the feeling

I am not alone.

Internally, I am shown,

where my journey lies.

I must cross this littered landscape,

with a seer's eyes,

find and pick up

a backbone, a wishbone,

a funny bone and

a hollow little bone*--

only the ones that are my very own.

Perched on a quaking limb,

a single prodigious egg sits in a nest.

I hear it crack, and then my quest

is blessed.

A thousand cranes lift up, into the sky.

I am granted the gift of Wonder,

and put it in my pack.

There be spirits here,

and there is no turning back.

Raven sits before me, huddled on the path.

She speaks a single gobble-cry,

turns into Flight

without a sound.

Her flight path has teachings in it

for who we are:

citizens of earth,

grounded, yet sky-bound.

When she lands on a topmost scrag,

she points her wing into the forest dark.

I quake, but have no choice,

my inner guide informs.

When I pass through Night so dark,

I emerge into the morning light

transformed.

It is frightening:

Nothing will ever be the same again.

It is liberating:

Nothing will ever be the same again.

When Raven calls to you,

and points her feathery wing,

listen closely for the

message she will bring.

*Indigenous people believe these are the foundations of our being: backbone for strength, wishbone for dreams, funny bone for essential humour and a hollow little bone, for trust and faith in the Great Mystery.

It is also believed that all women came from the elm, all men from the ash.

I happened upon this poem today, remembering how I felt when I wrote it in 2015, living landlocked, longing for the sea. Two years later, I returned home.

Mea Culpa Will Never Be Enough

There are people who live in a world of Us and Other,
on a different frequency, unable, unwilling to hear

that coming together works far better, and more kindly,
than division and vitriol. But their eyes wax fanatical,
and  there is no reasoning with the determinedly
and thoroughly indoctrinated. (In their heart of hearts,
do they believe their lies?)

There are people who sell their souls for power and privilege, who fawn at the feet of wanna-be king  toads, kissing the ring of their mob boss, afraid to offend and be cast away like so many others have been, and as they themselves might be, one day.

There are those with gentle hearts who grow more silent as every year passes, at finding ourselves in such a world, whose sense of justice is offended daily by all that is wrong.

We may open a window, breathe in the morning air,
be grateful for the blue sky, the trees, the wild ones, but our heart stays weighed down by a planet in crisis, by governments' wilful negligence in allowing corporations to destroy Mother Earth, at those too busy fighting each other in wars, and through partisan politics, to fight the even bigger fight,which will be extreme climate events the likes of which we are only beginning to see, at a pace that accelerates with every passing year, as the planet's cries of distress grow ever louder, and are ignored.

The world needs visionaries. Instead, fascism is rising all over the world. Can democracies not see that its loss will mean corrupt power and privilege for the few at the top and untold suffering for all other beings? Have we forgotten all we once understood, values men fought and died for, human rights once fiercely defended, now falling to fundamentalist ideologies?

On behalf of the wild ones who are going extinct in ever-increasing numbers, and the millions of refugees already displaced by war, famine, drought and climate crisis, to the hillsides bare of trees, sliding down to cover villages below, and land annually flooded or lost to wildfires, I say :

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea culpa.
I apologize for my kind,
knowing no apology, no attempt to redress the wrongs
or restore what has been lost, will ever be enough,
will never be on time.

Sigh. Not feeling very hopeful these days.

SPRING RAIN

 

Spring rain is playing timpani on salal

along the fence. It taps the skylight

with insistent fingers, looking for

a way in, as I listen to its ancient melody.

The Japanese cherry and forsythia

just recently shed
their frothy spring dresses.

Their time to shine goes by so fast,

like weeks, like years, like life,

here and gone before we tie up

all the ends. (Some ends don't ever

want to tie. We leave them lie.)

On Rhodo Hill,
deep magenta and purple blooms

look like the ball gowns
of antebellum debutantes

swishing downhill
on their way to a soiree.

Spring rain, gentle, to nourish
and not break

the buds so close to opening.
Let my heart

stay tender, when the world lets me down

and everything feels wrong.

Let me listen to the rain's one note

and hear a beginner's song.

Inspired by "Rain, New Year's Eve" by Maggie Smith. The italicized lines are hers.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - RAIN