Dear Friend

 

Dear Friend,

Through all the years of our young motherhood

we exchanged fat letters, full of our busy days.

I typed mine on the old Underwood Grandpa gave me.

You wrote yours by hand, in your lovely script.

As our children grew up, our letters became sadder.

Our children were struggling, suffering, ill,

making their painful way into adulthood.
I remember when your letter came
that said your son, like mine,
had been struck down.

How our hearts ached for those two boys

who were in their prams when first we met,
who played together as small boys.

They shared a similar brilliance
as they grew, 

and a similar fragility.

We commiserated then,
two mothers of sons in pain.

Now we are old. We each have made

our peace with the past, each found

the place in the world

where we are most at home.

Letters became emails,

then facebook messages,

that dwindled off into "likes".

We are both just so tired.

I miss receiving those fat envelopes

stuffed with news, with titles of the books

we were reading, the music we were

listening to.

It is a Land of Nostalgia, looking back:

your house, full of plants and dogs and kids,

Neil Diamond blaring on the stereo.

My house full of laughing children,
my big garden.

Those busy, happy years that filled our pages.

Not much to write, now that we sit, dazed

and exhausted, on our couches, staring at

a world gone mad on our tv screens,
things we never thought we'd see.

When hope is hanging by a thread,

how would we ever find the words?

But I think of you, often,
remembering those years
when we were young
and our children's songs
were still waiting
to be sung.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On - Letters

A Box of Blessings

 

I opened my box of blessings
and found a small bird, singing,
a sunflower reaching to the sky,
the kindness of a loved dog,
long remembered:
a daily invitation
to focus on the light
midst all the darkness.

In lucid dreaming,
I am always seeking
a safe place.

Each morning,
we begin anew.
We choose to hold fast to
goodness, and are restored.

Ring all the bells.
Signal we are ready
to turn towards joy and hope
and unity
once more.

for Shay's Word List. 

I hope our neighbour to the south makes the only possible choice in November. I have never been more worried about an election.

Frogs In a Pot

Humanity sat like frogs

in a slowly warming pot of water

for so long, while strident voices

on the periphery, trying to warn us,

were silenced or ignored. Or fake news

said climate crisis was a hoax.

(Now they say the government

has a "weather machine".

How crazy can this get?)

Tonight, on the tv screen,

an environmental scientist

explains clearly: because of global warming,

the warming of the ocean and

the burning of fossil fuels, we are reaching

the point where climate events

exceed our ability to adapt, recover

and be resilient.

What is it about humans that we only listen

when it is too late?

When meterologists burst into tears

on-screen, methinks we have waited

far too long.

I have a sense of foreboding, watching the news, as storms ravage the southern US, as right wing crazies cause so much misinformation and distress, as wars escalate across the globe. No solutions in sight. Governments divided, instead of working together for the people, though the Democrats try as hard as they can. No strong action to reduce emissions. Leaders who prefer war to negotiation. Right now, I sit in a peaceful place on the planet. But AT ANY MOMENT, this all could change. Earthquake, tsunami, a leader elected who would love to play nuclear war...........it is a sad night on Planet Earth. And sadder by far for those who fled their homes, sitting in shelters, waiting to see if they have a home - or town - to go back to. How many times will this be repeated before we join together to cool this planet down????? I have now been writing about this for forty years. What we feared back then is happening now.  We need to elect leaders who understand the scope of this problem and who will deal with it.

Noodles On the Menu

 I had a fake funeral
for my unrealized hopes.
Mr. Right didn't arrive,
only a bonehead
with bags he never bothered
to unpack.
Last I heard,
he got arrested
(like his development.)

I experimented, at first,
with solitude,
then grew to love it.
Peace is strangely instinctual,
and one can enjoy it
even when noodles
are the only thing
on the menu.

A strange ditty the popped up from Shay's Word List.

DANCING FOR THE TREES

Wild Woman remembers

dancing on the earth,

a hundred women

spiral dancing

to the beat of the drums

at the blockades of '93.
It was magic!

Primal, pulsing woman-power,

faces radiant, joyous,

powerful with love

for Mother Earth,

dancing for the trees,

in defiance of the Machine

whose voracious jaws, agape,

threaten to devour

everything

loved,

necessary,

sacred.

Ululations,

wolf howls,

little girls with

honest, determined eyes,

rainbows painted

on their faces,

teens on the cusp

of young womanhood,

mothers, sisters, grannies,

grey-haired women,

wise with living,

all deeply rooted

in the earth,

united in the passion

of this moment

on the road,

a hundred women

dancing on the earth,

for the trees.

This is Sally Sunshine,
now in the spirit world.

I am writing here of the Woman's Blockade. But all summer, thousands came to join us on the road. These were the most passionate hours and days of my life, the summer of '93, gathering before dawn on the road, the smell of smoke from the campfire, people sleepily arriving from the Peace Camp, the low beat beat beat of the tom toms. And then the big trucks pulled in, huge, intimidating, and the official would read out the proclamation to clear the road. Some of us stepped back. Those who volunteered to be arrested that day remained standing or sitting and were carried off bodily, to cheers and tears.

The protests received world wide media attention, creating national support for the protests. The clearcutting of the old growth was stopped and a Land Use agreement was eventually reached. 34% of the Sound is protected; 21% is under special management; the formerly 80% designated for resource extraction was reduced to 40%. But that is 40% too much for most of us.

The fight continues to protect Clayoquot Sound's ancient forests.

For my prompt at What's Going On : Magic.

War

 

On the tv screen, sirens are wailing.

Tall glass buildings are lit up
against the darkness

 like crystal palaces.

They are dazzling,

waiting for the bombs to fall. 

I remember a night sky,
even more radiant,
many years ago,

on an island where the only light

was from the bonfire. The stars

were arrayed across the heavens

in the millions. I had never

seen so many.

How many centuries will it take

for us to choose bliss

instead of bombs?

When all is rubble,
will there be anyone left
to look up at the stars?

for Shay's Word List: The Silent Patient As war escalates, this old heart is tired. When will humans learn bombing places into rubble will never bring peace?

On Hair and Feathers

 

My hair rides my head
like a protest.
It goes its own way
         and refuses to be tamed.        .
Wild Woman's sense of fashion has been,
at best, mixed: jeans

and wolf t-shirts, running shoes, frizzy curls.

Looks I admire tend to the wild side:

dreads, long grey pony tails and beards on men,

on aging women, that certain look, au naturel,
that sets us apart from the
twin sweater-set crowd
with their tight and tidy blue curls:

kinda alternative, unconventional,

still Being Who We Are.

As we pass, we exchange smiles,

and toss our manes.

I met an old hippy over in Coombs.

We recognized each other
by our unruly hair.

He told me in Haight-Ashbury,

back in the day, he wore

Puss In Boots leather waders,

with buckles, right up to his thighs.

Those were the days, my friend.
Why did they ever end?

I so admired them, back then,

those paisley/patchouli hippies
on Fourth Avenue, serenely

living outside all the rules,

while I lived my cramped, married-woman,
beaten-down existence

just one block over.

But soon enough, I was free,

chewed my leg off to escape the trap,

bought my first pair of jeans,

grew my hair long,

began to live.

My running shoes carried me far,

through ten years in Tofino,

among other refugees from the 60's,

heart and hair equally wild,

completely whole,

drenched in joy and sea-spray.

Now I consort with trees, wolves,

druids and dying things.

I drape myself in old man's beard,

wear moss slippers and clothing made of bark.

As Old Woman of the Woods, I come into my own,

talk to owls and decorate my hair

only with feathers.

For Susan's way cool prompt at What's Going On? Hair as a symbol of rebellion.  
My hair has never behaved. Smiles.