DANCING THE PARADIGM

 

On the cusp of Samhain
the time when the veils between the world
grows thin, can you hear the Ancestors
urging us to expand our perspective
wide enough to change
the earth's music
to a brand new song?

To breathe an evolution,
a revolution, an expansive flowering
of every good intention
dancing the edge of
a new paradigm?

A shift is happening
on Planet Earth.
Our souls rise to meet it
with joy.

Come, let’s trip the light fantastic,
prancing and cavorting like giddy reindeer
under a waxing polar moon,
conga into winter sunshine with hopeful feathers
all aloft and glistening,
caper into the dawn, vibrant and smiling
and never so alive!

Join me. We’ll pull on moss
like sweet little socks,
tiptoe through the forest
like sprites, dip our tippy-toes
into the Pond of Peace
set all our dreams alight
with the shine of sunset
over the wilding sea.

Mother Earth is calling us
to a new paradigm,
a more conscious way
of being on the earth.
A birdsong symphony is playing,
so crank the music loud,
and dance,
my fellow wood-sprites.
Dance for all you're worth.

A caveat: This sounds more hopeful than I actually am at the moment, but I am heartened by things I am reading that encourage us to change our vibration to one of living together on earth in a way that nurtures life, rather than destroying it. I once believed this shift would happen in time. But my hope remains that it will happen, if only in response to the calamities we are beginning to experience. When everything feels impossible, what is left is the Possibility of Change.

Kinfolk

 

Walk into a grove of trees

or sit by a body of water

as the sun is going down.

Can you hear it?

The longing of Mother Earth

for us to live in harmony

with other beings, and the earth herself.

We are kin, she whispers on the wind.

Be an ally, not a conqueror.
What happens to one,
happens to us all.

Do you hear the heartbreak

of the great whales, whose calves

are dying for lack of food

in a warming, polluted sea?

Do you feel, as great winds

blow our houses down, and floods

cover the land, the dis-ease of the earth

growing too hot and tempestuous?

Turn off the toxic rhetoric

meant to distract us from a planet in peril.

Listen to the wild ones, the raging rivers,

the roaring winds, Mother Earth's

warning cries.

May we rediscover kinship

and become the earth's  allies.

Only 73 orcas left in the Salish Sea. Of the last two calves, born this spring, one has died, and other is failing from under-nourishment. And Brave Little Hunter was last seen in July, so she has likely swum on, alone, into the spirit world. 

Desert Dreaming

 

In her dream, she was crossing a vast desert:

brown sand, bare and colourless,
dotted with sage.

A river lay ahead. Around a corner,

she could hear paddling,
a boat full of people, singing,
coming towards her.

They were coming to get her,
to take her to the spirit world.

Just before they came in sight,
she awoke.

Not time yet.
Not yet.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Desert.

Butterfly Wings on a Pyre of Fading Hopes

Caitlin Welz-Stein

A butterfly wing can change the world

they say, each vote another flutter,

choosing which ideology is uttered,

and which flag is unfurled.

My hope rises, fragile as a kite,

and as buffeted by chance,

as humankind goes through

it's changeable and fitful dance.

Her heart is otherwhere, as she is voted out.

How odd, in an atmospheric river,

to see folk vote for climate change deniers,

an idiocy of dunces, conspiracy theorists
and louts.

I toss a handful of chrysanthemums

on fading hope with teary eyes, 

a funeral for a kinder world run by

folks who are wise.

Once, once only, and never again

will we have this moment in time,

to torch the rhetoric of the past

towards a higher paradigm.

The italicized line is from A.E. Stalling's poem Another Lullaby for Insomniacs.

for Shay's Word List.

Here in British Columbia, our provincial election is so evenly tied, they still dont know who won: the New Democratic Party or the rapidly rising far-right "Conservatives" who sound like Republicans and are gaining ground as quickly and inexplicably. We had an atmospheric river, flooding many areas, on voting day and our wonderful Green party candidate lost her seat in Legislature. She said "It is strange that people came out during an atmospheric river to vote for climate change deniers. But that's where we are." I think we in North America  are going to be experiencing the results of these improbable choices in the years ahead. And it won't be pretty.

The Magic Bag

Zoey

My sister's dog thinks my bag is magic.

Every time I visit, she knows 

there will be a toy inside for her.

She joyously sticks her snout right in,

grabs the toy and runs away. We say hello

a little later. She lurks around 

my bedroom door, gazing longingly at it. 

To her, it is always full,

Endless forever toys. Magic!

When I cross the room to go out,

she follows the bags (both of us, lol.)

At the hospital for tests,

I have a stuffed toy to give her

when I get home. With my crazy hair, 

and stuffed toy peeking out of my bag, 

I look like my care aid

should be accompanying me.

Maybe I am on the wrong floor.

At home, all the local dogs know me.

I hear yips and barks from passing cars,

howls and commands under my window.

"Treats!" they plead, pulling their people

on leash, heels skidding, across my yard.

I'm such a dog magnet.

You'd better bury my bag with me,

so I can give treats to all the dogs in heaven.

Fill it up, so I don't run out.

Leaf Love

Port Alberni Tourism photo

Driving down -Island,

Through Cathedral Grove,

I catch my breath at

glorious splotches of orange

against dark green of ancient cedar

in the ancestral garden.

Fog swirls the mountain slopes.

Happy little wave-tops prance

across Cameron Lake.

My heart fills with wonder

and I am rising

in falling-leaf love.

Mother Earth just keeps outdoing herself.

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