Life As A Fortune Cookie

[fortune from google - who knew how  wise google was?]

The prompt is "Fortune Cookies" from Real Toads

Life is

like a

fortune cookie.

Each day,

you open one.

Sometimes

you get

the tall

dark stranger.

Sometimes

you get

the bill collector.

Sometimes

you get

the rain,

sometimes

the rainbow.

One learns

to take

the bitter

with the

sweet.

Wolf Howls in My Dreams

[This wolf, who looks exactly like Pup,

except for the color of his eyes,

is from the site Howling For Justice]

On the

periphery

of sleep,

I'm sitting

at the edge

of the abyss,

contemplating

life and death,

and whether you

will

meet me

in Heaven.

Your wolf howls

have been

echoing through

my dreams.

Shadow-Wolves

have been

slipping

in and out

of my dark nights,

as elusive

as

shape-shifters

in the

primordial forest.

I fall

over the edge,

and now

I'm dreaming:

and there you are,

tail aloft,

eyes

alight with joy

and gleaming,

your paws

galloping,

galloping

towards me,

my black wolf,

galloping

to meet me.

Logging Paradise

Take a peek at Canada's largest tree, in Clayoquot Sound - and the clearcuts - 90% of the ancient forest on southern Vancouver Island has now been logged. Anyone noticing a shortage of oxygen yet?

If you are concerned, you can sign a petition at http://www.ancientforest.com/

My First Wordle

Mary suggested I try a wordle today. I thought I hated wordles, but was amazed to see how quickly thoughts formed, when one has some words to work with. (Duh!) More examples of wordles can be seen at  The Sunday Whirl . I wrote mine, then went back to read the others. I see one other poet also sat in the balcony as I saw myself, as the words led that way.  But I didnt copy, honest:)

The Divine Illusion

I sit
in the balcony
on the edge
of life and death,
observing
the celestial void.

Life is still
jostling my bones,
yet I await
revelation
of the Divine Illusion,
be it ominous,
or glittering
with emerald delights,
my fate
a simple
pantomime,
ordered by
the unseen
Divine hand.

A Pair of Poems

[Jon Merk photo]

Today, I felt like posting a pair of poems I wrote about God as a Master Artist. They are illustrated by photos taken by my oldest son, Jon, who spends every possible weekend, with his wife Zenny, camping and exploring the plentiful wilderness in our beautiful province of B.C.]

FLAWLESS MAGICIAN
written july 14, 2002


twenty thousand
four hundred and fifty days
upon this earth
have I
gazed up in unceasing wonder
at the
fascinating
Sky,
each morning opening
my eyes upon
a brand new canvas
lit up by the dawn,
ready for
brush strokes
by a Master Artist's hand,
in hourly transformations
bright and clear
across the land.


I look away, look back,
and all has changed.
Unseen, the canvas
has been
re-arranged,
like a flawless magician
whose magic is
too pure to understand,
our eyes drink in
the beauty
and applaud
the sleight of hand.


No two canvasses alike,
each one supremely
unflawed,
an ever-changing masterpiece
created there
by God.

[Jon Merk photo]

God's Paintbrush

[written in the fall of 2010 in response to this photo,
taken by my son,  Jon Merk, in the middle of the Rocky Mountains]


This could be a painting
by Cezanne:
the layers of light,
the colors of the sky,
clouds painted on the water
by a heavenly Artist's
hand;


Or a landscape by Monet,
images softening and blurring
in the corner of the eye:
a perfection of beauty
lighting up
the land.


The light is something
out of
Dali's dreams.
And if you rounded
the soft lines enough,
where the mountain's edge
is rough and clear,
it seems
Van Gogh himself
might even
feel welcome
here.


I am no artist
but when I view
the shape and color
of this
sky,
see the clouds
swimming in the lake,
the mountain
reaching high,
there is
so much beauty
ablaze that
even I
can surmise
what God
must have felt,
feel all
He must have
wished,
the day He
put down His
paintbrush,
after painting
this.

A Conversation With Siddhartha

My son, Jeff Siddhartha Crazy Horse Marr, called tonight to tell me how the Red Planet is about to enter our solar system. He found a book in the library about it, that says the spiritual people have to learn how to astrally project themselves in order to escape the coming cataclysm.

I replied that I need to learn how to astrally project myself, in order to launch myself out of bed in the morning.

"You are a funny woman," he said, after he stopped laughing his head off.

Sorrow

[image from google]

To understand a swan,

my son said,

you have to learn

how to cry.

Today

I understood

what that means.

She looks

like a swan,

with her slim,

graceful neck,

and her long

silver hair.

And swans

mate for life,

it is said.

She and her husband

were just kids

when they married

in India,

an arranged

marriage,

as was the custom,

mated for life,

as was the way.

Children

did not come,

and her heart

was born to

take care,

so he received

all her caring.

They came to Canada

as young marrieds,

made a new life,

bought a big house,

shared all the days.

When he grew old,

and ill,

she cared for him

as tenderly

as a babe,

though she

could

barely hobble

on her walker,

and each movement

brought pain.

And now

he has died.

The house feels

too big,

so silent

and empty,

the tap, tap,

tapping

of her walker

down the hall

the only sound,

a lonely sound,

the gong of the

wall clock

at intervals

marking the hours.

Bravely,

because she must,

she prepares

an early supper,

as she has

every afternoon

for all these years:

but one potato, not two,

two chapatis, not four,

her fingers flying

swiftly as a girl's

through the familiar

motions,

flipping the chapatis,

while tears roll

silently

down her cheeks.

I've done

what I could do,

and leave her there,

to her

solitary supper,

her too-silent house,

as she waits

for the

hours and days

to pass,

for it to be

her turn

to follow him

Home.