Begging Bowl

What will fill

my begging bowl 

today?

Raindrops

lightly misting

thirsty plants,

an elderly widow,

lonely, in need of my

company, my hug,

willow trees,

long branches draping

over the pond,

two loud startled ducks,

flapping and

quacking away.

And, today,

a birthday-

 a great-grandson,

six years old.

Another year has

come and gone

so fast.

The bowl is filling up.

I need not even ask.

Each blessed day,

God fills 

my empty cup.

Wolf Dance

photo from google

There are shapes like ghosts
flitting through the trees.
Do you see them?
Flashes of silver, of gray, shadows 
black and shimmering.
They come loping into the clearing,
leaping and circling,
first, a bow, tails arcing aloft, heads low,
then a joyous sprint, 
paws lifting high
as they run
and weave together.

They have traveled far.
They have found a place
away from Man,
for at least this night.
This night, they are safe.
Today there was food.
Their bellies are full.

Stretching above,
black, like a sorcerer's cloak,
is a sky
all covered
with peekaboo stars.

Tonight is joy,
flashes of silver
under an alabaster  moon.
Tonight, they are dancing.

Bright Little Blackbird

google photo

Laurie's prompt today over at Real Toads is dementia. Whoa, I said. "Eccentric" yesterday and "dementia" today? Aren't people getting tired of everything being all about me? Hee hee. Just kidding. It's a great prompt and reminded me of an adorable little lady who lived at the extended care home I worked at in Kelowna. Oddly, since I cant remember what happened last week, I can still remember her name.




Eliza Blackburn
had black sparkling eyes
just like a little Blackbird.
She carried her 
clunky plastic purse
over her right arm,
as if she was just going off
to the market.
She always wore an apron
over her frock,
as she had all those busy years 
spent cooking and cleaning
for her family.
Her hair was still black, no silver,
worn long and tied back,
a source of pride 
among all the other white-haired residents,
but she was no longer "there"  
enough to know.


Every morning,
after breakfast,
she'd begin. 
She'd come in one door 
of the big kitchen and ask:
"Has anybody seen Jeannie Worthington?"
Jeannie was her daughter, 
who came every afternoon
at four o'clock.
"She'll be here later, Eliza,"
we'd say and, every time,
she'd reply, sweetly,
"Okay. Thank you".
Out the other door she'd go,
then back around, 
popping brightly in 
the first door, to inquire brightly:
"Has anybody seen Jeannie Worthington?"
"She'll be here later, Eliza. 
At four o'clock."


This went on all day.
 In the afternoon, she would be
getting very tired
from all the walking,
all the asking,
all the waiting.


One afternoon,
I gently suggested 
she might like to sit down.
New thought.
She sat, then in a moment 
of rare clarity,
looked at me and
in her eyes I could see she was, 
if only briefly,
in that moment there.
"So what'm I supposed to do with it?"
she asked, with great humor,
and we shared a chuckle,
woman to woman,
at the general absurdity of life.


Then,
"Has anybody seen Jeannie Worthington?"
and she was on her feet
and circling,
once again.

The Cauldron

photo of sunrise at South Chestermans by Stephanie

At Poetry Jam, the prompt this week is: Water. Always this one body of water calls to me, since those glorious years when I walked the beach daily, in joy and gratitude.


At the base of the rocks
on Frank's Island,
the waves meet in a 
swirling whirling gyre
called The Cauldron,
making a sound 
as powerful 
as fire
and it spins,
as if it is  being
stirred to a chanting croon
by a black robed figure
with a long-handled 
wooden spoon,
as, wave after wave,
the sea 
comes crashing in.


Look down.
See the roiling circle made?
How waves break 
against the rocks,
and shatter,
tide pools laid bare
full of small life
that matters,
witches' brew,
frothing,
bubbling,
mesmerizing you,
till one could almost
topple into
its eternal stew.


One early morning
we gathered there
at dawn.
Between island and shore,
a labyrinth was drawn,
that we walked,
me behind,you before,
waiting for sunrise,
when winter would be 
no more.
Gail and Clay,
in cloaks, 
walked across 
the strip of land,
Clay carrying a lighted torch
within his proud 
eight year old hand,
rolled tube of paper
lit and smoking,
as in days of olde,
sparks flying fast,
smell of scorched cloth,
as we stood smiling
in the windy morning 
cold.


As we completed 
the circular path,
fine-drawn,
the water was 
covering our feet,
and the path we 
walked upon.
We had to dash  
before the waves 
rolled in, head-on,
both sides of the tide
in the middle met;
in only moments,
the labyrinth 
was gone.


It was Spring Equinox,
the coming of the light,
after winter's storm
dispelling dark of night.
Surrounding us
was nature's 
wild array:
glorious sea,
rolling hills,
long sandy beach,
the place I thought
I would forever stay,
each day the world
all painted
pink and new,
spread there
like a banquet
just for me
and you.


The song of the sea
eternally
sings to me,
cry of a gull,
scent of salt 
and seaweed
on the air,
white-maned
wild-horse waves
galloping in 
with mighty roar.
I'll remember,
I'll remember,
in my heart
forevermore,
the joy of living
by water
on that
wild and 
western shore.

Wolfsong

google image

follow a raven
and find a wolf
hear her gobble-cry,
his soft whuff

up on the ridge
where wild grasses grow
they tarry to listen
while the west wind blows

the wolf sings out
when the full moon beams
hear his howl
threading through your dreams

out on the desert
before the dawn
you can look for his tracks
but he'll be gone

at the end of the trail
near the Joshua Tree
a big black wolf
waits for only me

Making Friends With the Color Blue

Blueprint dvd

Kerry's Sunday mini-challenge at Real Toads is to write about the blues,
or the color blue. This sprang to mind, hee hee.


In your sixties, one must

make friends

with the color blue.

Blue skies make getting up

Possible,

gray, Impossible

for you.

The raccoon rings

under one's eyes

are tinged pale blue;

so are feet and hands 

when blood
has such a hard time
getting through.

The emotions are tinged

faintly blue

with melancholy

for times past.

One counts up losses

on an abacus

of the heart.
The years
flew by
too fast.

Dark blue once was

the color of one's eyes,

lushly rimmed with eyelashes,

now faded pale;

above, bald eyelids,
sparser eyebrows - ack!

Someone hand me

an eyeliner, quickly

so I can draw them back!

But the blues once felt

for lack of Romance

are gone,
that convoluted
state that felt,
at times, 
a trap.

Now, the fondest wish

I tend to dwell upon

is whether there will be
time, later, for

a nap!

(Just kidding - sort of! 
If Wild Woman ever falls in love again,
she is going to have to eat a lot of words! 
But, with bald eyes, this is not likely:))

No Words

image from facebook, by indosurflife.com

Dani's prompt over at Poetry Jam this week is: painting a picture with words.

Humankind's imprint on

the ocean's gyres:

no words for so much shame

5 million tons of tsunami debris washed out of Japan in March 2011 flowing along the gyres (large spinning currents) to the shores of the Pacific.

The Great Pacific Garbage Patch, already in existence before the tsunami, is now roughly the size of Texas.

Plastic debris is frequently found in the stomachs of albatross and sea turtles. A scientist  recently watched an albatross unsuccessfully try to cough up a plastic toothbrush. Whales and porpoises are often entangled in ropes and wire and  driftnets.

100 million tons of plastic debris has accumulated in the ocean over the last fifty years. The mass increases by a factor of ten every two to three years.

Depressing.

Source: NationalGeographic.com