WHEN YOU LOVE A WILD THING II

When you love a wild thing

your heart becomes wild too.

You gallop together joyously

along deserted beaches

to the roar of the waves

with an exultant song

of freedom in your heart.

You track through old growth forests,

padding gently on the mossy floor,

alert for other critters

in the bush.

You walk the beach

to the moo of Lennard's Light,

in fog so thick that others' voices

are disembodied spirits

that emerge, startled and laughing,

when you get close.

When you love a wild thing,

your heart soars with eagles

and is tethered to the land

only by love.

When you love a wild thing,

the bond of devotion

runs deeper than any human

you have ever encountered

was capable of.

And when you lose a wild thing,

your heart resists

its return

to being tame.

An oldie from 2011, after Pup had made his journey to the spirit world.  I still miss that big black wolf, more than I can say. Shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where you will find good reading every Sunday morning.

EMMA

Emma Gonzalez

by Iman, David Bowie's widow

from facebook

She stood strong as a warrior,
with steadfast eyes that have seen
a thousand heartbreaking tomorrows.
For six minutes and twenty seconds,
silence bored into our hearts
like lances, like jackhammers,
like woodpeckers whose rat-tat-tat beaks
were pointing out the missing pieces
of our souls.
The silence was as loud
as a billion children screaming
they have waited too long
for us to become wise, become sane,
to build a better, not Mad Hatter, world.

Her tears were our tears.
They watered our psyches:
for children lost,
for gunmen with weapons of war
in school hallways,
coming to slay our round-cheeked babies,
for gangs on the streets, for drive-by shootings,
for domestic murder, for the shooting
of black men with cell phones twenty times
while wearing a police uniform.

Will there ever be an end to her tears?
to the bullshit? to society broken
beyond re-imagining?

We are seeing things
we can never un-see:
men with dead eyes and hollow hearts
laying waste the future of the young,
and the present of everyone else.

Emma - David - Cameron,
and all the others:
you are warriors of a dawn
we hope will burn
the putrid decadence away.
With you, we want to rise
on this new Tomorrow
you have birthed,
re-make a world
that doesn't
make you cry.



for Shay at Fireblossom Friday: to use imagery in unexpected ways to make a better poem. The content rather took over, but I did what I could.

TREASURE

Walking across the road,

towards the store,

with the last few coins of the month

clinking in my pocket,

I smile as I find myself humming

"If I Were a Rich Man".

My eyes find the beloved hills

ringing the harbour.

I croak companionably

at the raven heckling me 

from a high wire.

Clouds are wisping so beautifully

across the shoulders

of Meares Island.

And the waves! the waves! the waves!

are sporting tiny white caps

this fine morning.

I reflect

that I am likelier happier

than many of the local 

millionaires.

For here - and here! -

- and here! - and here! -

lie my treasures.

All my life, nature has been my love and my delight. Blue skies have brought me through all of the good times and the bad. I have never lost that wonder. I am a lucky girl.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Treasure.

The Wild Bird of One's Being

C. Frank Starmer photo

Birds cross the sky in covens,

this golden autumn-of-my-life.

My eyes follow their flight,

my soul quickening to the sound

of their honking admonition:

follow the predestined route!

Find your way home!

The Voice of My Tribe croons a chant

that murmurs on the breeze.

I feel the winds of change blowing through

the drafty chambers of my 

just-before-winter heart.

The Old Ones are telling me:

Time to open the door of the cage

and free the wild bird of your being,

the one you have been hushing

and placating with crumbs

for so long.

Free her with joy, and,

as her wide wings swoop and thrum 

across the shimmering sky,

traveling between the worlds

in the space-where-there-is-no-space,

along the-way-where-there-is-no-way,

heed the call of those wild birds.

They are giving voice to

the longings of your soul.

Lift up that expectant, waiting life 

with the urgency

of not-much-time,

and, if you're ever going to fly again

as, once, you flew,

do it soon,

do it completely.

Do it now.

A poem from 2014, when I was still in Port Alberni, longing to swoop up and over the mountains. By dint of refusing to relinquish that necessary dream, I finally managed it. Just in the nick of time, lol. Shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United, where there is always good reading on Sunday morning.

Enough

They are marching,

not just for their lives,

and the lives of all schoolchildren,

but for us all.

They march for common sense,

justice, equality, fairness,

safe classrooms,

and a better world.

They ask that assault weapons 

be removed from the hands 

of the disturbed,

a reasonable request.

Their strong weapons:

their voices, their passion, 

their hope, their determination,

their courage,

and their ability, very soon,

to vote.

These kids have my full respect. They are amazing. They are not in thrall to money, corporate agendas, or political power, so their voices ring true and strong.  I cant wait till they replace the fat cats in the halls of power. A better world is on its way. I can hear it in the voices of the young.

One Day, Little Bird, You Will Fly

source

You were born whole, and perfect,
but life is scary once you leave the nest.
You receive so many messages
that you are not the best :
your feathers, not as beautiful as other birds,
your neck's too long, your hair's a sight,
you cannot possibly take flight,
you will never soar as high,
you'd better settle for the low branch,
not risk falling from the sky.

You carry those words
like a mantra.
You become afraid
to try.

Little bird, I'm here to tell you,
you have believed a lie.

One day, small bird,
you will understand their gig :
they only make you small
so they feel big.

I see you, on the end
of that quivering branch,
contemplating the sky.
I want to say :
we are enough
the way we are,
you and I.

(How long have you waited
to hear those loving words?
Only all your life.
Me, too, small bird.)

One day you will
grow tired of watching
others swoop and soar.
You will feel wind gather
under your wings,
and step through freedom's door,
know the heady rush of rising,
being brave enough to try.

One day, little bird,
you will fly.



for Marian's prompt at Real Toads: "You and Me", Alice Cooper's lovely song about being enough, just the way we are.

The Colour of Our Hearts

source

Why is it that so many people

see skin first,

when looking at

a fellow human being?

It seems to me

that we should see

only the colour

of our hearts.

I have never really understood division over skin colour. I just see human beings. I have a problem with my own skin colour, if anything, as it is the colour of oppressors of people of colour all over the world through millenia.  So difficult to understand this bias.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Colour