Wolf Howl Woman

collage by The Unknown Gnome

who, sadly, is no longer with us

When voices whisper among the trees,
and shapeshifters flit in the misty forest,
capes swirling and  twirling
their transformation,
when a soft-eyed doe looks up
from tall yellow grasses,
and quick brown rabbits dart
from their burrows,

when the veil between
this life and the next
grows thin,

my heart listens for the howl
of a lonely wolf,
who has wandered the hills
these many years
looking for home.

In those moments,
my heart howls, too,
in recognition of our wild spirits,
never fully at ease
in the world of men.

I light a candle before his image.
His brown eyes look at me;
concerned, watchful,
they peer into my soul.
How he made me laugh!
How we dreamed together
under the moon.

"Visit me," I ask,
but he cannot find his way.

His howl
a mournful echo
in my soul.


for Sanaa's wonderful prompt at Midweek Motif: A Million Years Howl When Voices Whisper Under the Trees, a contemplation of the day of the dead.

Note to a Reader 30 Years Hence

In 2050, if a habitable planet still exists,
I picture a poet sifting through whatever archives
have been preserved.
Perhaps she will stumble across Real Toads,
and read the poems we have written
that have chronicled our time here:
our laughter, our tears, our outrage, our protest,
our love and concern for the planet
as it careens through space with
fires and flooding, hurricanes, typhoons,
climate refugees, both human and wild,
fleeing the flames and waters of our legacy:
our stubborn  refusal to
put planetary survival before
power, greed and excess.

I can see her eyebrows lifting in shock and disbelief,
as mine do almost every day.
The signs are so clear, the information so urgent.
Leaders wilfully deny the decisions
that need to be made.
The choice of power and profit
over the survival of billions,
that we record today,
along with our angst, our grief, our frustration,
may one day (hopefully) be read by
whoever survives the maelstrom
that lies between now and then

Poets are the canaries in the cage: our protest song
rings out to those both far and near.
To Tomorrow we say:
we sang it loud and clear.
Future generations will be the only ones to know:
did anybody 
- anybody?? -
hear?


for Kerry's prompt at Real Toads:  Metamodernism : how poets record the history and culture of our times. That we do, and the present times give us a ton of material. Today, in the British Columbia Legislature, a historic bill is being passed recognizing the inherent rights of the indigenous people, as set forth by the U.N. B.C. is the first province to do so. It is a good day. But also shameful that those rights took hundreds of years to be acknowledged, after a painful history. Better late than never. But, oh my! First Nations have been patient.

Watch for Me, a Sandpiper at the Edge of the Sea

Dear Earth,

I will return to the shores of Wickaninnish,

roiling in winter storm.

I shall come back to watch the morning break

against blue sky and rose-tinged puffy cloud,

to see all the creatures stir and waken,

and the day unfold.

I shall return to gaze in wonder,

at the end of day,

as the sun sinks, purple, azure, gold,

below the horizon,

and the skies become a masterpiece

painted by God.

I may return as a seabird,

as Jonathan, 

still outside of the pack, observing, 

still hobbling on the ground

and dreaming of the sky.

I'll pick a shell in my beak 

and carry it off to my perch,

then drop it,

deep in the forest,

for a wanderer to find, 

and marvel at, years hence.

Or I might be a sandpiper, 

one of the flock,

lifting and turning together

as one body, at the edge of the sea.

How could my spirit not return

to the forests and rivers and ocean I love,

to catch my breath once more as the morning mist

drapes itself companionably across Lone Cone,

to behold again her slopes turning deepest rose

in late afternoon?

The call of the murmurous, forever waves,

the smell of salt, kelp and seaweed,

ocean essence will draw me, as before,

to the beautiful shore.

I will return, once again young,
to the desert along the lake
where I began,

for the smell of peony and sweet pea

on soft-scented summer evenings,

for a shy, youthful kiss under weeping willow,

lake ripples lapping gently,

and all of life's hopes and dreams lying ahead,

all golden and shining.

I will return for apple blossoms, 

and the scent of sage and Ponderosa pine
on hot, dusty hills

covered with yellow flowers.

But then the shore will draw me back,
as it always did,
the blue sky drawing my gaze
as it did for all my many years.
I will heed the call of the ancient trees,

where restless spirits live,

their mournful song whispering  wisdom -

urgent truth for us to hear and heed,

if we but listen.

If I don't return in body,

I will return as raindrops on salal,

as moss on an old stump,

or old man's beard on cedar.

I will return

in wagging puppy-tails 

and wise old elephant eyes,

or a grey whale, diving, 

its fluted tail arching over and up,

then slipping down, down, 

into the mysterious depths.

Watch the world with wonder,

as I have these many years,

and you'll find me,
never farther away than

the nearest beautiful thing.

A poem from 2016, to be shared with the good folks at Poets United on Sunday morning.

Doggy Hearts

It is amazing

how dogs can go through

neglect, abuse, abandonment and pain,

yet still have the ability

to open their hearts

to trust and love

again.

This is my daughter's dog, Cali, rescued from a kill shelter in California (hence the name, Cali.) This is Cali's "Gotcha!" day. She joined our family three years ago.

My daughter Stephanie has rescued many dogs from terrible situations, and it has been wonderful watching their eyes change from wary to the deep, glowing security of knowing they are safe and loved. Amazing how they, more easily than humans, are able to forgive the past and immerse themselves in a happier present.

for Sumana's Midweek Motif: Forgiveness. 

STALKING THE SUNSET

We walk the fine edge,
between this world and the next,
trying to heal our pain,
recover from our illnesses,
adjusting to the decline of the body
that has transported us so far.

You have fought a long battle,
old pal of mine.
I am sensing your grasp on life
slowly slipping away.
Your eyes are on the eagle,
flying free of his fetters.
You are communing with deer
in your garden.
The orcas pass by,
your mind engraving
the vision and the joy.
Your heart is loving and mourning
this beautiful earth
you are slowly leaving.
We are never ready to let go
of the beauty we have loved so well.

For 37 years, you have always been there:
at the other end of the telephone,
through my joys and sorrows,
on the other side of my screen,
sharing all I was learning.
We have witnessed,
encouraged and supported
each other's journey,
collaborated on songs,
shared our love of the wild,
and music,
and sunsets.

You have been my friend, my mentor,
my guide, my guru.
You have shown me the way,
walking your pilgrim's path of the soul,
listening to your inner guides.

You can never really be gone from me.

On the other side, for you,
there will be a radiance:
your face shining as it did
in coffeehouse days,
when candles flickered on you,
smiling in the glow,
singing Gentle Jonathan
and Forever Young.

I will see you forever
strumming your guitar,
singing your songs
of trees and rivers
and eagles in flight.

On the other side:
Manders, curled,
purring on your chest -
and no more tumors,
shortness of breath,
fatigue and diminishing health.
Just an expansion of the soul
which has grown too large
for your chest to contain,
and needs more room
in which to grow.

In memory, you will always be
on stage at Brock and Friends,
or, later, stalking the sunset,
camera in hand,
at Chestermans Beach.

It is in sunsets I will
forever see you,
old friend of mine.

Always remember,
on the other side of sunset
comes the dawn.
That is where I'll find you,
once you're gone.


                               


A poem from 2015, written for a close friend and mentor, Matthew from coffeehouse days. I wrote it when his health began to fail, and I sent it to him in his last month of life, in 2017, because I wanted him to know, while he was still alive, how much he meant to me. This poem was read at his celebration of life.

He was always attuned to Spirit. He did walking meditations, where he projected  a silent  "I love you" to every rock, and dog, and tree he passed. He told me that after a few minutes everything started loving him back. He was always Spirit-led and so I know he trustingly followed into the spirit world. They played the songs he had composed, as he was dying, and his wife said it seemed the sdongs had been created for those very moments, so peaceful and beautiful was his passing.

He was my friend, mentor, guru, supporter and guide. He knew me when, when I was just awakening, recovering from trauma. The coffeehouse in 1980 was filled with souls living gently on the earth. I walked in the door and I was home. They watered my parched roots, gave me space and acceptance, till my petals slowly unfurled. I have such gratitude for the gift the coffeehouse, and those gentle people, were for me. Matthew was one of the special people in my life. 

I will be forever grateful for having had such a friend.

The Architect of My Dreams

THE ARCHITECT

by ERIK JOHANSSON.

https://www.erikjo.com

The architect of my dreams

built a small cabin

for me

and set it to perfection

at the edge of the western sea.

But he gave me no roadmap

and threw away the key.

It took me forty years

to find its path and door

and, when I had to go away,

it took me twenty more

to climb, once more, the mountain

that led me to its shore.

And here I will stay, now,

forever, evermore.

a little ditty for Shay's Sunday Muse. #78 already. How time flies!

SEEKING SOLACE AT LOON LAKE

If there be loons here,

then, they are hiding,

perhaps in the tall fronds along the shore

where I walk no more

with you beside me.

Once we heard a beaver slap his tail

like cannon-shot,

the birds startling from the trees,

your ears perking up,

wolfish and knowing.

It is lonesome here,

without you,

my old pal.

Yet yesterday, I breathed in 

a deep draught of dry, crackly leaves

and, in that moment,

was purely happy.

Life goes on.

We were two souls, travelling.

We are still two souls, travelling,

just on different planes,

and I can't find a loon anywhere,

for solace at Loon Lake.

A poem from 2015, to be shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United as this October drops its leaves. That lagoon in Port Alberni is alongside a forest trail Pup and I walked so often through October afternoons.