At the Poetry Reading

 

At the poetry reading,
Cricket, the white senior dog,
sat attentively,
listening to my poems
about aging gratefully.

She had an expression on her face
like she was adjudicating
the poems.
All philosophical,
and slightly weary.

"Humans," her expression said,
"They always
over-think it!"

Our new poet laureate, Heather Hendry, hosted a lovely Poetry Picnic at Monks Point last night. Monks Point is the site of the very old house of one of Tofino's pioneers, Katie Monk, whose gardens are lovely. The site is co-owned by the District of Tofino and the Nuu-chah-nulth people, and its eventual use has not yet been determined, other than it will be a protected site. 

I was hoping I wouldnt choke up reading my last poem, as it was about my love for this place and my limited time here. I happened to look up and catch Cricket's expression and she just cracked me up! Saved the day.

I love dogs so much.

All Sad Songs Sound the Same

 

Walking alone beside the silver sea,

a melody takes me back in reverie

to summer days with you under the sun

when you and I and the world

were still so young.

A blackbird heart you had,

that yearned to fly, your spirit

not free to join me in the sky.

It was your heart I hung
all of my love upon.

The doves sang

us awake each day at dawn;

then, one silent morning,
they were gone.

I've carried you with me,
a bittersweet

blackbird memory,

a shadow life

that never came to be.

The love was true,

only our youth to blame.

Since then, all songs of lost love

sound the same.

for Shay's word list, where we are contemplating the wonderful work of Jackson Frank, a sure way to awaken those old-time blues.

RIVERSONG

 

Stamp Falls

Sing me a song of river, green and wild,

as it makes its steadfast journey to the sea.

With its beauty I'm enchanted and beguiled,

in the wildlands, where my spirit feels most free.

As it makes its steadfast journey to the sea,

sing to me with Raven's husky gobble-cry.

In the wildlands, where my spirit feels most free,

the Old Trees listen to my whispered sigh.

Sing to me with Raven's husky gobble-cry,

with grak! of heron, hoot of sleepy owl.

As the Old Trees listen to my whispered sigh,

sing me eagle's shriek and Old Wolf's howl.

With krak! of heron, hoot of sleepy owl,

all is beauty. I'm enchanted and beguiled.

Sing me eagle's shriek and Old Wolf's howl.

Sing me a song of river, green and wild.

for Brendan at earthweal: The River Sings Through Us

In the Dreamtime

A composite of my photos put together
by Steve, whom we knew as The Unknown Gnome,
since gone on to the spirit world.
(Note Pup in right lower corner.)

Swimming in dreamtime,

she follows the songlines of the ancestors

across the bare brown desert of the heart

towards the mountains.

On the other side, where the ley lines meet,

all green and golden,

a power place,

lies the great sea, silver and shimmering,

and singing with ten thousand voices

of the ten thousand things

that comprise the dharma path.

In this dream,

there are the haunted cries of wolves, of owls,

of ancient spirits,

and the deep green forest is alive, awake,

and talking in tongues.

It whispers to her soul

where are you?

why are you not here?

Trees reach out their arms for her,

and she is drawn there

as surely as a murrelet is drawn back to its nest

from across the shining water.

Wild Woman rides the winds of hope

in this dream,

looking down on all that she loves:

green bearded old Grandfather Cedar,

the roar of the waves,

caw of raven,

imperious piercing eagle-cry,

long white beaches

stretching to Forever,

and her, above, exulting,

in the tangy salt sea air,

flying along the shore.

So many impediments between her

and her heart's home,

in the real time.

But in the dreamtime,
one is always There,

cradled by the sleepy forest,

curled in the rootbed of an ancient cedar,

beside a small tender wolf-pup

with shining eyes

and joyous, yipping heart,

mist wrapping softly around them

in the fresh new morning,

with the sound of the soft waves,

lapping, forever,

forever,

endless and eternal,

in her heart.

An oldie from 2014, when I was living inland and longing for my spirit's home. See how such persistence pays off? By early 2017, I was here.

Shared with earthweal's open link.

To Love and Not Die

 

"Is there a way to love and not die?" the poet asked,

and I remember the feeling of having given

my whole heart, and how easily he walked away,

the devastation, and then, the anger, that once again

I had been played for a fool.

Each time, the long years after to re-grow that heart.

Each time, re-learning that the only one I could trust

to protect my heart was me - and my big black wolf.

Each time, the rising up again to blue skies

and clouds and the way the sea looks silvery

in certain lights. That sky got me through

a lot of hard passages, kept me Looking Up.

Yes, there's  a way to love and not die, I reply,

when your lover is Mother Earth, when

the beauty and wonder of the natural world

makes you catch your breath in awe

and delight. When a being with black fur

shows you how love is meant to be done,

so you will never again mistake it

for the false promises of someone

who knew all the pretty words,

but never meant a single one.

Inspired by the line from Joy Sullivan's poem Wood Frog that is italicized.

WHEN I COME BACK II

 

Buffalo at Standing Rock
They came in support of the warriors
source

When I come back, I'll be like

the herd of buffalo arriving

at Standing Rock, the natural world

rising up to stand with the water protecters

who were trying to save the river.

Water is life! the warriors said, praying

under a hail of rubber bullets.

They stood in the water in winter

and were not cold, because the river

was with them, against the militarized police

and the black snake that would bring death

to their people.

When I come back, I will be like

the white Spirit Bear, swimming from

island to island in search of food.

Already, I am growing too weak to swim.

What will still be here, when I come back?

I will come back like the unsettled spirits

at Ninstints in Haida Gwaii. When you step

on shore even now, you can hear

the keening and wailing of those

in the Spirit World, the First People

who died in distress from smallpox

brought by the colonial invaders,

only the first of their burnt offerings.

When I come back, I will rise

from a small unmarked grave,

where, long ago, another child

was made to bury me,

under the heartless gaze

of the black robes.

When I come back, may no child

ever have to live under a gaze
that cold.

Now I watch the skinny black bear

wandering, hungry, across the village green;

the thin grey wolf, loping along the shore

in search of the salmon that are no more.

There are dead whales on the beach,

stomachs full of plastic and styrofoam.

Raven and Heron and Eagle -

all of their eyes are looking at me

from the tops of trees: asking

what have you done to the world

once so abundant?

When I come back, if I am human,

I will wear a cloak of shame and guilt.

If I am of the beyond-human realm,

I will be wary, hoping the Two-Leggeds

have either learned how to live with the earth

or have disappeared in the floods and fires,

the pandemics and calamities of our times.

When I come back, will the world

have stopped burning? Or will it

be ash and stagnant water, from which,

eons from now, a small green sprout

may one day hopefully appear?

I wrote this last summer and shared it at earthweal. Am sharing it again for Brendan's challenge: River, Gone, about the disappearing rivers of the world, which should awaken consternation in everyone as to what lies ahead. Very soon water will become more important than oil, and more scarce.

Almost, I Can Hear the Singing

https://www.pinterest.ca/clarkchris907/charon-the-ferryman/

It's okay not to know where you are,

the poet said.

It's also okay to know,

to understand that I am poised

at the edge of the riverbank,

the ferryman coming

around the bend.

The woman said, when she

came back from death, she

had found herself crossing

a great plain towards a river.

She could hear the ferryman

and the people on board, singing.

She did not climb aboard.

Instead, she came back

to tell the tale.

So I stand on the riverbank,

knowing the ferryman

is on his way.

What I have is this day and,

with great luck, the next,

in which to love

this beautiful wild world,

this wide sky.

Almost, almost, I can hear

the singing.

But it's not time yet.
Not yet.

This morning six fat robins

are perching plumply

on the branches

of the cherry tree.

I put my birdsong cd

on the stereo,

crack the window

so they can hear,

hoping they'll join in.

Almost, I can hear the singing,

their little hearts, and mine,

so full of gratitude
and joy.

The incident I relate is true. A friend of my grandma's told her this story about her near-death experience. I have never forgotten it.

For  Brendan's challenge at earthweal: River, Gone, which is about the disappearing rivers turning into dry riverbeds around the world. I conjured a different kind of river - or maybe it is the same kind, after all. Death, whichever way you look at it.