When This Is Over

 

Art work by Bryony Bensley

When we get through this, I want

there to be a shift in the consciousness

of humankind. (Let's put the "kind" back

in humankind.) I want news anchors

to speak truth, with integrity and diplomacy.

I want world leaders to do the same,

to face the huge challenges

our survival as a planet depends upon -

and to make the corporations do their part,

instead of giving them a free pass

to destroy the world, and never pay.

When we get through this, I dream a dream

of the Rainbow Race rolling up our sleeves

and doing the work of recovery and restoration.

I dream we will all shop locally and vote green,

drive less, write our elected representatives

with our concerns, keep our footprints light.
I dream we will all hold

the natural world and its non-human creatures

in our hearts and in our thoughts, in everything we do,
so they may live too.

When we get through this, I hope we will remember

how terrible it was to be so divided, to not trust

those elected to serve, to fear the loss
of democracy, to witness wars being fought

in so many places, afraid
it could even happen here.
I hope we never forget

how many climate refugees there were, how many

homeless - the uncared for mentally ill 

and addicted - who lived their desperation

on the streets, and all the officials did

was take away their tents.

When we get through this, I want us to

lay a bountiful table, and invite everybody in.

Let there be heaps of good, warm bread,

and nourishing soup, and, after all have eaten,

a comfortable place for them to rest.

Let there be no creature on this earth

uncared for and unloved, 

when all of this is over.

Inspired by the title "When We Get Through This" by Maya Stein. May as well dream big, if one is going to dream.

And Then We Came

 

Tell the stories of all who have been lost,

the poet said, and so I think of them,

the nameless ones I did not know,

already gone, and the many

who are right now in danger of

passing from the earth: the orca, the rhino,

the mountain gorilla, the red panda.

All their stories, of life and death,
 are much the same:

they lived in a wild
and bountiful garden,

and then we humans came.

This Is Not the Time

This is not the time to make things pretty,  even though you live in a village full of happy people, close to an old growth forest, with miles of sandy beaches stretching to forever. One could keep on writing happy poems about beauty, if one didn't watch the news, about the poles melting, the ocean and the atmosphere warming too fast, too fast, sea levels rising, rivers flooding, extreme weather events, and the wildfires of summer heading our way. And if one didn't feel the frustration of knowing for 50 years that this would happen and yet, and still, they would rather spend billions on rockets and weapons of war than do the only thing that will save us: curb emissions. They talk about creating some sort of filter in the sky. They would spend money on that, yet say there's no money to do what we can do on earth to stop the rise: plant trees, stop cutting trees, make corporations operate sustainably, clean up their own messes, and pay their share of taxes. If they didn't subsidize industries that have billions in profits and try to convince us that this boosts the economy when what it boosts is greed at the top of the food chain and inflation and desperation at the bottom.

Sigh. 

This is not the time to make things pretty. But I could write - have written - a kazillion poems about this, and we could, most of us, agree. But until leaders LEAD, and legislate real change, all we can do  is our small part, which isn't enough, not nearly enough. And buy some fans for summer.

***

The lead-in line "This is not the time to make things pretty" is taken from Maya Stein's poem of the same title.  I took a different direction from her poem.

Trees

 

I hear them calling me, the ancient trees,

and so I go, stepping into
a world of green,

feeling my heart slow,
knowing I am seen.

Here is beauty, here is peace.

Here is the state of simply Being

with the Standing People 

who keep us all alive.

The wind whispers soft songs

in my ear. I hear the rustling

of small creatures in the bush.

Above, an eagle circles,

his flight like song -

a being who already knows

that he belongs.

Listen, the poet says.

Listen with your heart.

I hear the voiceless ones,

I hear the earth

singing her song of growth

and of re-birth.

Then all thought falls away.

The peacefulness is all.

We breathe together.

May these trees
never fall.

This Is What the Heart Does

This is what the heart does: it hopes -

that everything will be all right,

no matter how impossible that feels 

right now; that light will banish darkness,

love erase hate; that compassion and insight 

will walk the halls of power with kind

- not killing - eyes.

The heart wants what it wants:

a happy ending. Even better,

a happy beginning, and a smooth road

ahead. My eyes are too old

for fairy tales. It is two days till Earth Day,

and they say they can't plant trees fast enough

to make climate deadlines. They need
thirty extra years that
we don't have. The trees can't

grow fast enough to absorb the carbon.

And I wait to hear - but never hear -

that we need to curb emissions now. Because

that won't bring in enough votes,

even though people and animals

are dying, being displaced, suffering

in floods, and drought, and wildfires.
Even though climate refugees
- with and without fur -
are everywhere, and one day
it will be us.

How is it that every poem I begin

winds up being about earth's struggle

to survive with too many of us on it?

Am I hoping someone will hear

who will raise the alarm in a way

that will galvanize world leaders,

finally, to act?

This is what the heart does:

it hopes. 

This poem was inspired by the title of a poem by Jessica Lee: What the Heart Does. Happy Birthday, Mother Earth. And, hopefully, many more.

AFRICA

 

The actual balloon in this poem.

Africa,

land of my dreams,

landscape of my heart,

filled with all the wild ones

I adore,

we did not meet in person

this lifetime,

though we would have,

had life been more kind.

But my friend

once sailed across the Serengeti

in a hot air balloon

at dawn.

She said she thought of me, then,

and so, in that sense,

I was there,

gazing down on acacia trees,

zebras, elephants walking

ponderously across the plains,

my ears perked to hear

the call of lions

waking in the morning mist.

Her photos of a giraffe's long

eyelashes, taken close up,

and the elephants beneath

the baobab, struck my heart.

She sent me a box of photos
from that trip, to share
her joy with me.

I opened them with reverence,

saw my beloved Africa,

in image after image,

beauty captured through her eyes,
a dream come true

in the golden amber

of an African afternoon.

Some of these photos of the balloon ride can be seen at Lynette Killam's site, The Imaginative Traveler, here. But if you type Africa into the search bar, there is much, much more. Her other site, Imagination Lane , has some great stuff too. Lynette and I have been friends since our sons were seven months old, in baby buggies.......she is the one who urged - insisted - I start a blog, and gave it its name. I am forever grateful for how that opened my poetic doors, connected me with poets all over the world, and unleashed a virtual storm of poems I otherwise would not have written. What a trip it has been!

In the Season of Waterlogged Cherry Blossoms

 

Zoey

The two old trees out my window bloomed,

but days of rain have soaked the white blossoms, 

curled like small fists in the cold.

My sister's dog was sad when we said goodbye.

But "I'll be back!" I said, our rallying cry.

I always arrive with toys. The routine is,

she pokes her head into my cloth bag

and snatches them out herself. I tried

handing her a new toy this time.

She looked at me, until I put it back

in the bag so she could choose it herself.

A small autonomy, honouring 

our long tradition.