Overcoming

 

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Some days are harder than others.

The heart grows tired of carrying its weight.

It needs a gentler song.

These are the last three things that happened:

I chopped veggies for a stir-fry.

Summer rain tapped on the skylight;

I watched the droplets sliding down.

You didn't call.

I love stories about overcoming:

light over darkness, rising

above circumstance.

These days,
midst all the far-right rhetoric,

all I want is a story about kindness:

helpers working to assist refugees,
cease fires - please! -

animals being rescued, sunflowers

sprouting in unexpected places,
their sunny faces

a symbol of never

giving up.

My heart has been faltering.

It needed a cup of tea

and six or seven sweet
and caring words.

And the other night,
I heard them, on TV:
Hope,
enough to put into a poem,
a green tendril taking root
in rocky but receptive ground
and thrusting
- joyfully! -
towards the sun.

I feel the energy
of a new day,
dawning,
as our leaves unfurl
and spread across
the land.

I can't help it. I'll never get over
needing hope in order
to live.
I'll never not need
the watering of our roots
with unity, fairness
and justice,
all of us
turning our heads
to the sun once more.
What a big deal it is -
to feel ready to
believe again.

for Sumana's prompt at What's Going On - Overcoming

I am impacted by the surge of energy in the USA, loud enough to drown the dark rhetoric of the far right. I dare to hope in this particular Overcoming: darkness into light, fear into the promise of a kinder, more just tomorrow. The contrast could not be clearer.

An Existential Aardvark Moment

 

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An aardvark filled with ennui

entered an antique store to browse

on the first of September. He was a

cool customer, an inherited-wealth

stable-genius type, who expected

those who served him always

to be on sheepish tippy-toes.

Spying a glass globe on an old desk

streaked with shellac, he pondered.

Did he need another Thing

for his staff to dust? Would it

lift the malaise afflicting his snout

which was tired of the tedium

of sniffing when there was

nothing new left to pursue?

Adding to his torpor was

the sexual confusion that plagued him.

He felt strange desires that must be quelled

because his parents were Republicans.

It was an existential moment.
If he were brighter,
it might have been a turning point.
But, no.

The staffers were holding their breath.

Would he buy the $500 globe,

even though it was not gold-plated?

The aardvark sighed, turned,

swishing his spiney tail, and ambled out.

There was not a Thing
that could make
his tired heart
begin to sing.

And he had no tools
to understand what would.
An unfulfilled aardvark
on a September afternoon.

for Shay's Word List

Dark

 

When it's full dark, no stars,
a small girl needs a Care Bear
for company.

One moves gingerly
in the dark,
for there be scary things
under the bed
waiting to grab
succulent, just-right
small feet.

Outside the window,
in the stately oak,
a fretful crow
mumbles a mournful
lament.

What is possible
for a pretty child
in the wounded dark?

Some questions
we don't want
answered.

But luckily this child,
though her blankets and curtains
are faded,
has a grandmother whose face
is as loving and kind
as the moon's,
and she drifts off to sleep
safe and happy.

The words for Shay's Word List took a dark turning. Sigh. My poor head. So I added a stanza so we could bear to read it.

August in Tuff City

 

Totem carved by Joe David and gifted to the town.
District of Tofino photo.

RV’s are everywhere,

all summer,
in our small village
of two thousand souls.

They lumber along our narrow streets

like huge carnivores,

in search of elusive parking spots

in which to graze.

At the two four corner stops,

tourists cluster, indecisive,

trying to decide which corner to visit.

Drivers wait, some patiently, some not,

for them to choose.

Folks are everywhere in August.

CoOp cashiers are polite, efficient,

but their eyes are glazed.

The other day there were
five THOUSAND transactions -

and still the clerks remain
pleasant and wonderful.

Finally, September will come.

Smiling faces will come up the hill

to the CoOp,

gather on the corner

by the Post Office,

catch up on the news;

observe the weather,

the touch of coolness

as the season slowly turns.

“I’m so glad fall is coming,”

I say to the clerk as I buy my veggies.

“Oh, I KNOW!” she replies fervently,

and we share a smile.

We wait all summer for its end,

when the town returns to us

once more

and our local life

resumes.

The familiar buildings

invite us in,

to linger over produce,

make of our small purchases

a social thing.

Our pace slows;

we can see each other now.

We smile as we pass.

“Beautiful day!”

“Oh, it is!”

Down the hill on First Street,

(we have four side streets

and two main,

in our downtown core)

the water shines in late-summer sun.

Clouds wisp along Wah-nah-juss;

small aluminum boats putt-putt

across the harbour.

The village soon will be
ours again;

we embrace the fog,

the coolness,

ready our rain gear,
our boots,

anticipate the wildness

of winter waves.

Tuff City basks and smiles

at season's end.
Its young people bicycle gayly

along the common path,

surfboards attached to the sides

of their bikes.

Seniors gather at

the seaside with
mugs of tea.

Shorebirds flock
along the beach
resting up for

their passage south.
Dogs run in and out
of the waves
with loopy grins.

And I am grateful

for it all:

each little thing.

Its beauty fills my heart;

it is the song I sing.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On? - August

We Get to Choose

 

An illusion conspired

by pathological power figures

and fake news, or

a return to solid values -

we get to choose.

When all the rules

of decency are broken,

it's time to unify,

not quibble

over lucid words

finally being spoken.

An escapee from reality,

his own fixed point,
reincarnated from the 30's -

self-worth puny

but self-importance grand -

his babble increasingly

unhinged and picayuney,

he speaks gibberish
no sane person

can understand.

Two paths stand before us -

dark and light.

Now strength has risen

more than equal
to the fight.

Two paths lie before us,

win or lose:

go back to chaos

or forge ahead -

we get to choose.

for Shay's Word List. 

I am enjoying the current political situation in the US with great relief. I am aware that there are already plans in place to interfere with the election. (I cant understand why such illegal action is not preventable by law.) It is good to feel hope again, and to trust that the response will be more than enough to turn the tide.

WHEN YOU LOVE A WILD THING

 

"...you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, ...[i]f you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."

— Truman Capote (Breakfast at Tiffany's: A Short Novel and Three Stories)

When you love a wild thing,

you're rekindling your kinship

with the wild.

Every cell in your body

remembers

when you once ran free

upon the land,

when you lived the Old Ways

we once used to

understand.

Part of you remembers

when you hunted the deer,

and part remembers

when you were

the deer being hunted.

Both sides know fear.

The part of you

that catches your breath,

your heart quickening,

when that old grey whale

turns her ancient eye on you,

is the part that recognizes,

but can't put words to,

the message in her

mournful song,

about this planetary home

where we all

belong.

I gave my heart to a wolf-pup,

his eyes intelligent

and true.

He loved me more

than anyone

I ever knew.

He remained wild,

but left both

wilderness and sea.

In order to be with me

he relinquished

being free.

And when it came

his time to leave,

he tried so hard

to stay.

Since he's been gone,

it's like the wilderness

itself

has gone away.

Now, when I walk,

yes, I'm looking

at the sky.

I'm listening

at each full moon

for his lonely

cry.

I walk the length

of his favorite river

with tears

that we're apart.

But I'm glad

I loved a wild thing,

because he

fortified

my heart.

I'm linking this one for my prompt at What's Going On on Wednesday - It's Raining Cats and Dogs. I am looking forward to meeting some furry creatures this week! It will be fun! Come join us!

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.

 I am revisiting a couple of old poems, written for my beloved Pup, for my prompt this week at What's Going On - It's Raining Cats and Dogs - where we are sharing poems about our furry loved ones or spirit animals.