Walking the Grandmother Path

My Grandma, Florence "Floss" Marr

My Mother, Renee Marr Baker

All the way back,

all the mothers and grandmothers

in my family had strong backs:

for bearing children

in tents and covered wagons,

for pushing back raw wilderness

to make a home,

for digging in unyielding soil

to feed their children,

some of whom survived.

Some of them were healers.

Some of them were Celtic crones,

who spoke with ghosts.

One of them fled the potato famine

and found herself in the deep freeze

of a prairie winter.

One of them rode across the prairie

on horseback

in hobbled skirts.

She caught

my grandfather's eye.

A long line of grandmothers

walked the grandmother path

before she

who walked here

before me.

In my past are warrior women,

mystics and dreamweavers,

witches and nuns,

women sitting in Council

and governing.

Somewhere back there,

once women's spirits flew.

Somewhere back there

our souls clawed their way

out of bondage

and raised awakened eyes 

to the sky.

Now I walk

the grandmother path

in memory of the long line 

of strong women

who walked here before me,

and in honour of the long line 

of strong women

who will walk here after me,

in a passage of time that is timeless,

in a circle of love that is endless:

grandmother after grandmother,

footsteps walking in footsteps,

heart upon heart.

Wherever you come from,

a long line of strong women

survived the impossible

so that you might live.

Never forget,

"you come from the love

of thousands."

source

for Carrie's prompt at The Sunday Muse and the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.

A Gift for a Gift

On my deck,

pretty blooms bring me

smiles all day:

bleeding hearts wave in the wind,

a fat bee bumbles in the tulips,

hummers drink from purple petunias.

Pansies smile.

In one pot that last week 

looked like it held just dirt,

tiny swiss chard are poking 

their valiant heads above the soil

and having a look around:

a celebration

of Becoming.

I tend them carefully,

breathe gratitude on them,

every morning, 

along with drinks of water.

They stand tall,

towards the sun,

in response and pleasure.

A gift for a gift.

for Sumana's prompt at Midweek Motif: Gifts

A Bird Forever On His Hand

source

He sat in the sunny greenhouse,

surrounded by blooms.

A September morning,

frost in the air,

finches flying about.

Then one flew down,

alighting on his hand.

Time slowed;

it hung, suspended.

I feel it, still.

I hear again

the trickle of the fountain,

see him, 

all wrapped in sunlight,

turning his dark eyes to me,

to share the beauty

of that one moment in time.

Forever and forever,

I still see him:

his slow smile,

his eyes meeting mine,

that glance across the room:

my love,

turning his gaze on me,

a small bird 

forever on his hand.

for The Sunday Muse.   Shared with the Tuesday Platform at Real Toads.

Birds always take me back to Yesterday.

MY CURRENT PHOBIA

source

They say, “It’s easy.” (Not.) They say, "I’ll walk you through it”, but my eyes glaze over. They say “Anyone can do it.” Not me. Behind the screen, in the bowels of technology, where Mr Linky lives, is Dangerville, for me. It does not compute. I am a person dragged kicking and screaming into the land of technology. I used an Underwood manual typewriter for 30 years until my boss insisted I learn computers. I bless him, now.

But, still, there are limits. Every week, I hunt someone down to insert the linky at the Pantry. They may be abroad, or in the midst of crisis, but Mr Linky must go in, every weekend. Staff members who know how to Linky may never quit. My Fear of Mr Linky creates difficulties for my teammates. Mea culpa. But, thanks for putting up with me.

I am phobic about all things technical. I live in mortal fear of accidentally clicking the wrong thing, and the Blue Screen of Death appearing.  I have seen it a time or two. I have PTSD from a traumatic experience with Tech Help, exacerbated by the intervention of a very angry brother-in-law.

They say “Face Your Fear.” They say, “Find the thing you fear the most and Do That.” But – umm –  I am averse to engaging in activities that will increase my stress to Fight or Flight levels. I hope to reach that Final Screen, if my teammates will be so kind, without ever having to venture into the Land of Mr Linky.

258 words for Magaly’s prose prompt at Telling Tales With Magaly, at Poets United this Sunday: Phobias

A Morning Graced by Doves

This morning

two mourning doves lit

on my porch railing,

where my tulips are shyly

poking up their heads,

enchanting me, 

my small and makeshift garden,

that I check first thing
when I get out of bed.

The dove's soft cries

have followed me 

through the decades,

taking me back to long-gone days

with my lost love.

With all the gains and losses,

I count my blessings,

to still wake to mornings

that are graced by doves.

I have used the closing lines in an earlier poem in 2016. Borrowed it for this morning's ordinary moment, for my prompt at Real Toads: 

to describe this moment, the joys and comforts we so often take for granted. At my age, I take NOTHING for granted, as each day, at my age, is pure gift. Especially here, in my heart's home. Come share your ordinary joys with us at Toads. You had yesterday to rest up after April, LOL.

Branches Hung With Stars

source

So small, I am, below,

so vast the arch of midnight black

above,

curved ribs of light enfolding me
like a tall umbrella,
or the drooping branches
of the tallest  tree,
hung with stars
instead of blossoms
just for me.

What lies in the spaces
between stars?
What dances among the
interplanetary beams
of the northern lights?
Light catchers swirl
like ecstatic Sufi dancers
across the sky.
We watched them together
at two a.m., once,
you and I.

Celestial Beings
wave their mile-long arms,
tossing falling stars
from side to side,
that glimmer brilliantly
and then go out,
leaving mystery behind,
and memories of time gone by

lie gently on my mind.

for   Toni's prompt at The Sunday Muse: The Night Sky

Everything Is One

source : Longwalker

In the Old Ways, men and animals

spoke together,

lived connected and interdependent,

according to the teaching:

Everything Is One.

It is true,

what happens to one,

happens to us all.

Witness: floods, forest fires,

melting icebergs, warming seas,

species dying,

Mother Earth crying out

her distress.

Once, we lived

rooted like trees,

holding hands across the forest floor.

Now, the forests are falling;

the sky grows ever hotter.

People and wildlife

are on the move.

Cougars are falling from trees,

bears hiding their eyes

from the destruction 

of their world.

We are learning the hard way:

Everything Is One.

What happens to one,

will happen to us all.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Biodiversity. 

I could write of its wonders, for there are millions. But its main teaching is the interconnectedness of all things, which certain people in power, in the US AND Canada, would do well to understand.