Silence

 

source

When the world walked two by two,

and she alone,

silence felt lonely.

And so the universe set her the task

of embracing solitude.

She began to observe

how people seemed to need

a lot of talk and noise

to know they were alive.

And so she listened

more deeply,

to the hum of the planet

and the music of the spheres,

the way the night sky

seemed, almost, to sing,

and to Grandfather Cedar

breathing peace

straight into her heart.

She tuned in to the voice within,

wiser than any outer voice,

but one it takes far too long

to learn to trust.

At some point,

silence came to live inside her,

a vast, interior silence

where there were no words,

no thoughts, no worries,

a time when the sound of the sea

washed all away,

leaving behind only

peace, presence,

and joy.

And now she knows all about

the silence from which

all music comes.*

It is her dearest friend.

Through it, the beautiful

symphony of life

plays like a mellow clarinet

on a summer afternoon,

warm and golden, counterpoint to

the full brass band

of daily existence,

all inter-woven and living

mellifluously together

in her heart.

*Mozart said: The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.

for Mary's prompt at What's Going On: Silence

Fever Dreams

 

I learned at the cinema to dream

how my future would be, back when

life was as cold as a convent in mid-winter,

back when fever dreams were mortal sins,

back when my experiment in being a mystic

went all awry.

It all turned out so differently from what I'd dreamed.

I said this to a friend last week, adding
"I never could have dreamed it
the way it's been,"
and she shook her head in wonderment,

with big eyes, having read my memoir.

I had a fling or two, with no finesse. I experimented

with domesticity in prison garb and broke free

like an alligator on the run from men with spears.

Nowadays I've turned the volume low. I take pills

that don't remedy the pain. I've learned that

only dogs know how to truly love.

I'll never make my earlier mistakes again.

Ha. Shay's Word List took me down an unexpected path. I love when that happens. It was the cold as a convent that got me going. 

( I scooped the Fitzgerald quote above Shay's poem and changed it a bit to fit mine - I haven't read her poem yet, of course, as I didn't want to be influenced.) But the alligator line made me think of her. Smiles.)

A Poem for Your Pocket

 

When I'm looking for light,

I read poems.

When I'm fleeing heartache,

I write them.

Maybe I look out my window

and see some small puff-ball clouds

slowly moving across my morning sky,

or two eagles, circling,

wind-surfing the thermals.

This is your poem.

I want it to speak to

that part of your heart

that has walked many miles

to reach it.

Perhaps you don't read poetry,

thinking it a country of no resonance

for you. Perhaps, if you give it a try,

it will surprise you, connect

with a feeling, a shared experience.

Maybe you will do a mental double-take,

realizing that words can dance,

sometimes - albeit infrequently -

so nimbly across the page,

like young Jack leaping the candlestick

all those many years ago.

This is your poem.

If it bores you, no worries.

This poem's feelings cannot be hurt.

Like the tired heart

that composed it, it has seen enough pain

to not need to go down those roads again.

Keep this poem

in your heart's pocket,

and, one day when I am gone,

come back and find

me in it

once again.

for my prompt at What's Going On - an open link to celebrate April Poetry Month.

Blessings

 

Gathering of Allies
photo by Marcie Callewaert Photography
I'm in the middle, front row, raised fist,
cane, blue plaid shirt

Sitting in a rocking chair in the sun

Giving treats to passing dogs; their smiles and bright, happy, glowing eyes warming my heart

 Cherry blossom scent on the breeze,  small hummers drinking deeply, so thirsty after the long winter of anticipation

Thinking of yesterday's rally of Tla-o-qui-aht and allies, showing up for Mother Earth, celebrating how Wah-nah-juss was saved from clearcutting 40 years ago, when the First People Just Said No

Remembering passionate early mornings on the blockades, how alive we felt back then, making change, standing on the road for the trees

Turning off the bad news; turning on morning, and birdsong; recalling waking in the night to see a full round Grandmother Moon, golden and smiling in the sky, and looking right at me

Watching a juvenile eagle making random circles overhead, breathing in all that is peaceful and hopeful, beautiful and sun-kissed, all around; nothing left to wish for but more days just like this, sitting in a rocking chair in the sun

Except a world healthy enough to sustain the young eagle, and all of earth's young ones, into the future

A list of blessings for Shay's Word List

Poet In Search of a Poem

When life has worn you into

an unthinking shell

without words

and you sit, blinking into space,

in a place of No Thought,

tap the lifeline

of poetry

that lifts your heart

out of its everyday concerns,

into the realm

of midnight moons

and hungry ghosts.

Look up into the raven sky

and chart the silver moon goddess

as she trails mystery

like a gossamer cloak

across the heavens.

Poetry

remembers that life

is more than bread and worry,

that it is beauty and aliveness

and gilt-edged miracle.

It is the suspension of disbelief

and the fastening of one's heart
on Possibility
and Promise.

It is the lifting of one's eyes

above the "raveled sleeve of care"

to remember music,

the dance of language,

love,

and the silver shining sea,

forever ebbing and flowing

upon a shore lined

with old growth,

and then fastening
one's heart

and vision

and belief

firmly

upon that.

For Susan's prompt at What's Going On - What IS it about poetry?  The quote is from Macbeth.

No Solace at Lost Shoe Lake

 

source

I looked for solace at Lost Shoe Lake,
vividly picturing that long-ago settler,
desperately slogging the muddy slough -
bitter as his shoe was suctioned
off his foot, and gone,
a catastrophe unlikely
but, alas for him,
too true.

I imagine his chagrin, thoughts
of the rocky miles ahead 
circling his brain like blackflies,
his journey
caught between disbelief
and dread.

No solace for him
for a hundred miles
at least.

No solace for me
as I walked the lonely shore,
without my beloved
grinning
big black beast.

for Shay's Word List

Bird

 

Source: Getty Images

I imagined a gathering of magpies

in the tops of the alder grove,
as I sat in the sun,

breathing in the scent
of white cherry blossoms.

There was an outbreak of loud chattering, 

all bird voices speaking at once.
What manner of bird was this?

What new song were they

trying to sing? What alarm
sent their chatter into
such brief furore?

I imagined a murmuration,

a stupefaction, of small noisy birds.

As their voices crescendoed,

then subsided and grew still, I pondered
the brief raucous uproar. Perhaps

the loudest among them had won

the fattest worm. Perhaps an elder bird,

dignified in tophat and cane,
had fallen asleep

and toppled off his perch.

Hopefully, his bird-folk had caught 

and steadied him firmly
on the branch
just in time.

While there are magpies elsewhere in BC, they are not in evidence in Clayoquot Sound. But as this was all imaginary, as I rocked in the sun, I had a bit of fun contemplating what might have caused all the ruckus. I identified strongly with the senior bird, needless to say. Smiles.