STARDREAMING With Sherry Blue Sky

Alive in the Land of Miracles

2012-01-31T08:53:00.000-08:00

Traveler,

see the fog

draping the mountains,

Grandfather Cedar

black against

the morning sky?

See Sun and Moon

putting on their daily Sky-show?

We live in miracles,

Traveler,

you and I.

[Sproat Lake in February]

Do you see the waterfall

tumbling down the mountain,

the thousand rivers

rushing towards

the sea?

How is it we go about

our days

forgetting

the glorious gift

it is

simply to Be.

[swimmies in February!]

We're alive in

a land of miracles,

Traveler,

truly,

when we wake each morning

and open up our eyes

upon the thousand

ordinary beauties

life unfolds

against the backdrop

of the skies.

On this

once-only

never-to-be-repeated

ordinary

extraordinary day,

may our gazes fill

with unsuspecting wonder

that we're traveling

through such beauty

all the way.

A Hint of Spring

2012-01-30T21:05:00.000-08:00

[Englishman River]

Today it was mild, and one could smell the earth, the freshness of the air, even a hint of spring on the wayward breeze. There is a good 45 minutes of added daylight at the end of the day, which excites me. Every scrap of extra daylight is welcome, given the constant grays of this winter valley.

Soon the earth will be warm and it will be Open Door Weather for months and months. I so love leaving my doors open wide to the outside. Once it is warm enough, I love sitting on my porch swing, having my tea and contemplating absolutely nothing but the gentle rocking back and forth.

Before too long, one more winter will be over. Spring is heading this way.

Of Albatrosses and Other Weighty Matters

2012-01-28T15:32:00.000-08:00

Photo by Daryl Edelstein of Through My Eyes and On the m104: Out & About In New York City.

Well this is cool. I had already posted this snippet, and then clicked my way along to Fireblossom's prompt at Real Toads, which is to select one of this talented photographer's photos and write about it. The tombstone photo is timely, two birds with one stone. This is not, in any way, a serious "poem" - just a funny thought or two I have around the weighty matter of my Name Which is Not My Name.

There is a slight dilemma about my last name.
It isnt mine.

It didnt fit me, even at the time.

I carry my ancient old hoary married name from 1966

like an albatross around my neck

that I am constantly flicking off.

I flicked off the marriage in 1972.

It appears I move slowly in dealing with the details.

First I kept it so my kids and I would have

the same last name while they went through school.

I had hoped to spare them embarrassment.

Turns out they were far more embarrassed by ME,

and my generally eccentric behavior.

In recent years, the name has not worked for me AT ALL.

When forced to give it, I always add a disclaimer.

It may even be the source of my difficulties,

being incongruent with my spiritual and personal evolution,

but I have remained too impecunious

and terminally exhausted, to deal with changing it legally.

I have the name picked out that I want.

It is my grandma's name.

I have warned my family not to put my married name

on my tombstone, or I'll come back and haunt them.

I may come back and haunt them anyway,

just on general principles.

This has to be the year to tackle this important dichotomy

and claim the name that fits me.

The tombstone is creeping closer.

Every now and then,out of the corner of my eye,

I see it lurking.

An aside: Last night I dreamed that Pup and I had lost each other. We couldnt find each other, though we were looking everywhere. But before I woke up, I found him, with great relief. I am taking that as an underlying message, and it comforts me.

Don Quixote and Blueberry Muffins

2012-01-27T10:31:00.000-08:00

[image from google: QUIXOTE.tv.zazzle.com]

This poem was inspired by Fireblossom's poem Sunday Bookstore Cafe, about a blueberry muffin and the loss of love. A universal theme, it appears :)

I am re-posting it here in response to Mary's Mixed Bag challenge today at Real Toads : to write a poem that includes a conversation. This one sprang to mind. If you click on the link to the prompt challenge, you will find some cool examples of poems containing conversation at the site.

He was addicted to
beginnings,
to conquest,
to the thrill of the chase.
He had perfected
the bedding of women,
the cute little schticks,
the crafted phrase,
the poetic verbiage.

She was a romantic
whose life had held
precious little romance.
She had been alone,
it seems,
forever.
She felt like
the Dickensian character
sitting in her parlor
draped in cobwebs
waiting for the phone to ring.

Alas! they found each other.

He believed he was
Don Quixote,
always off on a quest.
He wooed her wary heart
with words of forever,
cajoled her past her fear
with honeyed phrases.
Her heart, starved for love,
for romance,
for this to be true,
responded
while her Inner Wise Woman
was thrown into fearful panic
and did not feel safe.

Her head, however,
refused to listen
as the ground shifted
beneath her feet,
and she clung on.

He spoon-fed her promises
and butterscotch pudding.
To others,
he said he was
"keeping his options open".

Too soon
he grew bored.
She had toppled too easily.
She wasnt "playing the game",
her sister said.
Confused, she replied,
from her honest heart
"I dont play games."
"More's the pity,"
said her sister.

On the side, he was already
lining up
the next glorious
breathtaking
adventure.
There were two women
in his sights.
He "kept his options open"
in case one of them
didn't work out.
To her,
he said,
he was "confused."
He "needed time."
Then, he must "follow his truth."

He dumped her on Valentine's Day.

And she?
About to go into
the full-blown shock
of betrayal,
devastation,
and, quite soon,
some healthy
invigorating anger,
before she left
she made him a batch
of her wicked blueberry muffins,
to remember her by,
because he'd
"miss her muffins".

Good God.

She'd never see another
blueberry muffin
without an ironic
grimace,
the thought of him
bumbling about
the scattered
landscape of love,
tilting his sword
at all the pretty ladies.

Traveling Through Beautiful

2012-01-26T19:51:00.000-08:00

Middle of the Rocky Mountains

photo by Jon Merk

Poets United's Thursday Think Tank prompt is The Road. If you go to their link, you will find some amazing responses to it.

Traveler,

the road

goes up and down,

along some winding trails.

But there's one thing

that amazes me,

one thing that

never fails.

One step begins our journey,

a thousand miles

will take us home,

but we're traveling

through Beautiful

everywhere

we roam.

Clayoquot Writers Group

2012-01-26T11:34:00.000-08:00

Christine Lowther, noted Vancouver Island poet

If we cant get to Tofino,

we'll bring Tofino to us.

And that's what happened last night, when the Clayoquot Writers group (of whom I was a founding member in the early 90's) arrived in Port to do a reading and some way cool performance poetry . The venue was great, an old converted church called Char's Landing. It had a nice coffeehouse feeling to it, and the locals turned out in goodly numbers, which was quite wonderful.

My friend Chris and I were in that writers group together when I lived in Tofino, and her first published book of poems, New Power, was the writing she was working on the first winter of the group. I have so admired her talent through the years, and her perseverance in doing the work it takes to get widely published.

I have fond memories of our fantastic group back then, writing among the most amazing, dynamic and talented women. The group has changed membership over the years, and is still full of very talented and well-published writers. Last night's performance was highly enjoyable. I was asked to read, and offered my Traveler Holds the Moon, which was well received.

It was nice to see Tofino friends, writer friends from our local college and members of a local writers group I belonged to before it disbanded, all in attendance. I am such a hermit, my appearance was like I was back from the dead. It was fun. I think I'll go once a month to their open mic from now on.

Chris and I came back here and, as anticipated, there was cackling! Jasmine was so happy to see her. Chris was Pup's favorite person after me. She shared so many of our wild gamboles along the beach, and he was always so excited to see her. This was her first visit without him here.

Chris has several books out now, some anthologies and three books of published poetry. Her work can be seen at The Natures of Christine Lowther

I wrote an article some time ago about Chris and her amazing life on a floathouse in Clayoquot Sound, which can be read here:

http://stardreamingwithsherrybluesky.blogspot.com/2010/09/one-poets-life.html

Tibet

2012-01-25T12:37:00.000-08:00

[image from google]

The prompt at Real Toads today is to write a futuristic poem. The style and a few of the poems of Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet were given as an example. I also looked up the explanation on Wikipedia, but am really none the wiser as to what is wanted. Will give it a shot anyway.

What will tomorrow
make of the monks, burning?
Flames rise, monks stay motionless,
awaiting immolation.
They do not scream.

A nun, watching, moans,
"My Tibet, my Tibet."
The charred remains
are given to the vultures
for a sky burial.

The Dalai Lama weeps.
He can find no words
where there is
only heartbreak.

Will the occupiers ever
understand
Tibetan people
only want
to live, unoppressed,
in peace
in their own country?

History in the Making

2012-01-25T09:54:00.000-08:00

image from google

Yesterday, Shawn Atleo, First Nations activist and current national chief of the Assembly of First Nations, whose brother is a dear friend of mine from Tofino days, met with Prime Minister Stephen Harper, with all due ceremony, at the Crown-First Nations Gathering in Ottawa.

Shawn Atleo is proposing the immediate need to smash the status quo between First Nations and the government, which still operates according to the ancient paternalistic Indian Act , when it comes to governing First Nations.

Shawn pointed to some bands who are managing their own affairs and doing well, stating there are 65 bands ready to govern their own affairs. The wish to self-govern comes on the heels of last month's declaration of a state of emergency by the Attawapiskat reserve, whose members are living in unheated shacks in 40 below weather, without water or toilet facilities - Third World conditions for the northern people of Canada.

At the time this news broke, the predictable response was finger-pointing by government, at perceived "mismanagement of funds" by the Band.

Yesterday, Harper responded to the Chief's plea for a transformation in the relationship between government and First Nations, with the usual words of "respect" and "working together". But he said he would not disband the antique Indian Act, which has kept First Nations people disempowered, "because it would leave a hole". It all sounded like a lot of the usual - words, instead of change, and nothing happens.

Argh. However, Shawn Atleo is a courageous and committed leader of his people. His message - and the reality - is that it is long past time for change for his people. Under the present system, far too large a percentage of First Nations are impoverished and feeling hopeless. They want the same access to resources, employment and self-determination the rest of Canada enjoys.

What I heard yesterday from Harper was same old/same old. But I place my hope in Shawn Atleo. He'll get the job done.

Winter Gray

2012-01-24T08:32:00.000-08:00

I am identifying here with the slug, as that is the pace my body would like to be moving at today. Lowering gray January skies, rain that has the river lipping the top of its banks, and I'd love to curl up like a winter bear and snooze the day away.

However, I have a job to do today, so off I go. Those turtles will just have to keep out of my way :)

Have a good one, kids. See you later. When I get home I'll come see what you have been up to.

Song of the River

2012-01-23T09:06:00.000-08:00

[Stamp Falls, the narrows]

For Open Link Monday at Real Toads, I decided to re-post this oldie, one of the first I posted on my blog. Stamp Falls is my favorite spot in Port, because it is the wildest. I have walked there so many times through the years. Beyond the narrows, the river opens in full flood with a steep incline that salmon have to leap, against the power of the down-river-traveling water, during the autumnal spawning migration. The huge fish collect in this peaceful channel to rest and wait their turn to attempt the rocky passage. Eagles and bears also gather, to intercept some of the fish. You can look down and imagine one could almost walk across the backs of the fish, they are so plentiful. Our dogs love to swim in this river in warm weather, back a ways, where the river opens in the other direction.

Song of the river wild,

Song of the rapids leaping

Through the chiseled rock-walled chasm

Green with weeping,

A plunging torrent

To the ocean seeping

Song of the sea-green foam

Song of the white froth dancing

Sun-dappled baby wave-tops prancing

In the sunshine, all my dreams

Romancing.

Song of the green rock wall,

A vessel for the river's journey,

Guiding the flow along the channel churning

To the ocean and as it's

Returning.

Song of the tall green trees

Rootbound and stoic in the deep crevasses

Rooted in bedrock holding up the mountain,

Sentinels for every year

that passes

Song of the laughing brook

Below the rapids green, swirling and babbling

Huge salmon leap,

Fall back in shallows dabbling,

Plunge forth to lunge again,

Leaping and scrabbling

Song of the river wild,

You sing my tattered soul a new song,

Bless the silver beauty of this new day,

Make me know the path I'm on

Is not wrong.

Song of the seasoned soul

That knows the underlying message

Of the river:

Flow with me,

Not against me as we journey;

Travel lightly,

Not a taker,

But a giver.

Shambhala Warriors in the Nuclear Age

2012-01-22T09:30:00.000-08:00

[image from google]

Are you looking for warriors

who can change the world?

Don't look where there are weapons.

Look at good folk

who are kind,

changing the world
from the inside out,

one heart, one family,

one community

at a time.

If you want peace in the world,
dont look where there are wars.
Men shooting each other
in the mud,
or lobbing bombs back and forth,
can never bring about peace.

And those "modern" weapons
they show us on tv,
that look like computer games,
little arrows tracking across the screen,
and no footage of the effect on the ground:
the bombed buildings, the rubble,
the bleeding humans and screaming children;
one might forget it isnt a computer game at all.
They're just trying to make us think it is
a bloodless massacre,
so we'll keep on supporting their war games,
agreeing to the pouring
of money into Defense
instead of health care, education
and feeding the hungry peoples
of the world.

I started off writing about taking heart
because, with life at the
very lip of the precipice,
with arsenal enough to blow us all away,
either deliberately or through accident
and chain reaction,
it is prophesied that
the Shambhala warriors will come
to dismantle those weapons
of mass destruction.
It is said they will
infiltrate the corridors of power
and face down corporate might,
corruption and greed.
That the time of the Shambhalas
and boddhisattvas
is at hand, spiritual warriors,
to turn weapons into ploughshares
that will till the hearts of men
until peace is harvested,
no longer only a wish, a prayer
or a concept.

I just watched a movie about war.
It looked insane, soldiers ordered
to climb up
out of trenches on command,
to run straight into machine gun fire,
young men on both sides falling into the mud,
a horrifying hell
commandeered by men in boardrooms
far away.
How can fighting and dying
by the millions,
how can hating over perceived differences
(for we are all human beings)
ever accomplish peace?

So now I am writing a different poem,
a real poem,
not about what my soul wishes,
that those Shambhala warriors,
armed with compassion and insight,
would come in strength and glory
to tip over the long oaken tables
in all those corporate boardrooms,
scatter all the maps of all the hot spots
on this planet,
pour the cool air of their wisdom
on all the throbbing,
fiery, painful
pustulating pockets of war
on this over-stressed and falling apart
but heartbreakingly beautiful
planet.

Is that any more far fetched than thinking
everybody fighting,
everybody warring,
everybody outraged and suffering
and starving and killing
can ever "protect our freedom"
or give us the peaceful world
we all say we want?

Tonight I am thinking
we need a Kindness Revolution.
We need to heal this wounded earth
from the inside out,
one heart, one family,
one neighborhood,
one community,
one bleeding clearcut mountainside
or contaminated river,
one trapped whale
or starving polar bear
one province or state,
one country
at a time.

There is an ideological war
that must be won
before we can dismantle
the weapons of war,
dismantle the barricades,
dismantle the death grip
of the dictators, the fundamentalists
and the corrupt leaders
on the necks of their people.

Then we need to dismantle
the weapons of mass destruction.
Does anyone in power realize
"mass destruction" means them, too?
Is it not insanity to think anything can be won
by annihilating the entire earth?

It is hard to hold onto hope
when you read, and understand,
that dark forces have
a death grip on this planet
and refuse to let go.
I tell myself, when it comes to
dark and light,
that a fire burns brighter
when you try to extinguish it,
and so, light must ultimately triumph.

But I'm not a total birdbrain.
I read about the nuclear power plants
where the technicians know putting the rods
closer together to save money is dangerous,
but are told to do it anyway
because Cost is all that matters.
I read about Cousteau's disgust
at what we are doing to our oceans:
drifting garbage,oil spills, sludge,
plutonium, the dying of the very plankton
that provides us with oxygen.

Are we seriously stupid enough to continue
until we smother ourselves?
Deforestation and desertification,
famine, global warming.
Is this depressing you
as much as it does me?

Under the bodhi tree,
the Buddha woke up.
Can this whole world wake up, now, please?
Gandhi spoke of "the uplift of all".
In Sri Lanka, Buddhist activists speak of
everyone "waking up by working together".
It can be done. It is Possible.

All of the ills of this world
are man-made.
The solutions, the Buddhist teachers say,
are mind-made
and can be mind-solved.

Compassion and insight are the potent weapons
the Shambhala warriors will arm themselves
with to face and hopefully wake up
those in the corridors of power.
No one said it would be easy.
But, tonight, I am convinced
it needs to happen Now.

My friends, what world
shall we dream into being together?
Let us all become Shambhala warriors.
Let us pass the pipe of peace,
open our eyes and our dreams and our vision
to the web of life
to which we are all connected.
With all of the sorrow, and hope and
love in our hearts,
let us help our planet heal.

[Choegyal Rinpoche, Tibetan sage, describes the competing nationalisms of our time as

"a thousand thorns sprouting, each waving its own flag."]

Note: In no way is this meant to criticize those who join the military and fulfill their duties with courage and honor. I am speaking of the military industrial complex, meeting in boardrooms far from the theatre , which needs war to continue to keep their coffers full, and who direct young men into the horrors of combat, but who never suffer war themselves. My prayer is that the money now spent on war could be directed into making lives livable all over the earth. If we could direct our energies towards free and clean sources of natural energy, we could create jobs all over the planet, as well as beginning to right the imbalances the industrial age has caused.

Sigh.Heavy stuff over morning coffee. Stay tuned.

Wild Woman Flies Her Freak Flag

2012-01-21T10:26:00.000-08:00

There goes Wild Woman,

head way back,

just grinning at the sky,

sploshing through the ice and slush

as if it were July.

Her boots expose her knobby knees;

she'd better look around.

While she is talking to the trees,

she just might fall right down.

She says good morning to the crows

who are making such a din.

She's all adrift in wonder

at this miracle we're in.

The beauty of this planet

and the gift of one more day

fills her heart with feelings

that are much too big to say.

She's looking at a world

that's just as pretty as you please.

There goes Wild Woman grinning,

freak flag waving in the breeze.

Saying Goodbye

2012-01-19T11:15:00.000-08:00

The Thursday Think Tank prompt at Poets United is : Goodbye

Immediately, I thought of this photo, of my grandparents, my mother, (center, back row), and my aunts and uncles, whom I thought were as glamorous and sophisticated as movie stars back then, when they were in their heydey. All departed now, except for my Uncle Don, (on the far left, back row), still alive, still blonde, still handsome at eighty. At Christmas, Lori and I watched the family video, all of those heartbreakingly vital years, when death and partings were the farthest thing from all of our lives. There is one take where everyone had gathered at my grandparents' little cottage on Christleton Avenue. Two by two the couples come out the front door to smile into the camera, and the grandkids, and then my Grandma and Grandpa. Everybody beaming happily and innocently into the camera, all thankfully unaware of what the years ahead would bring.

Out the door they come,

two by two,

the glamorous aunts and uncles,

all smoking,

with drinks in their hands,
(it was the 60's),

all beautiful.

We kids thought they were

the height of cool.

Into the camera they smile,

happily innocent

of the futures that lay in wait.

The grandkids are smiling too.

Now we all have

turned into grandparents

and so many of those

dearly loved faces

in the blurring film

are gone.

We couldn't know it then

but as the camera caught

their brightly smiling faces,

they were already saying

Goodbye.

Two to Tanaga?

2012-01-18T11:18:00.000-08:00

Real Toads is once again issuing a challenge, any challenge seeming difficult to me these days.

A tanaga adheres to a strict format, asks an emotionally charged question in four short lines of seven syllables. Yeah, like that's going to happen, hee hee. Here's my try:

Again, a form that intimidates.

How to fulfil all that-it-takes?

I need help. I am going to find a

scribe. It takes two to tanaga.

Eye of God

2012-01-17T21:35:00.000-08:00

[This NASA photo of the so-named Eye of God,
is of the Helix Nebula, taken by the Hubble Space Telescope]

I remember years ago watching a documentary with a friend of mine that looked from a fixed point on earth, traveling outward in increasing increments. We went from the fixed point on the ground farther and farther into space.

Then we returned to the fixed point and traveled inward, again exponentially, to the very nucleus of a cell.

It is all pretty freaking amazing, when one considers the intricacy of the smallest cell, in its little orbit, to the interconnectedness of the many systems, designs and life forms on the planet, linked to the spaciousness of the million galaxies above. Each small part contributing to the whole. And the whole a mesmerizing wonder.

Wow.

Big old orb up there

filled with a zillion stars

and shiny with stardust,

keep a benign eye

on us down here.

Beam that benevolent

celestial eye

all across this planet.

Sprinkle kindness

and stardust

everywhere you look.

When we gaze up at you,

may we each

become a Rumi,

filled with ecstasy and wonder,

so when you next look down

you'll see us all

grinning

like mad fools,

and wildly dancing.

Baby Wolf

2012-01-17T16:40:00.000-08:00

OMG. Pup used to tilt his head back and forth just like this.

I want a baby wolf!

The River Wild

2012-01-16T14:36:00.000-08:00

In the piney-woods,
the path is scattered with pine cones
and fallen branches,
ground soft and springy underfoot,
smell of canopy and trees,
song of the river
wild in winter flood.

The rough bark of Grandfather Cedar
tells the story of a thousand years
of standing in one place.
When you look up,
when you lay your hand
against his trunk,
when you listen,
you can feel and hear his message:
Endurance.

Look into this little pocket of forest,
draped in moss and old man's beard,
salal springing up everywhere,
ferns and fiddleheads,
small white winter berries,
rosehips,
toadstools and wild morel,
every inch alive with myriad life forms,
an entire ecosystem can exist here,
in a patch
no bigger than
your hand.

Listen to the silence,
alive with the forest's breathing,
and the secrets
only the forest knows.
If you take the time,
this old tree
will share with you
his wisdom.

The river is wild in winter.
It expends its force
tumbling and crashing over rocks,
rushing the banks
and frothing white and foamy
through the canyon.

Sit a spell.
Just Be.
Breathe the river in,
breathe your worries out.

The word I'm looking for, here,
is reverence.

One Year Today

2012-01-15T10:50:00.000-08:00

It was one year ago today, old pal of mine, that you barked to go out and, stepping over the sill, your hind end gave way, collapsing to one side, then the other.

I had known these were our last weeks, and now the moment had come. It was time.

As was your habit, you barked all the way to the vet's, excited, thinking we were going walkies. But when we backed up to the door of the vet's, you lay flat and I had to drag you out, with treats as an incentive to walk through those doors one last time. Believe me, I never wanted to.

You didnt want to go either. You resisted the sedatives with all of your considerable will, as I sat on the floor with you, my hand stroking your head, just being there with you, for the very last time. I knew you had been the creature I was closest to on this earth, and the one who loved me most, and that now I would be alone. But even though I had tried those last two years to brace myself for this parting, I had no idea how big your absence would be. You had been such a large, noisy, hilarious, imperious Presence.

I couldnt stand walking away and leaving you there. I couldnt stand the thought of your beloved body going into the fire. I hated to think of your spirit seeing me walk away, thinking I had abandoned you there.

When I got back home, the neighborhood had fallen eerily silent. All of the neighbors said they actually missed your barking.

Some mornings later, as I was waking, I felt your nose on the edge of my bed, and you whuffed at me, as you always did to wake me. As I rose through the layers of sleep, I felt and heard you and dissolved in tears. I was so grateful for that visit, but it also showed me the size of what I had lost.

When I came back to the vet's, and she handed you to me in a small little cardboard box, I lost it. Your big, noisy, vibrant indomitable presence transformed into a small bag of ashes in a small container. Horrible.

I got you a special urn, I made you a special spot, with the blanket you slept on your whole life, your favorite toys, your collar and leash, your treats. But I dont feel you there. I dont feel you anywhere, and that has been the hardest thing to bear.

And, just so you know, I havent been to the beach or the river or the forest since you could no longer accompany me. I will miss you most in those places, where for fourteen years I never walked alone.

But I am beginning to wonder if, now that one year has passed, I might just find you there, where your spirit and mine were happiest and most free. I'm going to go and walk the river, old pal of mine, and remember the hundreds of times I watched you swimming there, and how you'd grin at me and bark for treats, in your demanding way. I'll toss a few along its banks. Give me a sign if you're there, okay?

I miss you, buddy. Today, that's the only truth I know. And I always will.

Dogs of an Eternal Winter

2012-01-15T09:27:00.000-08:00

[photo by Maxim Marmur]

Kids, this poem is from last winter, when I came across this news story. I woke up this cold snowy morning thinking of these dogs, and all creatures who are trying to survive the winter outdoors (including many humans.) I thought I would post it again for our contemplation.

26,000 homeless dogs

roam the streets

of Moscow.

26,000 fur bundles

of love-

on-paws,

live hungry,

cold,

without shelter

in the freezing air.

Some are so smart

they know how

to ride the subway,

where the seats

are softer

than the frozen

concrete

streets

of the inner city,

and where for an hour

they share

some warmth

with the

human passengers.

Sometimes

they roam

together,

seeking

food and fellowship.

Hunger

is their

most constant

companion.

The city

planned

to send them

all to a gulag camp

outside the city.

Citizens protested,

knowing

they all would die,

and the news reports

ceased.

But keep an eye out

for sudden evacuations

by night.

No government bureau

is funded

to help

these most helpless

creatures.

A handful

of private citizens

do what they can.

The hungry dogs

an eternal winter

walk

the streets

of Moscow

with

questions

in their eyes,

and,

when they dream,

they dream

of spring.

Choices

2012-01-13T09:39:00.000-08:00

Poets United's Thursday Think Tank's prompt is: Choices
[image from google]

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud
was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."
Anais Nin

"A miracle is just a shift in perception."
Marianne Williamson

[Traveler has learned about Choices.]

When she was young and
bad people harmed her,
she thought she was a victim
and that it wasnt fair.
No one ever told her
she didnt have to
let them hurt her,
that she could simply
walk away from there.

She put her heart
in cold storage
to protect it,
by avoiding love
trying to avoid the pain.
Then good people came along,
music and sunshine,
and the tight little ball of her heart
unfurled again.

Sometimes when the very
worst of calamities happen,
all that we can choose
is how we rise.
Those are the days of fire and ice
that hone us,
push us to make the leap,
and make us wise.

Dear fellow voyager,
if you are clinging
to the very end
of the very last branch
on the tree,
if you fear falling,
just rest, and trust
life's cycle.
All will be well,
and help will come
to thee.

Remember, Traveler,
this is the soul's journey.
If we lock ourselves away
too high a price
we'll pay.
Safety can in time
become a prison.
We sometimes travel blind
to find our way.

At first you think
you'll never trust another,
for he might wound you
like the last,
who was untrue.
But in the end
you're likely to discover
the only one
you need to trust
is you.

Despite ourselves,
that early sun
will warm us,
and slowly we'll unfurl
those icy leaves.
We have to grow.
To stay the same
will harm us.
We're at our best
when we
the most believe.

A bud may wish to stay closed

for a season.
If it fails to open, it withers
on the vine.
Unfurl your bud.
Come out to meet
the sunshine.
Expand in the warmth,
dear little bud.
It's time.

Teaching a Pig to Sing

2012-01-12T10:20:00.000-08:00

Never try

to teach a pig

to sing.

It wastes your time,

and annoys

the pig.

-Robert Heinlein

Kids, I wanted to put something cheerful out there this morning. I am feeling under the weather, and am needing to lie down much of the time. I will still be online, as I cant not be; it's impossible to Totally Unplug. But I am way behind in both prompts and visiting, and will just participate as I am able, over the next few days till, hopefully, my Head rights itself and lets me sit up more of the time.

Nothing serious, likely a result of Overdoing, which I am so prone to. And a small injury which seems to have triggered a major landslide of symptoms :)

I hope to be back to normal by next week. We live, as I am so fond of saying, in hope!

The Wild

2012-01-09T09:22:00.000-08:00

The wild

never leaves us

once we know

we are

its kin.

Wild Woman Sighs

2012-01-09T09:17:00.000-08:00

The Pleiades Star Cluster, from Astronomy News

They say we come from stars

are are made of

molecules

of stardust.

But have you ever seen stars

fighting across the heavens

over the differences and variations

in their shine?

There is an intelligence

in the cosmos

we seem to be

sadly lacking

on earth.

Wild Wolf, Waiting

2012-01-08T12:02:00.000-08:00

[image from google]

At Real Toad's, Fireblossom Friday's prompt was to write about the inner animal.
This poem is more of an outer animal who lives within my heart and spirit. It's what came,
so I will post it, though it isnt exactly what was suggested.

There is a wild wood.
In my den I stir
as the new morning
wakes me.
I sniff the wind
and sense your pain.
It breaks me,
for I'm forced to forge
a path
you cant yet
follow,
and I know
this leaves you
feeling
rather hollow.

I am a wild wolf.
To be with you,
I always had to
keep it tethered.
Now I can throw off
all my bindings
without minding,
not forgetting all the years
we spent together.

I am a wild thing
but my heart
returns to watch you
when you're sleeping,
rest my nose upon your bed
and whuff a greeting,
though you are asleep
and never feel us meeting.

How can a heart be
wild and tame,
together?
We forged a bond
nothing in life
can sever.
A bridge between
our two wild hearts
we traveled,
a bond that tight
can never be
unraveled.

I had to leave you,
but I never wanted to
and I am circling
the forest waiting for
your heart
to find me.
Listen for my call,
you are not far
behind me.

Lessons of a Sand Dollar

2012-01-05T15:43:00.000-08:00

Poets United's Think Tank prompt is a seashell. The seashell I used to find most often in Tofino is the sand dollar, so I am writing about it instead.

When I walk along the shore,
my entire being feels
as spacious as the sky,
and as empty.
I have only to step onto the sand
for all cares to fall away,
where all I hear is
the endless rolling
of the waves,
the song of the sea,
where all I feel is peaceful,
like a blank slate
with only one word written on it:
Joy.

In my consciousness
is only the expansive
and eternal sound
of the waves,
the smell of the sea,
the cry of the gulls,
and my feet,
walking,
my heart
relishing these too-brief moments
in my spirit's home.
The load I usually carry
has been divested
in the parking lot.
I will pick it up
again
as I leave.

But, for now,
I am here,
my spirit in tune.
I am home,
my heart lilting along
with my footsteps
to the ebbing and the flowing
of the waves,
in their endless dance.

The hard-packed sand
stretches ahead for forever.
My heart dips and lifts
above the wave-tops
with the gulls, and
with the flocks
of tiny seabirds
that constantly rise,
fly up, swerve
and resettle back on the ground
as a group, like dancing.

When it is time to leave,
I pocket a sand dollar.
I will carry away with me
the memory of the sea,
and the beauty of the shore,
where I have replenished
my store of peace
once more,
by letting the sursurration
of the waves
wash through me,
through my ears,
my brain,
my skin, my being,
until I am as calm as
the lull between waves,
as strong and silent
as the smooth stones
scattered along the ocean's shore,
as patient as the sand dollar
that spins its house
from the sand and grit around it
and carries it within.

Like the sand dollar,
I am made of the sand
and the sea,
and I carry home with me
every time I walk away.

An Imperfect Offering

2012-01-04T09:35:00.000-08:00

[image from google]

Light the incense.
As the vapors rise,
may they carry all our prayers.
Let the hundred candles shine,
illuminating and banishing
the night,
in this early morning light.
Scatter the petals of aging blooms,
making a carpet on which to kneel.
When you are ready,
sound the bell
one solitary ring,
as the choir sings,
and our chants begin,
may the All That Is
accept our most
imperfect offering.

Sorrow Mountain

2012-01-03T10:12:00.000-08:00

I am reading the best book right now. Sorrow Mountain is the story of Ani Pachen, a Tibetan nun, told by Adelaide Donnelley. It tells Ani's story, which is also the story of Tibet, from her childhood years before invasion, through the takeover, torturing, genocide and oppression of its people, to Ani's imprisonment for 21 years for her activism. During this time, she endured torture.

The story is told simply, and the history of Tibet is given a face and a voice: what its people suffered as the invaders took over and their rich cultural and spiritual history was banned and forbidden. It is also the story of spiritual empowerment, as this nun who had longed for a life of prayer and contemplation, was forced onto another path, that of warrior, rather than victim.

I am deeply loving every page, and cannot recommend it highly enough. As I read, these words keep repeating in my head:

How many times
must we climb
Sorrow Mountain?

And the answer?

As many times
as it is
required
of us.

Ani Pachen climbed Sorrow Mountain, bravely and with spirit. One more story of a human being transcending extremely difficult circumstances, emerging radiant on the other side. It is a story that is inspiring and empowering, that touches heart and soul of the reader.

Morning Song

2012-01-02T08:16:00.000-08:00

[This image is actually for Lancome perfume,
from magazinesadsandbooks.com. But it works here]

She walks on the wings
of daybreak,
cloak trailing.
Mist is rising over the meadow
and the trees are emerging
from their blanket of darkness.

Small early birds
are hopping and cheeping
at the feeder.
The old brown mare
whuffs a greeting
over the rail fence,
as the last star
of the morning
slowly disappears,
and the snippet of moon
silently tiptoes away.

Where will today's path lead her?
One by one,
the days are moving on,
heading into a future
which is hidden from view.

One long last look back,
before turning her face
to the morrow,
already on its way,
as this dear old earth
turns and turns,
and turns again.

How Wild Woman Rolls

2012-01-01T20:36:00.000-08:00

Wild Woman reflects;
she could wake up New Year's Day
totally motivated
to address the Many Important Chores
on her To Do List:
like, make hard copies
of all the poems on her site,
put together a few Lulu books,
finally edit that book in the cupboard
so it can be sent somewhere,
get caught up on visiting blogs,
and, while she's at it,
make more productive use
of daylight hours,
perhaps washing the windows
and, incidentally, the car,
and cleaning out the garage.

But that's not how
Wild Woman rolls.

Batting Her Eyelashes

2012-01-01T09:33:00.000-08:00

Okay, kids, Kay over at An Unfitties Guide to Adventurous Travel posted a photo of her famous dog, Lindy, called Batting Her Eyelashes. That sent me looking for this photo of Jasmine, who gets a certain look in her eye at times. You know how a girl just knows when she's pretty?

We took Kay's post as a direct challenge, hee hee. So here's Jas, up to bat!

Should Auld Acquaintance

2011-12-31T18:25:00.000-08:00

Bill, and his faithful Lara

Kids, it has been a watershed year. A year of changes, a year of gaining and losing, a year of grief and gratitude. A year of truly knowing that, no matter what, deep within my old crone spirit, I am okay and can handle what comes.

Gratitude, always, for the gift of life, for the beauty of this incredible planet, for people I love, for a successful letting go of my own place to find a cozy refuge in a much smaller space, with resulting relief and a reduction of stress. And amazing gratitude for the writing I have done this year, thanks to all of you, who keep reading and, thus, keep me writing. There are 800 poems in the world that would not be here without you. I thank you, and am eagerly looking forward to writing our way through 2012 together.

Today I spent with Faiza, whose husband, Bill, is dying. Each week I have been amazed to find him still there. Today his face lit up like the sun when he saw me. "HELL-o Sweetie!" he beamed. He made it through Christmas, thankfully. And through the very end of 2011. Not much longer, I dont think. This past week was a hard one, for him and for Faiza.

The photo, above, was taken some months ago, when Bill was stronger. Now a hospital bed is in that corner and Lara is very upset - she doesnt like the bed, and she feels all of the stress of things not being well in the house, and with her people.

This morning Bill told me how much he wishes he could go out on the back porch for a smoke. He loved his cigars. But it has been a year since he was able to have one. He is on oxygen and has trouble with his lungs.

Faiza is literally on her last legs. The strain of caring for him, and the stress all of the "helping agencies" cause her, with their regulations and requirements and endless hassles, have about done her in. She keeps going on will power. I know something about that. I so worry about her, after Bill passes. But she is brave: "Whatever God wants, is what we'll do," she says.

As we sat in the sunny window and had coffee this morning, her engagement ring sparkled in the sun. I commented on its beauty, she fingered the ring, recalling how Bill had given it to her, and then she said, to the ring, "I love you, Billy, and I will for the rest of my life."

So touching.

The end of 2011. The beginning of a brand new year of possibilities. I am lifting a glass now, to all of you wonderful friends, who have enriched my life all this past year. I look forward to writing and reading poems all of the next.

Happy New Year!!!!!!

When You Love a Wild Thing 2

2011-12-31T08:34:00.000-08:00

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.

Wild Woman Hates Goodbyes

2011-12-30T12:53:00.000-08:00

[Maxine character created by Hallmark's John Wagner - image from google]

On the eve
of the eve of 2012,
Wild Woman asks
the Big Question:
when is she going to
be done grieving?

She is taking longer
to get over
a wolf
than Jennifer Anniston
did getting over Brad Pitt.

She understands the grief cycle,
but seems to have misplaced
the terms somewhere.
Either that,
or the processing equipment
is faulty.

There are days when
she begins to believe
the phrase "a no-brainer"
must have been coined
especially for her.

That's all right.
At least it proves her
short term memory
isn't completely gone!!

When You Live With a Wolf

2011-12-27T14:43:00.000-08:00

When you live with a wolf,
you learn about
connection:
to the wild,
and to another being,
deeply,
without barriers,
even speech,
because, so often,
your minds meet
and, sometimes,
he tries to talk.

When you live with a wolf,
you must seek out
the wild places
daily.
He must never
be caged,
or enclosed
or tied up,
for his spirit must
run free and unfettered,
as it would with his pack.
He resists all restraints,
refuses to submit,
remains Alpha,
stays with you because
he chooses to,
not because you make him.

Living with you
is a negotiation he makes,
because he loves you,
but you know
that he relinquishes a lot;
it is a compromise he makes,
in giving up the wild
to live in a house
with you.
Walls remain foreign
to his substance.
He will eat a doorjamb,
of an afternoon,
to be Out
rather than In.

When you live with a wolf,
his intelligence and devotion
shine in his eyes,
which never leave you.
They follow you as you move
about the house.
They watch your halting progress
around the yard.
He remains on the alert
for danger,
lies at the front edge of the yard
where he can survey
all goings and comings.
He is ready to protect you,
places his body between
you and any threat.

But when you are walking
through the forest,
by the river
or along the beach,
then he is gone
far ahead,
his spirit joyously
at one with the wild,
and he wont come back
until he is ready.

He loops back
to check on you
every now and then,
and he always knows
just where you are.
When it is time, he will return
and, with resignation
and a heartfelt sigh,
climb grudgingly
into the car
to resume domesticity once more.
His heart accompanies you,
but his wild free spirit
he has left behind,
as have you,
on those beloved wild shores,
to be picked up again
on your return.

When you live with a wolf,
you live with a very large presence.
This makes his eventual absence
somewhat difficult to bear.
But those years
as twin souls,
that called forth your
deep wilderness nature,
taught you joy
as no one and nothing else
ever could.

For them,
you would not have
traded anything.
For them,
you can bear the pain.
For them-
for him -
you will,
eternally and forever,
give thanks.

Kids, I have just finished reading The Philosopher and the Wolf, by Mark Rowlands, recommended to me by Mary. It stirred up a lot around missing Pup, but also explained why that particular bond runs so deep. Wolves are highly intelligent, and have very evolved personalities. Pup and I had a somewhat psychic link - he could read either my mind or my energy. All I had to do was think about going for a walk, to have him leap up, excitedly barking and herding me to the door.

Pup suffered the loss of the wild when I was forced to leave Tofino. He grieved it, as did I, in the years following. He suffered the restrictions of living in town to be with me. For both of our sakes, I had to get us to a wild place every afternoon, until his legs gave out on him, in his last year.

It was bittersweet to read about Mark's life with his wolf, Brenin. Mark says it is not what we have, but who we are during our highest, and our lowest, moments, that defines us. Some of my highest moments were lived in Tofino, with a big black wolf at my side.

Free Tibet

2011-12-27T11:15:00.000-08:00

Boddhisattvas at the roof of the world
breathing peace through daily prayer,
revering your exiled leader,
the Ocean of Wisdom,
hold fast to your prayerful ways.

May your words rise
to the heavens
on the winds of change,
like prayer flags fluttering
in the breeze.
May your right to your own
religion, identity
and autonomy
be recognized and assisted
by the world community.

May no more monks' heads
be bloodied.
May no more
prisoners of ideology
be tortured.
May no more self-immolations
cry to the heavens
of the need for
justice and self-government.

May Tibet be liberated.
May the Panchen Lama be
released and returned to his people.

Free Tibet.
Long live the Dalai Lama.

Notes: I watched Tibet: Cry of the Snow Lion last night. Holy beings, monks, tortured and bloodied,
an invasion of a small country by a major power's army, children taught in school to report their parents for their religious beliefs. Lhasa, the Holy City, transformed to a place of commerce. Secretly held photos of the Dalai Lama, illegal but treasured at great personal risk. No assistance or backing from the rest of the world. In fact, our governments trade with the occupiers. Money rules.

But I still believe the spirit liberates. I see it in the eyes of the monks, burned and bloodied, but their heads and fists raised high : Free Tibet.

All The Christmases That Were

2011-12-27T11:13:00.000-08:00

[I wrote this back in December 1997, when I still lived in Tofino and my health was beginning to fail. At this time of year, looking back through all the Christmases, I sometimes like to re-read some of this history, though a lot more has been added since 1997.]

This year, for Christmas, I decided to make each of my four children a small collage of their childhood photos. I spent one evening down on the floor poring through my multitude of albums, revisiting those busy years which seem , in retrospect, to have flown by at the speed of light.

There were all their faces, alight with laughter. Kids playing, mugging for the camera, on jungle gyms, kids grinning through stacked tire-holes, one face atop another. Lisa and Jeff, hanging upside down by one leg each from the metal bar. Jeff and Steph, upside down, butts to the camera, grinning at me through their legs. Jon with his first rocket, his new bike. Jeff and Steph, arms wrapped around each other, beaming. Jeff and Steph dancing, faces aglow with a gaiety too great to contain. Lisa leaping into the air, her mouth square, shrieking her joy at getting the clogs she wanted so badly. Jon fishing, hiking in the hills. Jon on a roughly made raft, poling up the lake in the dead of winter. Lisa cuddling a furry little pet under her chin, looking out at me with the same tender softness I see in her eyes now, cuddling her children and her kittens.

Jeff and Jon, plastic swords over their shoulders, marching to some Tolkien-like music we all loved during winters when my boys read Lord of the Rings over and over. Jeff, tongue out comically, his head inside the mouth of the concrete Ogopogo outside City Park, pretending he was being eaten by the monster.

All of us, up Knox Mountain, flying kites. All of us strung out in a row on bikes. All of us, having a winter picnic at Gyro, on ground white and frozen, grinning around our sandwiches.

And there are all the Christmases, when somehow against all financial reality, magic happened in our living room, and the wee hours of Christmas morning resounded with happy shrieks and an orgy of gift-opening. Now I dont know how I did it, but I remember being determined that, on that one day of the year, my kids would have what they most wanted. I was trying to make up for the reality of never enough money, never quite enough food, and all the days when they wanted things in silence that they never asked for, because they knew our lack of money by the contents of our fridge.

That Christmas magic lasted until my children hit their teens, when our family blew apart for a time as they explored drugs, alcohol, and paths that took them away from me and any magic I might have available. My throat closed over a massive lump, looking at their shining faces in the years when I could still afford some slight protection, or so I thought, and had not yet learned that the most perilous years yet lay in wait, full of dangers far scarier than my children's worst childhood nightmares. We entered those years all unaware and unprepared, and none of us came out unchanged.

What the photographs dont show is the other side of Christmas, in the years when my heart was aching for my children, when I valiantly traveled from place to place among them, bright smiles and cheerful wrap belying the hidden pain, the unspoken words one or the other of us were not yet able to say. Christmas lost its magic for me in the years when Lisa was away from home, and Jon. And in the years when Jeff, so sunny a youngster, made his lonely trek through the valley of despair.

I remember the Christmas concert just after Lisa left home, and the depth of sadness in my heart and on my face as I watched the two children still with me, the sweet sound of children singing piercing me through. Another year, another Christmas, Jeff, pale and wan, singing "if I were a swan, I'd be gone", me encouraging his talent and brilliance, at the same time trying to anchor him to this earth he had such a fragile hold upon.

Some Christmases we spent scattered, me traveling among my children. Some we spent together, with inner distances between us we did not mention, our smiling faces turned to the camera, our secret pain and memories hidden within.

There are no photographs of the fractured Christmases, when one or another of my children was either physically or emotionally distant from me. No photographs mark the passage of those years of family unraveling and reweaving. Years when I learned to pad protective layers around my heart, cling firmly to my life and carry on, believing in the power of a mother's patient, steadfast and unconditional love - and the healing powers of the passage of time - for my children to make their inner journeys away from and back to me.

Back and forth among my children, as the years passed, I traveled, a little shorter, a little tireder, a little more frazzled with each year. Encouraging, supporting, trying to instil my belief that life holds goodness and wonder, once we are ready to let go of the pain. For a time, I thought the Christmases we once had only came with small children and were forever gone.

This year was the right time to give my children some of their childhood photos. There had been years when it hurt too much to look at those young, shining and innocent faces. Then came years when I took pictures of scenery and tried to heal myself from all the pain and struggle. This year, I could look. My children are on their own journeys now, the time of healing of memories, and they are finally coming to a place of peace and happiness.

And I am traveling too, to the season of life when time becomes more finite, when there is a lot of looking back and summing up, and a wish to pass on all the love and gifts and wisdom one posseses while one still can.

While my children were growing, I was growing too, willy-nilly. I did some growing up, some growing whole, some seizing of the reins of the galloping wild horses that were my children in those years. There were times when I felt utterly unable to cope, knowing I had no choice but to cope with what felt like too heavy a load. My children were floundering in treacherous waters, and somehow I had to encourage them from shore, throw life preservers, guide them through. Sometimes I felt like I was hanging onto the tail of a lashing dragon, that was wagging me. Sometimes a distance came between me and my kids' realities, when everyone was communicating but no one was really listening.

Those years are finally past. My children are coming to terms with life then and life now. No longer children, they are assuming the reins and taming their own wild horses.

There have been other changes in these years. Grandparents' faces are now missing around the table, and I find myself the matriarch and Grandma. But my children have been coming home for Christmas these past years, and I've been feeling some of the magic creeping back into that day for the first time since their teens.

This year was like the Christmases of old, kids disappearing under a sea of wrap, their heads poking out above the surface. Jon, giving me the best gift he could possibly give me, in gifting his brother with a ghetto blaster for his music. Jeff, more himself than he has been for years, hovering protectively over freshly caught fish Jon was cleaning, like a young priest, tenderly patting and reassuring them. Lisa, wracked with pain, and full of tears, yet filling also with a new strength and awareness of her worth and her rights as a human on this earth. Strong enough to hold her head up bravely under judgment of those who do not know, in order to live her truth. Gifting me with the honesty of her communication. And Steph, who for so long sought family outside of our family, hurt by the turmoil of her siblings' adolescence, now finding it with her brothers and sister. Our family has grown strong at the broken places.

My friend Mahara had a similar Christmas with her children, her son giving her the verbal gift of forgiveness first thing Christmas morning, reducing her to tears. As we remark on the growth we are seeing in our children and the richness of our new relationships with the fine young adults they have become, she remarks, "Our Christmases will be different from now on. There is consciousness growing in our children." And she is right.

I know I feel less lonely on my path, now that my children are so strongly embarked on theirs. I feel proud of the journeys they are making: journeys of the heart, of finding and living their own truth - pride in these young people who show so much heart and courage and honesty.

This year, once again, we took the Christmas photo. This year I have been privileged to see deeper into who my children really are, the greatest gift they could bestow upon me. We are now a mutual cheering section for each other, as we compare notes on the journey. We've traveled a long way since last year's photo. My health has been faltering, my body exhausted from decades of pain and struggle, wanting only rest. Two of my children still struggle with painful demons, but their lights are beginning to outshine the darkness and it is an awesome sight, brighter than any yuletide tree. Sometimes I feel it is by my sheer determination that we will all make it safely through.

If I had one gift I could give them it would be the incredible gratitude and reverence I have for life, just life. I have made it through my dark times because there has always been blue sky and sunshine and trees to lift my heart up in thankfulness. I wish that heart-lift for them, that gift of seeing past the pain to all the beauty that is available to us when we are ready to reach out for it.

Sometimes I worry about what might yet lie ahead, knowing I dont have the strength for much more. I feel the deep tiredness of someone who has been paddling very hard for a very long time. My mother's heart is always braced against the possibility of unbearable pain, should anything happen to any one of my children.

This year, the difference was, my children were helping me, and easing things for me. And it felt really good, like we're all in this together, so maybe I dont have to be so strong any more.

As I am losing strength, my children are gaining it. With what pride I survey my life's work: four very special young people who have emerged from some very perilous passages with the mark of the wayfarer on their faces, and new knowledge, compassion, caring and strength shining from their eyes. We are now journeying together, and can recognize and applaud each other's progress as, by different paths, we make our way. The cycle of life is turning, turning, and my children are leading me Home.

Warm Wishes

2011-12-25T08:17:00.000-08:00

Kids, this afternoon I am heading down-Island to be with my youngest, Stephanie, her fiance Gord, and her three doggies, for a quick visit. I'll be back late tomorrow evening and next morning will be ready to plunge into cyberspace with gusto.

Meanwhile, I wish all of you warm, happy family times full of laughter - whatever you celebrate, or dont, as this season passes.

I am so looking forward to reading your poems and writing some of my own all through 2012. Thanks to all of you for being your own wonderful selves and adding so much to my world in 2011.

My Sorrow

2011-12-24T21:36:00.000-08:00

This is my son Jeff, pictured here with a beloved friend - the pony died this past year, sadly, of cancer. For Christmas, Jeff composed the most beautiful song for me. He said I may share the beautiful lyrics here with you, as some of you have read his poems and loved them, this year, and asked for more. He played the hauntingly beautiful melody to me over the phone. He doesnt have the technology to put both together and post it on youtube. I wish he could. What a wonderful Christmas gift, this beautiful song, and the one who wrote it is to me.

My Sorrow

My sorrow withers like the scarlet rose
That proudly stood as queen of summers’ field
When the day should fold and finally close
The flower to the night must graceful yield

My sorrow calls me by name in a dream
Of you upon the wild green mountain lee
In your embrace tears are a flooding stream
Dark secrets of my heart must come to be

My sorrow is the word I dare not speak
But for the agony that dwells in you
As human I am strong yet I am weak
I want to weep the tears we never knew

My sorrow grips my heart not just for me
But so the suff'ring one may be released
And every tear upon your face I see
That flow from memories that are deceased

Tread lightly; there are tomb-stones in my heart
Take the flowers you gathered; plant them there
In songs of joy and sorrow play our part
And in the summer day meet me with care

Solo

My sorrow withers like the scarlet rose
That proudly stood as queen of summers’ field
When the day should fold and finally close
The flower to the night must graceful yield

Copyright Jeffrey Merk 2011

On Gifts and Gratitude

2011-12-24T09:16:00.000-08:00

Kids, this morning someone dear sent this link to my inbox. If you have a few minutes to watch it, it will make you SO GRATEFUL to be a human being on this beautiful planet full of other amazing beings. The images are spectacular, and the philosophy spoken is heartwarming and wonderful. This video is my gift to you in this season of giving.

I want to tell each one of you who comes to my site, whether you leave a comment, or read and click away, how absolutely blown away I am by the fact that you are coming to read my words from wherever you live on this glorious planet of ours. And how very much I value your friendship, your kind and encouraging words of support and appreciation.

Because of each one of you, I went from a dry spell of barely writing at all, to writing almost daily. You have walked with me through a difficult year and, often, it was your words that I clung to, your support that helped me make it through.

I so look forward to another year of sharing our poems, our philosophies, and our life journeys. May 2012 be our best year of writing yet.

Running Free in the Forests of Heaven

2011-12-23T09:03:00.000-08:00

Running free in the forests of Heaven
is how I see you,
tail and ears up
and that old wild gleam
in your eye.
I never tamed you.
I never wanted to.
We both loved the wild,
and I honored it in you.

Those big puppy paws,
I hope they're lolloping along
miles of sandy beaches,
dipping in and out
of the waves,
the way you always did,
impervious to my calls
as you always were,
until you were done,
and then back you'd come,
galloping along
to me.
You'd pick up a piece
of driftwood
as we left,
and carry it to the car,
for remembering.

Now I am the one
who is
remembering.
And one day,
when it's time,
old wilderness pal of mine,
may you come lolloping
back to me
to guide me safely home.

There are only three things
I need to see in Heaven -
the first is you,
and old growth forests,
and the sea,
so we can walk those trails,
hike endless sandy beaches,
and watch the sunset, once more,
you and me.

An aubade

2011-12-21T10:38:00.000-08:00

The prompt at Real Toads is to write an aubade, which is a morning song of parting.
Timely prompt, as I have been thinking along these lines of late.

The pines, darkly shrouded
in morning mist,
line the river
like guardians of the wild.

The water roars its winter fury,
white spray tumbling
over rocks
and through the narrow
rock-walled chasm,
green with the river's passage,
all these years.

An eagle surveys all
from his perch atop
a giant cedar.

And me? I walk in sorrow
along your favorite river,
holding your leash
and still - always - missing you.

Do you feel me,
searching for your spirit,
lost in the absence
of your soft
padding footsteps
by my side?

How many sad walks
along the river
will it take
before there are no tears?
Your being gone
is still too big
an absence,
and it has nearly been
one year.

A Wealthy Critter

2011-12-20T07:58:00.000-08:00

[image from MSN]

Meet Gunther,
the world's richest dog.

His owner died
and left him, like,
363 million dollars.

Dude!

Wild Woman wonders:
is he single?

Song for Eric

2011-12-18T22:07:00.000-08:00

image from google

If I were to
see you
only one more time,
this lifetime,
those kind dark eyes,
head and beard
now sprinkled white,
I would
give you that hug
I have been saving
since we parted,
hoping one day
that our love story
would come right.

I remember
Blackbird singing
through our nighttimes,
and the coo of doves
at daybreak
when we'd stir,
watching the morning
rise behind the greenhouse.
As you pulled the curtains open,
I would wake.

If I had known that
that one year
was all I'd have
to know true love
that disappeared so fast,
I would have held on
harder,
tighter, longer,
maybe long enough to
quell my fear
at last.

Sometimes we choose wrong
and hang on for a long time.
Sometimes we choose right,
and run away too soon.
You opened the dove's door
when I told you I was leaving.
What I wanted was a promise.
Might as well have asked the moon.

We were young.
We only knew
how love had hurt us.
But those summer days
live in my memory.
All these years
when I had withdrawn
from the game,
my heart has circled,
always circled
round your name.

Merry Christmas from Ming

2011-12-18T19:20:00.000-08:00

This old gal, ten years old, was about to be euthanized

at the SPCA because no one adopts ten year old cats.

But we do!

Lori brought her home,

where she immediately expressed

her gratitude for

and appreciation of the comfy setting

and the good eats.

She's a very affectionate girl

who loves

living with dogs.

So sometimes, boys and girls,

life gets it right, hee hee!

Say What?

2011-12-18T19:17:00.000-08:00

She was a blonde bombshell.
Heads turned
when she passed by.
And, what's more,
she had a shining
and valiant spirit,
but no clue
of her own worth.

Her mother dreamed
a bigger dream for her
than her daughter
dreamed for herself.
With awe and admiration,
she had watched
this girl
make her journey:
every time she fell,
her spirit would
always
find its way
to rise again.

The flying
was always
a wonder to behold.

This time
this spirit
so meant to soar
had trembled
on the brink.
Almost - almost -
the girl was
going to fly
higher than
she'd ever
flown before.
But at the
determining moment,
she retreated
to what felt like
a more comfortable branch.
There she
perched uneasily,
surveying what
she hoped
might turn into
Normal.

It had felt too scary
standing on the brink,
and she had fallen back
into what was familiar.
And now
she glows beside him
like a star
orbiting
a most unlikely planet.

Her mother has watched
this pattern
repeat itself
for generations.
She has lived
this pattern
herself.
She knows
a soul can only learn
at its own pace,
in its own time,
in its own way.

A choice has been made.
It will play out as it will.
She has no more
wisdom
to impart.

Strawberry Blonde

2011-12-17T11:13:00.000-08:00

At Real Toads, Marian's prompt was: Strawberry Blonde. Do click on the link, as the other poets participating wrote some terrific poems from this prompt. It made me think immediately of two hair stories from the long-ago..........

Her dad lifted one of her soft red curls,
saying, "You have pretty hair.
Isn't this the color your mom's hair
used to be?"
He was trying to be nice
but she froze him out,
because of what happened
during his blackouts,
that he could never remember.

Her mom said, later,
"You should be nice to your dad.
He is trying hard."
But she was too young
to be forgiving, then.

He died soon after.
No more chances to be nice.
Years more, to forgive.

Her mom was sixteen
when they met -
thin as a rail, beautiful,
with long bleached blonde hair
hanging all down her back.

Her dad was playing in the band,
a Tommy Dorsey song,
but when she walked in,
he set down his saxaphone
and jumped
over the piano
to come down and meet her.

And that was it.
"The only man I ever loved,"
her mother would say,
for the rest of her life.

It was a hard life:
alcohol, raised voices and
bumps and crashes in the night,
poverty, and desperate struggle,
and then his early death.

But at the end,
the blonde bombshell,
who once was a strawberry blonde,
could say, with satisfaction,
somehow, that
"In my life, I had it all."

Christmas Dogs Must be Blogged

2011-12-17T10:18:00.000-08:00

This little girl, Penny Joy, is the new light of Lisa's life. Such a sweet little face! She arrived as "the best Christmas present ever" from a dear friend of Lisa's, after her former person, sadly, died unexpectedly. She is eighteen months old, and from what I have observed, has made the transition to fully bonding with Lisa very easily.

I went over to visit her yesterday with a little bag of doggy treats and toys for her, which she took immediate possession of, warning the kitten away with a few muttered little grrrrr's in the back of her throat. But then she and the kitten raced and tumbled around like two puppies. So adorable.

Here is Blakey, who kept his hat on for one-second intervals, while being tempted with liver bits, in a rather wild attempt to get one functional photo.

Noella, so named because she was a Christmas puppy thirteen years ago, wearing the obligatory antlers. Noey is showing signs this may be her last Christmas, sadly. We will make it such a good one.

I cant wait to give them all their new stuffies - a talking pig and a singing pig among them! There will be excitement at Dogs R Us, this Christmas Eve!

An Epistle to the Downtrodden

2011-12-16T10:11:00.000-08:00

Kerry, over at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, offered a challenge mid-week (I am behind, as always): to write an epistle, a letter of sorts addressed to whomever we choose. Some amazing entries have been offered by fellow poets. Please do click on the link to check them out. Mine is a more humble effort. In the middle of the night I woke up and suddenly knew who I would address my missive to. It makes for some very long sentences, and I didn't know how to remedy that - I just wrote it down as it came. Apparently, I have deep feelings about the disenfranchised :-) Images are of Vancouver's East Side, taken from google.

I am also linking to Poetry Jam, whose challenge this week is: Occupy.

To the supposed Misfits and Outcasts of the World,

brave enough to be

who you really are, judged for being different,

rejected for circumstance,

or appearance

which doesn't fit the perceived
plastic bubble
of what our crazy world considers beauty,
or for mental illness
which really just means
you are attuned to a higher
(and truer) frequency
than we more limited beings can hear,
take heart, for
in the Old Ways,
you were considered
the tribe's magic person,
your utterances heeded with respect.

You seekers and speakers of truth,
you downtrodden,
who burn with the spark of humanity,
offering your true smiles to others
even as you struggle,
looking at us out of your honest eyes,
you who have nothing to hide
and don't know the word for facade,
wanting only to be acknowledged
as a fellow human being
of worth and value,
know that, by some of us,
you are seen.

You, the oppressed, marginalized, disdained,
your poverty causing many to
avert their eyes in discomfort,
you, who pass the ringers of the little bells
collecting money which may, one day,
feed you a meal,
while all around you
people pass by
with their loaded shopping carts,
merrily loading bags and boxes
into their SUV's,
while you think of your children at home,
in chilly rooms with an empty fridge,
remember that your children
have your love and devotion,
worth more than a hundred SUV's
in the grand scheme of things.

Dear fellow being,
know that you have already found
the truth of authenticity
the rest of us are seeking,
know that you are heroic
in your daily putting of one foot in front of the other,
for keeping on keeping on,
that you are worthy and needed in this world,
that your struggle is seen, and noted,
and that, while it may not happen in this lifetime,
in the karmic turning
of the Wheel of Time,
whether as madman or prophet,
as a spokesman for the disenfranchised,
(but never as a CEO or corporate tax evader),
you will come back to this world
of disparity and urgent need,
once more glad to be here,
for life, in all its guises and disguises,
is beautiful.

As the great toppling monolith
of capitalism and commerce
slowly begins to buckle
you, my friends,
who have already learned
how to live richly, with little,
are the experts who are going,
one day,
to show us the way.

You may feel invisible now,
your voices unheard,
but Believe!
The force of the small and common man
is beginning to rise all over the world,
throwing off the oppression
and manipulation of the mighty.

The tide of man will turn
and turn again,
until the mighty are fallen
and the way made new,
and then, fellow pilgrim,
what a world awaits us
when at last
we come into our inheritance
and Occupy Earth.

Yuletide Musings

2011-12-15T08:12:00.000-08:00

[Note the expression on Jasmine's face - she thinks Lukey got a big treat and she didnt!]

There are so many faces missing
as each Yuletide season passes,
so many to remember,
all the bright-eyed lads and lasses.

The old black dog
who stuck his head
right in the Christmas stocking,
and glared offended dignity,
thinking our laughter mocking.

I'll walk a snowy winter trail
to honor his memory,
and I'll keep a candle glowing
on the sill so he can see,

set out a rocking chair
for Grandma
and a flowered plate of treats
so she can rest her tired spirit.
Grandma always loved the sweets.

Around the Christmas table, now,
so many who are gone -
we'll watch the film of those old days,
tell stories all night long.

I know now
why my Grandpa cried,
with emotion overcome:
so many dear ones gone away,
so many young ones come.

The wheel of life,
it turns and turns,
ushers us out and in,
enjoy the present
while we can -
someone leaves
with every spin.

The ghosts of Christmas past,they glow,
so pretty on the screen,
the folk of Christmas present
all too briefly
to be seen.

So lay the yule log on the fire
and set the table merry,
bedeck the dogs with antlers
and pour a round of sherry.

Personally, I LOVE My Antlers

2011-12-14T09:09:00.000-08:00

A younger - and much thinner - Jasmine, the only dog in the family ham enough to actually enjoy the antlers!

I'm a little under the weather, kids, and am terribly behind online, which bothers me greatly. Just wanted to add this little bit to the season, and to let you know that, when work slows down, if it ever does, the first thing on my list is catching up with all of you!

Singing Bird

2011-12-13T11:17:00.000-08:00

[image from google]

At Ella's Edge, I found this lovely Chinese proverb, lovely to ponder, on a snowy morning in December. May your day be a bright one and, at day's end, may you return to a warm and lighted home, where loved ones celebrate your return.

Keep a green tree
in your heart
and perhaps
the singing bird
will come.

Brief Gifts

2011-12-10T16:43:00.000-08:00

[image from google]
Fireblossom Friday's prompt at Real Toads was:
Arrivals and Departures. Cool! (I'm late, as always!)

Life teaches us
arrivals and departures
from our first
until our last and final breath.
What a glorious parade
of plots and people
passes by
our wondering eyes
from birth till death.

As we open each new door,
and walk inside it,
we already know
that one day we'll be gone.
We say hello
and hear a farewell echo.
We want forever
yet nothing lasts too long.

Day burns brightest
just before it fades
to darkness,
but do not mourn,
for soon the dawn will come.
The months, the cycles,
everything has its season,
each ending programmed,
even just begun.

From bud to leaf,
bare tree to bud again,
the wheel of life
adds, then subtracts,
the years.
Embrace it all:
the love, the pain,
the laughter,
even those moments
of pain
so fraught with tears.

After the darkest hours,
the sun comes shining
with a radiance
that has never looked
so bright.
Hold every thing
and every moment
lightly.
Each gift is given
only for a night.

City Streets

2011-12-09T10:27:00.000-08:00

The Vancouver skyline at night - from Google

for the Thursday Think Tank prompt: The City

Night after night,
she walked the city streets,
lookingly longingly
in lighted windows.

A man brings a woman
a cup of tea.
She looks up from her book
and smiles.

What must that feel like?

In search of Home,
she walks on,
lonely,
miles and years of walking
city streets,
looking in at other lives,
longing for a place
for her heart to land.

Turned out she had been
carrying home around
inside her
the whole time.

Christmas Dog

2011-12-09T08:49:00.000-08:00

Good morning, kids. This is bad little Blakey, who keeps the memory - and obstreperous behavior! - of Pup alive at our house. He is registering the same offended dignity that Pup did at donning the Christmas hat. But he looks so cute we just cant help it. He has a new red and white collar with bells too this year.

At my house, this morning, Il Divo is singing Christmas tunes, there is a foggy morning outside which tells me both sides of the island are sunny and glorious, we expect snow somewhere over the weekend, and I need to start getting packages ready to send away.

Christmas is such fun!

The Greatest Gift

2011-12-08T07:39:00.000-08:00

There is such quiet pleasure
in wrapping gifts,
each selected with love
for one's dear ones.
But I always remember
those across the world
who live with empty bowls,
without gifts,
often without their loved ones.

There was a little boy
in a village on the plains of Africa
who came home one Christmas Day
to find his mother cooking
the everyday porridge with vegetables,
that they ate daily.
He started to cry, because on Christmas Day
everyone in the village ate rice.
She was supposed to be cooking rice.
But his father had died.
There was no rice.
His mother's heart must have twisted
at the sight of his tears.
She must have wanted
to shower him with rice
and with every other good thing.

Now that little boy is a tall young man.
He is carrying home
to his mother in the village
a sack of rice,
and his good, shining heart.
There will be laughter,
and tears of joy,
and gratitude, and humanity.
There will be feasting and
the telling of stories.

And the knowledge
of that small happiness
will sit in my heart
all through the holidays,
through the unwrapping
of the gifts,
and the sharing of
the Christmas meal.

It will be the greatest gift
that I receive
this Christmas.

Gifts

2011-12-07T18:28:00.000-08:00

[Sunrise over Kelowna - photo by my son, Jon Merk]

Ella's prompt at Real Toads is to write about gifts, or to write about the first poem that really meant something to you, after which your love affair with poetry began.

I began falling in love with words when I was very young. I have been carrying home an armload of books from the library weekly since I was five - that is a lot of books. I lost myself in them, and still do. I always have a book on the go, and twenty more stacked waiting by my bedside.

The first poem that began my writing journey was one I wrote myself. I dont know why or what sparked it, but I wrote it, and the floodgates were opened. A torrent of poems flowed through me, for the rest of my life. Many composed in my teens were written in language that seemed to come through me from somewhere else, someone older, with some understanding of things my teenage brain certainly wasnt yet capable of comprehending.

I wote feverishly all through high school. The teachers were very good. They encouraged me and turned a blind eye to my feverish scribbling, which I could not help - when a poem was coming, nothing else mattered. I had to write it.

I hadnt read much poetry until then, but was drawn to the classic novels: Wuthering Heights (Heathcliff!), especially. I loved all of the Brontes, books full of moors and turbulence and suppressed longing.

During high school I was finally exposed to poetry and loved so many of the poets: Shelley, Keats, Wordsworth, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, e.e. cummings.

I remember writing these lines in class, then sitting and staring at them, wondering where they had come from and what they meant. It was 1960. My dad had died that summer before high school started, and I was just barely fourteen.

Each acquaintance on the road to Never
whispers through the soul
and leaves a soft thought to remember
when tomorrow dawns cold.
It seems each person that I meet
on this long journey to the end of things
is someone I can love
and I must tell him of my love
for if my heart stopped beating
e'er one more sky was streaked with dawn,
how would my many loves live on,
uncertain of this extra dream of life
only my heart, in love, can dwell upon?

Christmas Concert

2011-12-07T17:40:00.000-08:00

Here's the face of a little lad who is bright as a new penny. Today I went to watch my great-grandson Damian in his first Christmas concert - he's in kindergarten this year. It is always so cute watching these concerts. I get a kick out of watching the teachers, who kneel in front of the kids animatedly and hystrionically doing all of the moves and gestures they want the kids to act out - sometimes dropping their heads into their hands in despair, sometimes just plain cracking up. As much fun as watching the kids! One teacher put such energy into her class's performance that her kids brought the house down. Such a joy!

Damian did very well, though he was a little on the shy side. They performed two concerts in one day, which seems to me like an exhausting schedule for little ones. I got tired just watching.

Christmas concerts remind me of Christmases past, when my kids were the ones in the concert, and when magic came to our house Christmas Eve once the kids went to bed and I set everything out under the tree. One Christmas Eve I was so excited I got the kids up at midnight and we had an orgy of gift-opening through the night. I didnt sleep at all that night, and by the time I cooked the dinner the next day I was exhausted. But what fun, when kids are young and Christmas is a magical time.

Damian's school is like a mini United Nations. I so love that. He is starting out being friends with kids from many cultural backgrounds and the wonderful thing is, at this age, kids dont see differences - they just see Other Kids. I so hope and pray this lasts their entire lives.

When I attend these concerts, it is great to see yet another generation of big-eyed children getting excited and happy about Christmas. It was fun to watch the various levels of confidence and shyness the kids displayed. At my age it is easy to pick out the kids who have lots of self-worth, and to spot those who need a lot more validation. Each single child just wanting to be seen and heard, each wanting to know they Matter. Each one wanting the eyes of the adults in their lives to light up when they walk into the room. To know they are special. And they are - every single one.

Humans, Being Beautiful

2011-12-05T09:22:00.000-08:00

Hey, kids, here is a film to warm your heart. The children in the small Yupiq Eskimo village of Quinhagak, Alaska, put this together as a computer project. It was intended for the other Yupiq villages in the area but once it hit youtube, so far over half a million people have viewed it.

I so love it - humans, being beautiful!

An Imperfect Pilgrimage

2011-12-03T20:00:00.000-08:00

[image from google]

Step upon step,
spinning the prayer wheels,
mumbled prayers rising,
pilgrims, we are making
our imperfect pilgrimage.

Come with me
once around the sacred mountain,
and erase the karma of the errors of a lifetime.
Take me to the mountain,
holy one.
Make me clean.

The prayer flags flutter
on the precipice.
The search for the snow leopard
remains elusive.
Step upon step up the slippery slope,
each step on the path to enlightenment
icy, precarious.

The winds howl down the mountain
like ravening ghosts
and shake the candlelit tent
till it almost takes flight.

I'm tethered here,
but only for want of a perfect rhyme.
I hear the message
in those shrieking winds.
I feel the hoarfrost
on the hand of time.

When I die, holy one,
lay me on the plateau
for a sky burial.
Let the big birds come
and pick my bones clean.
Let the leopard gather them
and carry them off,
so I become
one with the mountain,
the air, the sky,
no more pondering how
or wondering why.

Return me to the mountain
of past lifetimes,
I beg you,
and let me
begin again.

[That's what watching Seven Years in Tibet got me :) !]

Wild Woman's Soul Whispers

2011-12-03T08:28:00.000-08:00

Wild Woman looks at the state of the world.
"Believe!" her soul whispers.
"Inspire hope! Encourage all to dream!"

She believes. She hopes. She dreams.

But when she watches the news,
what her soul mostly whispers to her is
"I am so freaking tired."

for the Poets United Thursday Think Tank prompt: "Soul's Whispers"

Sombre News

2011-12-02T20:13:00.000-08:00

This week the news programs have been focused on the Attawapiskat First Nations reserve in northern Ontario, whose Chief, Theresa Spence, declared a state of emergency last week on behalf of her people.

1800 people live on this reserve. There are 303 houses. Half the houses need major renovations or are condemned. Many families are living in unheated shacks (like the one in the news photo above), without electricity or running water. It is twenty below zero there this time of year.

Soon after the state of emergency was declared, the Red Cross was there, on the ground, bringing emergency supplies, water, sleeping bags, tents. There is urgent need for warm dry shelter for a large number of people.

This is an appalling state of affairs, not isolated to only this reserve - others have now come forward, shedding light on the fact that we have Third World living conditions happening right in our own country. 2011, and the Haves never lower their eyes to see how the Have Nots are living.

The politicians are much more interested in deflecting blame and covering their butts, than they are in what is urgently needed - long term housing for people who are slowly dying in shacks while the MP's slam each other self-righteously across the floor of the House of Commons. Their statements are the usual - "We have spent millions, where did the money go?" They "didnt know" the situation was so bad until last week. Yet they "co-manage" that money between government and Indian Affairs, and had government people visiting the reserve regularly who could not possibly have been unaware of the state of housing.

Meanwhile, the elderly, the little kids, the families are bedding down tonight in mattresses on the floor, several people to a bed, in shacks without heat..........waiting for bureaucracy to stop squabbling and kick it into gear.

Thank God for the Red Cross who, in a state of emergency, ACT and leave the talking for later.

One more shameful chapter in the mistreatment of First Nations. And sadly, it sounds like Attawapiskat might be just the tip of the iceberg.

Pantoum for Peace

2011-12-02T09:05:00.000-08:00

Inspired by Ms. Jasmine :-)

The world is our energy made manifest
Be responsible for the energy you bring
Be responsible for the energy you allow into your space
Avoid all volatile and fractious beings

Be responsible for the energy you bring
Let there be peace and let it begin with me
Avoid all volatile and fractious beings
Be the change you wish to see in the world

Let there be peace and let it begin with me
You dont attract what you want - you attract what you are
Be the change you wish to see in the world
The law of compassion applies to every living being, even you

You dont attract what you want, you attract what you are

Another world is right now on its way

The law of compassion applies to all beings, even you
Remember, always, that Peace is Possible

Another world is right now on its way
Be responsible for the energy you allow
Remember, always, that Peace is Possible
The world is our energy made manifest

World AIDS Day

2011-12-01T09:18:00.000-08:00

I am reading the statistics:
AIDS has decreased by 20% world wide.
Patients with AIDS are living longer.
This is good news.

I am remembering:
the young man being supported on both sides,
his arms draped over his relatives' shoulders,
being dragged through the hospital door,
his legs no longer working,
his eyes, agonized,
as they met mine,
his chest wracked by strangling coughs.
"Isn't it pitiful?"
asked one auntie to the other,
as they sat in the waiting room,
watching him pass by.
He suffered horribly
and died soon after.

I remember:
the man in the last room down the hall,
who had just been diagnosed,
crying, his whole world shattered.
He was cold, but the nurse
wouldnt bring him a blanket,
wouldnt enter his room.
I brought him two, and tucked him in.
I felt stricken:
to be reduced to crying for a blanket
and to have even that small comfort denied.

I remember:
the young man from Port,
where no doctor would treat him,
calling the doctor in Tofino,
who accepted him and sent him
to our small hospital.

I remember:
my gay lifelong friend,
who died by his own hand,
not from AIDS, but from a lifetime
of difficulty and intolerance
of which he just got tired.

I remember:
Ryan White,
who fought for his rights
while fighting for his life,
and inspired millions.

I think of:
all of the sad-eyed orphans
in Africa,
living without their beloved parents,
waiting for rescue,
so their smiles can come back.

I think of:
all of the people,
many alone and abandoned,
in their lonely rooms,
trying to stay alive
and
all of those whose brave battle
has finally ended.

World AIDS Day:
millions of beautiful stories
that ended too soon.

Changing the World

2011-11-30T08:18:00.000-08:00

[image from lifescapemag.com]
Posted for the Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads Wednesday
challenge to write something with a metaphysical bent.

Is it foolish
for humans to think
we can change the world?

No.
We already have
changed the world.

We just have no clue
how to change it back.

Christmas Dogs

2011-11-29T10:37:00.000-08:00

Hi kids, I was thinking of this poem this morning, written for last year's Christmas, when everyone and their dogs (literally) came home for Christmas, to my teensy trailer. It was pretty hilarious, lots of cackles. It was the old Pupster's last Christmas, too, and we all knew it. He only lived a couple of weeks past Christmas. I decided to post it, to give us all a smile this morning, as the last days of November fade away, and we turn our thoughts to this year's Christmas.

This year, everyone isn't coming home. Lori and I will have our Christmas on Christmas Eve, and then I will bus down-Island to be with Steph and Gord in Victoria on Christmas Day. Here is what it was like last Christmas Eve in my little trailer:

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS AT MY HOUSE

The stockings aren’t hung.

It should be no surprise.
In today’s economy,
Santa has to downsize.

The Walmart shoppers
have slowed to a trickle.
If you’re not done by now,
you’re in a real pickle.

Jeff crashes in and out
to the front porch to smoke.
Jon groans:
“Trying to sleep
in this house is a joke”

In the living room Steph and Gord,
tucked in their bed,
watch dreams of a night’s sleep
die in their head.

Jeff’s back! Reaching for
the doorknob with glee.
Five dogs raise their heads:
“Oh, it’s time to go pee!”

Walking dogs in the dark,
I fall in the ditch.
This Christmas gig
can be a real b-tch!

Mother Hubbard arrives
to prepare the big feast.
How’ll she ever turn
lentils and beans
to Roast Beast?

Old Dog thinks he’s died
and gone straight to Dog Hell,
and his owner suspects
she has gone there as well.
Sixteen humans
are coming for dinner
and bringing eight dogs.
Someone’s a real winner!

I’m the old woman
who lives in a shoe.
We’ll have to hang ‘em on pegs
or else go somewhere new.

Two hundred inches
of rain falling down:
Here’s hoping Santa
and his reindeer don’t drown.

I can make it till Christmas
is over, I think,
especially if you pour me
one more little drink ;)

The River Wild

2011-11-27T21:53:00.000-08:00

She walks by the river wild
in floating mist,
the ancient cedars tall and dark
against gray skies.
She hears a branch snap sharply underfoot
and senses a sudden movement
from the corners of her eyes.

Gray shifting shapes
are flitting through the trees,
silent and watchful,
heads and tails aloft.
Gray wolf family
elusive, wild and free,
dogging her every step
with footfalls soft.

The water roars its song
and fast away
the wild creatures run
to the safety of their den.
Tonight they'll howl
their wild song to the moon
Tomorrow the forest
will be theirs again.

Child of the '60's

2011-11-26T09:20:00.000-08:00

[image from google]

I was a child of the '60's, but I was raised in small-town Kelowna, which was still back in the '50's. Just as I have never owned a car that was in the same decade I am, I seem to have always been living behind the times, never truly catching up.

When the times, they were a-changing in larger centers, conventional churchy Kelowna held the reins tightly on its teenagers. The mores were strict, constant admonishments were laced liberally with Guilt and Fear, and while music was beginning to tanatalize our senses and rustle through our imaginations, we were kept tightly leashed. Being a Bad Girl was not even remotely possible.

It was like American Graffiti - exactly like American Graffiti - on Friday nights. Girls climbed into snazzy two-toned cars with huge fins,that smelled of talcum powder and Brilliantine (remember duck tails?), grinning boys with pink faces behind the wheel, and the procession would begin: up one side of Bernard Avenue and through City Park at the end, then trolling down the other side, seeing who was out with who in all the other cars.

In my world, kissing was all that went on when you "parked", though I remember being shocked when I double dated with a long-time slightly older couple and they made out hot and heavy in the front seat while my date and I sat uncomfortably in the back, each looking out our respective side window. Pepsi, his name was, a short little guy with no discernible pep, which was, at that time, a good thing, given his prim and clueless date:)

I remember stopping by the radio station after school to request a song to be played for the current boy I was dating, and going home to listen to the program. I had a little box record player, and a growing collection of 45's and 33 and a thirds. It was rock 'n roll, love, bee-bop-a-luba, she's my baby, and at the sock hops, one boy and I danced such a cool swing routine that everyone would fall back and form a circle around us to watch. Sigh. Innocent times.

There was a rumor that a few hippies had actually dared to camp in City Park, and the appalled adults related with grim satisfaction that the City Fathers had made short work of them; they were evicted from town immediately, and told never to return. What were hippies, I wondered?

It was in the '70's, when I found out. By then, I was unhappily married, and had three small children, living as conventional a life as it is possible to live, in Kitsilano on 3rd Avenue in Vancouver. One block up, on 4th, gloriously beaded and attired, free, beaming, long haired young men and women were wandering up and down. They didn't work, they just lived, with a sense of self I was still at least a decade away from developing. It was all love and peace and incense and flowers, and I so wondered how they had escaped the burdensome life I lived. How did they learn to be that free?

My spirit was unconventional, but I had been conditioned and programmed to funnel myself into a small box with no horizon. I kept longing to fly, but first had to extricate myself from the cage I had been lured into.

It took me some time, but eventually I wandered into a coffeehouse and experienced some of that alternative lifestyle, among the beautiful gentle people. It was the '80's by then. And in 1989, I made a stunning leap to Tofino and there they were again - my people.

It might have been a convoluted journey of trial and error to find my way, given such a sheltered beginning. But I look back to those days of innocence and safety with affection. My grandchildren live in a world where they are exposed to too much - to everything - and they have no protective shield with which to lace their dreams with hope. Too much Reality to allow for magic. And drugs have the power to seduce young lives away into oblivion.

Will they look back on their childhoods one day the way I look back on mine? I dont see how they can and I mourn that loss of innocence for them.

Trusting in the Safety of God's Hands

2011-11-25T09:23:00.000-08:00

[God's hand found on google]

Faiza is beyond exhausted,
at the very edge of collapse,
so focussed has she been
on caring for Bill,
making his final passage
to the next dimension.

"He told me he's ready to go,"
she tells me,
her eyes briming with tears,
in her face such profound grief,
tempered, finally, with acceptance
that what she most feared
is, indeed, happening.

"I asked God,
'Dear God, the pain
You would give to him,
give it to me,
for I can carry it."

Small and bent,
grimacing with pain,
she hobbles tenderly to his side.

"Are you all right, habibti?
What would you like?
Some cereal, nice and warm?
I'll get it for you,
my sweetheart."

Miles and miles she shuffles daily
in that small house,
caring for her husband's every need.

Week by week, I watch him sinking
deeper into the sleep
that presages the longest sleep.
As his cheeks become sunken,
his face jaundiced,
his breathing harsher,
still, each week, he asks me,
"How are you, sweetie?
It must be Thursday."

Faiza shows me a small photo.
It is the hand of God,
which she tells me appeared
on a mirror somewhere and,
when they wiped the mirror,
it appeared on the other mirror.
She has placed it over her left shoulder,
right in the spot where she says
the pain is like a knife, stabbing.

She prays for strength to see Bill through.
She dare not collapse.
Will power keeps her back upright
that longs to lie flat.
Determination keeps her feet shuffling
on legs that barely hold her up.
Bill's need and her devotion
is her focus.
Later, she will worry about herself.
I worry for her, as she will have
no resources left with which to
weather the hardest months of all,
which loom ever closer.

May God hold them both
in the palm of His hand.

Joy Rising

2011-11-24T16:31:00.000-08:00

Just look at these two beautiful faces! My older daughter, Lisa, and the new addition to her family: Penny. Penny is one year old and her Person died suddenly two days ago. So sad. A mutual friend called up Lisa and asked, "How would you lik the best Christmas present ever?" and Lisa said "Sure!" She is always ready for magic to happen. And the magic is Penny!

Some years back, Lisa had a darling smart little Yorkie called Hope, who bolted out the door one day and was hit by a car out in front of her house. Lisa was devastated and since then has been offered other dogs but none of them was the right one. It takes a special one to fill Hope's shoes - and this little girl is very special. She and Lisa's small kitty are making friends, too.

Yay! Nothing like a new pup for Christmas. Hmmmm.....small Santa hats....squeaky balls........special soft bed...........yippee!

Penny, you are sooooooooooo welcome! We have been waiting a long time for you. Kids - dont open a door without first finding out where Penny is!!!!!!!

Here is Milo, who has been needing a companion............he is very interested in the new arrival. Now he wont be lonely:)

Happy Days!!!!

Memory Bowl

2011-11-23T08:34:00.000-08:00

Ellie, at Real Toads, gave us the prompt of a memory bowl, to fill with objects that evoke memories, photograph it, and write a poem about them. I havent done the visual part of the prompt, as my memory bowl is between my ears and full of things that cant be photographed. But I will try to write some down.

In memory.......
A little yellow cottage on Christleton Avenue,
awnings lowered over windows like sleepy eyelids,
smell of sweet peas and of pinks,
water slapping the side of the house,
waking me,
as Grandma wet down everything
against the summer heat.

Teen angst, no understanding
of what was unsettled within,
stumbling, flailing,
a blind puppy of need
bumbling about, untended.

Marriage, which was to be the cure
and was no cure,
spit me out the other side
and then the journey
at long last
began:
walking through fallen leaves
in the West End of Vancouver
at twenty-seven,
realizing that this life, finally,
was mine.
Crying when I read the words
of the Desiderata:
You are a child of the universe.
No less than the moon and the stars
you have the right to be here.
A brand new concept,
as was the sense of self,
just beginning.

Then Jonathan Livingston Seagull,
learning to soar, alive and free,
first time being me,
then crashing.
This was inevitable.

In my little house full of children
on Ethel Street,
in Kelowna,
I finally made the home
I had so long been
searching for.
Laughter, noise, busyness,
a huge summer garden:
happy years, and healing.

More pain watching my children
trying to soar, and crashing
in their turn,
struggling to find footing
in an incomprehensible world.
Holding steady so they had a safe port
to come home to.

Then one huge leap
from desert to ocean
and ten shining golden years of joy
in the home of my spirit.

So much growing is required of us.
Every decade a totally brand new life.
Too many memories for this old gray head
to hold upright on my shoulders.
It keeps wanting to lay itself down
on a pillow,
the better to remember
all those exhilarating and exhausting years.

My memory bowl got filled
to the brim
with laughter, with wonder, with broken hearts,
with lessons learned, with miracles,
with serendipities,
with golden friends and messages
from the universe,
with broken trust which taught me to trust myself,
with fear of risk which forced me to take risks,
with a search for love that
taught me to love all people,
with a journey made
and the price I was glad to pay.

In the late afternoon of my journey
memory is what I own most.
I sift through my memory bowl
like a goblet of grapes,
selecting first one, then another,
at will, watching the grainy film blurring on the screen........
those long-gone days, those people
from a gentler time which was,
simultaneously, the harshest time:
one heart's perilous passage
into tomorrow.
The recipe has always included Sorrow.