Saturday, May 27, 2017

Lost Shoe Creek



I lost my heart
at Lost Shoe Creek;
handed it to an hombre
I had yet to meet,
who never showed up
on his own two feet
to claim it,
frame it,
or name it.

So I straggled over
to Canoe Crick,
set forth up the rapids
that were roiling quick.
To help me,
no fellow paddler dear.
I had one dented paddle
with which to steer.
When the bears came close,
I got addled
and skedaddled.

At Cat's Ear Creek,
the willows were listening
to my lovelorn song,
my tears a-glistening.
Strummed my banjo
with a mournful air.
There was no true love
waiting there.

Put in at the saloon
at Hornswoggle Holler.
There were ladies fair,
both bigger and smaller,
vying for the hombres
with their tilted hats,
and I was not
all right with that.
So I do-si-do'ed
to the tune of the caller.
Though I danced real fast,
my hopes grew smaller.
Then one winked at me
with a slow-melt grin,
do-si-do'ed me out
and then back in.
We passed each other on the right,
back to back our troth did plight.
I had met the one
I'd forever foller.
I fair lost my heart
at Hornswoggle Holler.


LOL. I seem to have channeled an inner female Cowpoke in this one. I passed a couple of these creek names on my trip to Port Alberni this morning, and I jotted their names down, deciding it might be fun to see where they would take me.




Friday, May 26, 2017

The Language of Clouds



Looking at the sky, we long to learn
the language of clouds, of mountaintops.
Mother Sky, teach me
how to sing like small bird, like raven,
like Owl.
Quiet my heart, so I may listen
to the breath of Grandfather Cedar,
and learn to speak tree,
to speak river,
to speak wind.

Transform my soul
to make me worthy of
learning to sing
in whalesong.
Lead me along the shore,
to count the waves,
my heart singing 
joyously and forever
the song of Ocean.


One from 2015, which I will share with the Poetry Pantry, where you will find fine reading of a Sunday morning. 


Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Summer Blooms


I remember the soft scented evenings
of summer, when I was a girl:
peony and lilac, sweet pea and nasturtium,
japonica and geranium and tall hollyhocks
in my grandmother's garden.

I liked to think the garden
was a village for fairies,
who took shelter under the leaves
during afternoon thunderstorms.
I remember the smell of earth
rising up, sharp, metallic,
in the moments just before the rain,
my Grandma and I exchanging smiles
in her back porch.
How she loved a good thunderstorm!
I love them still; that smell of coming rain
always takes me back to
summertime Kelowna, in the 60's.

And I am fifteen again,
standing under white blossoms in City Park,
as a brown-eyed boy hands me a bloom,
sweetly saying: "Poor man's orchid,"
just before my first
broken heart.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Flowers

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Raging Grannies


Raging Grannies of Victoria, B.C.


We may look like
grey-haired little old ladies,
but make no mistake.
Our hearts are warriors
for Life.
The grannies are raging 
in the northern hemisphere.
We are growling and muttering
as we watch the evening news.
We are calling each other up, to say
"Can you  believe what he's done now?"

We have been subversive in 
our lives and in our language.
We have penned things on our blogs
and know we are likely on a list somewhere.
Somewhere there is a computer earmarking 
the use of words like "direct action" and "Resist,"
"Radical" and "Blockade."

And now we are getting off 
(and going off) our rockers,
and taking to the streets. 
We are riled up, gnarly, determined, snarly.
We are putting on our loud clothing 
and our strange hats,
and we are marching.
We are standing at the steps
of Legislature,
well and truly fed up,
and we are singing 
"We Will Not Be Moved."

How many times have we 
marched and sung,
in our lives,
and now we have to do it
all over again.
No rest, 
when all is wicked.

In summation:
the ruling classes could not have made 
a bigger mess of things.
Stand aside, orange creature
with bad hair;
back away slowly, 
corporate rapists of the earth.
You've had your chance, you leaders 
too weak (or too rich) to oppose them, 
who put profit before people,
profit before environment,
profit before planetary survival
every single time.

Earth to Capitalism:
There are No Jobs
On a Dead Planet.

Step aside, 
and let the women 
have a go at it.
We'd start with Earth First,
and go on from there.





for Paul Scribbles' cool prompt at dVerse: Underground


Monday, May 22, 2017

Breathing Peace



Breathe in the cacophony
of the quarrelsome talking heads;
breathe out the birdsong
of a thousand singing forests.

Breathe in the gazillion dollar contracts
for military weapons, and the talk of war;
breathe out a billion wildflowers
cascading down the side of a mountain.
Breathe out armloads of hopeful babies,
and their  mothers, wanting only 
to raise them in peace,
with enough to eat, 
and a future in which to live.

Breathe in the bombs and death camps,
the captive girls, the child soldiers,
the young men whose guarded eyes 
have seen too much,
whose dreams have become nightmares;
breathe out a prayer of peace,
that will float across the world,
entering the neocortexes of 
the maddened guerillas,
rendering them transformed,
from fighters to friends of humanity,
who cannot kill again.

Breathe in earthquakes, explosions, 
fracking, flooding,
melting glaciers at the top and bottom poles;
breathe out restored balance, reduced emissions,
cooling land and oceans,  survival
for sea life and coastal communities.
Breathe out armies of people
cleaning and restoring 
the ocean and the land, 
and planting trees, 
everywhere.

Breathe in the toxic nightmare of today's politics;
breathe out a flock of sandpipers, 
moving as one body at the edge of the sea,
just as we can move together,
if we but have 
the intelligence and will.
Breathe out stars, and bioluminescence,
silver paths upon the water,
and a moon, serenely smiling
upon a land of gentle dreamers.

Breathe in walls and division;
breathe out harmony and unity:
no "us" and "them" - just people of the earth,
who wish to raise their children
towards a brighter tomorrow.

Breathe in despair, hopelessness, 
displacement, famine;
breathe out prayers that last 
from morning to nightfall
for a hurting world.
Pray for humankind
to become conscious,
as a whole,
Pray for evolution,
for transformation.
Pray,
then do what you can,
where you are.


It seems the news is getting me down. Keep focussing on peace, my friends, and let's take what action we can to fix what is near at hand. Plant trees. Voice objections to elected officials. There is much to resist.


Sunday, May 21, 2017

Breaking News is Breaking My Tired Old Heart



In those days,
journalism was a sacred trust.
"Stop the presses!" the editor
would roar, flying out back
to the men laying upside down words
in the frames, row upon row.

When it printed,
we all sat around the news room,
reading, with inky fingers and
smiles of satisfaction:
another paper, done.
The news, then, was pretty:
a good orchard crop,
a Lady of the Lake crowned,
another summer Regatta.

Now, news is everywhere,
and is pretty much all appalling.
Journalists report what they hear said
with their own ears,
report what is being slid through Congress
by sleight of hand,
and it is all labeled fake news.
How convenient.

It's a "witch hunt",
yet the reporting is of words
from his own mouth,
abhorrent words.

"Walls work.
Just ask Israel," the big toad sneers.
Ask a Palestinian how well walls work.

I am living in a world
of nightmare news
and uncertain futures,
where all we once held dear
has been knocked on its ass.

In those days,
we believed truth was beauty
and beauty was truth.
And now our tired old hearts
grow weary,
weary at the daily news.


for Brendan's prompt at Real Toads: the news


Saturday, May 20, 2017

The Standing People, Before They Fall



I wake early. 
Mist is rising off the lake.
Rain taps lightly along my branches,
and down,
hitting mushroom and salal,
fiddlehead and fern,
as we gratefully drink
after long, dry summer's heat.

The earth is shaking.
I tremble.
The big-wheeled trucks move in.
Doors slam.
Men yell and laugh,
then head off,
each in his own direction.

There it is! The screaming roar
of the big saws,
the ominous rumbling
of the grapple-yarders,
the sudden crack! as my sisters fall,
roots pointing towards heaven,
beseeching
an end to the slaughter,
sap running like blood
down into the ground.

I dig my roots deep 
into Mother Earth.

I will hold on tight
for as long as I can.
But, no! Here he comes,
a Two-Legged,
with his fearsome saw.


photo by


* First Nations often refer to the trees as Standing People, in their stories and legends.

A poem from 2012, shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United. Come on over, for some good reading to accompany your morning coffee!