Thursday, March 15, 2018

Dear Lunabella

Dear Lunabella,

I'm sitting at the beach
looking at a world that is
all beautiful and blue,
and I want to hand it to you
just like this:
blue sky,
puffy clouds, peaceful dogs,
and a silver sheen on the water.
The waves are singing.

I don't want to leave you
the world on the news:
children dying, suffering, starving,
war everywhere, racism, division,
animals being tortured and murdered,
corrupt politicians, climate change,
and corporations raping the earth.

How to give you hope
when mine is fading?
How to feed your dreams
with my aching heart?

But I see you,
bright Rainbow child,
with your shiny spirit,
and I see the young folk rising
across the country.
You all deserve this world
the way it's meant to be.
So I know, for you,
I must believe again.

For Mother Earth can heal,
if we all help her,
and there is enough for all,
if we all share.

I turn off the news
and all negativity,
and look with eyes like yours,
little Rainbow child,
wearing your shining spirit
of many colours,
alive with all your tomorrows
of hope and promise,
and Life! oh, how it shines!

This is the world I want to give you,
all blue and shining
and wrapped in sunny ribbons,
as brand new and perfect
as your trusting eyes.

love, Great-Grandma

for Karin's prompt at Real Toads: "Dear" poems, and shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United

As I watch the young people speaking truth to power, unafraid, because they see things clearly, not through the filter of money greed or power, I begin to think the young folks will be the ones to save us. I can't wait till they begin voting and moving into the corridors of power. The old way has gotten us in a pickle. Let's get money out of politics and find people who want to SERVE.

Wednesday, March 14, 2018


Turning their backs
on a White House
that does not hear them,
their silence 
is more powerful
than a scream.

I stand in solidarity with students marching across the USA today, asking for something so simple it is heartbreaking that they have to ask: safety in their classrooms. In front of the White House, these students turned their backs on the government that does not hear them. Their silence was more eloquent than words. It is sad when students have to do the job we adults have failed to do over the years. But I am heartened that we have strong young leaders on the way up. There is hope.

Saturday, March 10, 2018


This beautiful collage was created for me
by my friend Steve, The Unknown Gnome,
one of our early Poets United poets,
who sadly left this world too soon this week.

I am referring to Pup in the following poem,
whose spirit I hope still accompanies me 
along the beach.

We were traveling together
when you took the turning
where the Disappeared go,
and were seen no more.
I could not follow. The way was barred.
Still, I continued walking,
carrying your soul with me
in a small wooden box,
hidden under my cape,
held close to my heart.

When I tire, and falter,
am tempted to turn back,
I can hear you thumping inside your box.
You will not let me abandon the journey.

(Asleep, she found herself
crossing a barren desert.
There was a river ahead,
and she could hear voices, singing,
coming around the bend.
They were coming to get her,
but then she came back into her body.
Not time yet.)

Death is a river, turbulent, roaring,
through time-worn rock-walled chasms
green with weeping.
It dashes our brains out on the rocks
so the eagles may feed,
then settles us, lighter and relieved
of our earthly burden,
in rippled ponds along the shore,
where beaver and wolves may find us.

I will meet you there
at twilight
on the last day.

At midnight, a ghostly spectre
glides mistily along the shore.
She is beckoning,
but I pretend that I am blind.
She is calling. I pantomime
that I am deaf and cannot hear.
Not time, yet.

These words are a pathway
between the time when you were here
and now.
They are as full of your absence
as my heart.
I am still traveling.

You always did go
before me on the path.
I am getting just
a little closer.
Not time yet. Not yet.

This poem was written in 2014. I borrowed some lines for a collaboration with Paul Scribbles last year. But this is the original. I am feeling my mortality these days, and decided to share it with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United this weekend.

Friday, March 9, 2018


The curtains are blue, on rungs,
surrounding the last resting place,
the bed where breaths go in and out,
rasping, until that final moment,
after which there is no more
life on earth.

Before then,
may there be great swirling galaxies
of miracle and wonder.
May we catch our collective breath
and drink it all in,
with awe, with gratitude:
the beauty, the colour,
the sweep, the reach,
the astonishment of each dawn,
on another day of living
on Planet Earth.

for the prompt at Real Toads: Curtains

Today it is gloriously sunny. The daffodils are blooming, and I am off to the beach, with a grateful heart.

Thursday, March 8, 2018

The Hearts of Women


"A nation is not defeated until the hearts
of its women are on the ground."
A Cheyenne saying

Aho, Wise Grandmother says,
it is time for the women
to raise their voices:
in song, in council, in power, in truth,
to speak for social and
environmental justice
for all the living.

Huff, puff, says the big bad prez,
we are going back 50 years
to the Good Old Days
and women may not speak.
We are not, in fact,
entirely convinced you are people.

Aho, you are foolish.
We have dealt with men like you before,
and better.
We have grandchildren,
and we need to leave them
a world that is alive.
You will find us a formidable force,
for we are half the earth,
we hold up half the sky.
In strength, we bear
your sons and daughters.
Our life's purpose is
to keep them safe.
Our hearts are strong.
Our love for Mother Earth
is fierce.

You can drive us
away from the river.
You can lock us up.
More of us will follow,
for water is life
and we do not respect
the ways of death.

Your addiction to oil
is polluting sacred waters.
Your addiction to money
is melting the polar icecaps.
Your willful ignorance
is imperiling the planet.
We refuse. We resist.
Our wolfish hearts rise up.
We march for
our grandchildren's grandchildren,
and for yours.

We are of Life, of Breath,
of Memory, of Tomorrow.
In sisterhood, in motherhood,
we sing the Earth Mother's song.
Our hearts are weary
but our minds are wise.
We speak for the voiceless,
for the refugees,
for the wild, for the animals,
for the air, the soil,
the ocean, the rivers, the lakes
and for all creatures.
This gives us strength.
We will not be moved,
or silenced
or overcome,
and our hearts are
no where near to
being on the ground.

A message in honour of International Women's Day. [from 2017]

Tuesday, March 6, 2018

We Can't Eat Money

The animals are looking at us
with questions in their eyes.
They are starving,
with nowhere to live.
The trees shiver with fright
as the chainsaws roar.
Whales lose their lives
in the noisy, polluted ocean.
Creatures all over Mother Earth
are disappearing.

And still the Two-Leggeds
log and frack and lay waste.
The Black Snake coils
across the land,
spewing death.
Plastics pour into the sea
and come back out as our food.
As a species we are unique
in fouling our own nests,
destroying our habitat,
and that of 
every other creature.

There is not enough money 
in the world
to fix all we have destroyed.
Nor enough time.

Mother Earth is crying
for our voices, our actions,
our help,
for she can heal,
if we give her the chance.

What will it take
for us to understand:
humankind is in peril, too?
What happens to one,
in the web of life,
happens to us all.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif at Poets United: Money

Saturday, March 3, 2018


I gift you a morning sunrise,
in late winter,
new-minted with promise,
a fresh day unfolding.

I gift you hours with loved ones,
sharing songs, and stories, and laughter,
and tears, in the remembering
of those things that have been lost.

I gift you sunshine and birdsong,
and a winter hummingbird,
magical and unexpected,
at the feeder,
blue jays and scarlet cardinals,
and a horse in the field,
huffing small clouds of breath
into the cold air.

For your lonesome heart,
I send you an old dog's smile,
patient and devoted,
and always there.

For your tomorrows,
I send you a small fairy
sprinkled with moondust,
and a wand,
to bid you safe passage,
and the certain knowledge
you have a place in this world
that is distinctly yours, where you
are treasured and needed.

I wish you open hands
to receive each day's gifts,
to store away in your heart
like nuts from a winter squirrel.

This poem is adapted from one I wrote for a friend back in 2016, when I lived at the farm, and there were horses in the field. The photos were taken last night at the beach.

Shared with the Poetry Pantry at Poets United.