Poems of the Week ~ When It's Time to Say Goodbye

I have to issue a Kleenex alert with this feature, as we are sharing poems that say goodbye to some beloved dogs. Margaret Bednar  recently lost her wonderful dog, Mackinaw. The beautiful poem of farewell she wrote to him brought tears. Myrna Rosa, Jennifer Wagner and I lost our dear ones, Daisy, Druke and Jasmine, two years back. As we are a community of dog lovers, I thought to share our poems of love and grief with you.  I have written at least a hundred poems about Pup. I chose one at random to join in the remembering of those paws that padded beside us so faithfully, and those doggy grins that made us laugh, for all those wonderful years. 

Daisy

A SIMPLE POEM FOR DAISY

Not everyone understands, I know
How alone I feel
Her absence
My radiant shadow is gone
No longer close
Attached like glue
Walking behind me, eating, sleeping
While I wrote, cooked or simply lived my day
She absorbed my thoughts, my moods
Reflected back a constant, soothing tranquility
A conduit to my own serenity

Not everyone understands, I know
How now only imagination remains
When I think I hear the silent presence
Of the wise companion
Who enriched my spirit
By teaching me about my own animalism

Not everyone understands, I know
My grief, which connects to all
My other losses, each unique, but woven
From the common thread
Of suffering.

My tears suddenly flow
As my memory flashes
To sweet scenes of our love
I intensely feel
How much I miss my Daisy
Some would say, "She was just a dog."
I know, not everyone understands

          ***     ***       ***

Sherry: Well, we understand, Myrna. Only too well. Tell us about Daisy. And tell us about the new girl in your life, Leroy's new sister.

Leroy and Lula

Myrna: It's been over two years since Daisy died. Yet, her leash and collar are in a drawer as if I could still take her for a walk; her favorite toys remain in the dog cupboard. Sometimes, I still expect to see her lying patiently by my desk, content just to be near me. 

Each night, before bed, Daisy had to take her medicine. I wrapped her pills in a little piece of cheese. Leroy, my other dog, would get a little piece of cheese too to prevent rivalry. Now each night before bed my dogs ritualistically get their "Daisy Medicine", though there's no need for pills and there's no Daisy.

I've never stopped mourning her. Her pictures often provoke tears. But more often my grief is colored by gratitude for the years we were together. Though I cling to some of her material things, it is her essence, like a whiff of sweet perfume, that I feel whenever I think of her.

Leroy missed her too. I don't know how dogs think but clearly he felt a void. He seemed lonely, needy, and he began to dig the yard. My husband wanted to adopt another dog but my heart wasn't ready until recently.

Lula

Lula is the newest addition to our family. I fell in love with her the minute I saw her at the shelter. I didn't, at the time, notice that her coat was dull and dry or that her ribs protruded or that her energy was so low. She was sick. She also came with a bad reputation - she's a pit bull terrier. But somehow she called to me. Leroy seemed to like her too when they met. She went straight to my husband's lap when she saw him and she inhabited my heart instantly.

Sherry: I love that when you think of Daisy, it is her sweet essence you remember. And bless you, Myrna, for adopting Lula from the shelter. She might otherwise have had a hard time finding a home, and now she has a wonderful one. This makes me very happy for Lula. One dog who had a hard life, now rescued and loved and happy. Safe. You honor Daisy by paying that love forward by rescuing another dog.

Myrna: No other dog will ever replace Daisy. No other dog will ever replace Leroy or Lula. Each of my canine companions has been special, unique. Each has expanded my spirit by giving me love and lessons. Each one has taught me something about the risk of love and loss, which I believe is an inescapable experience of life, inherent perhaps in all relationships. Daisy is my most recent loss. Though she remains with me in many ways, I miss her terribly.

Sherry: I know, my friend. I suspect we will miss  them forever. 

When Margaret wrote a recent farewell to her dear companion, I read it through a river of  tears. Let's meet the wonderful Mackinaw.

Margaret and Mack

DEAREST FRIEND

I swear I've seen you
from the corner of my eye,
slip by on your way to the water bowl
or toward open front door to gaze
down curving, mountain road.

Seen you in clouds, fluffy ears flapping,
in the stars, jumping the gorge,
staring through the window to come inside -

for it’s hard to let you go.

* * *

I watched as you gazed
into the children's eyes, head resting
upon their knees.  You were happy,
day filled with love, bacon,
a very slow, wobbly walk, lakeside.

Last look at all of us,
eyes still alert, but body too weak
for your big heart.

* * *

In those few seconds
when you looked at me, I could only try
and convey how much you meant

to my Mother's heart,  thanked you
for loving my children all these years,

a gentle presence when I scolded,
a nudge when they needed a friend,
a tail that always said "Let's play!"

* * *

A blessing to be surrounded
by all those you love,
who love you, to have our smiles,
our voices, our hands over you
as we stayed and said

"Thank you, Dearest Friend",
as your spirit rose above us
and surely said the same.

RIP Mackinaw - our friend of almost 15 years. Joined the angels on 12-27-2018

Mackinaw and his kids

Sherry: Oh, my goodness, Margaret, how you have captured this wonderful dog! "Thank you for loving my children all these years." Please pass the Kleenex.

Margaret: Well. Mackinaw, for almost fifteen years, was my kids' constant companion. He taught them kindness, loyalty and joy. He was a big "fuzzy monkey" who has taken a piece of all of our hearts with him. Never underestimate the importance of a dog in a child's life. Perhaps my favorite photo is the snowy one above. His spirit is so visible here.

The group photo with "his" kids is the last image we have. He was put down about an hour later. He couldn't walk without stopping and he couldn't support a sit for long. He had to lay down. He had also stopped eating (except for bacon and salmon - which I fed him generously. ;) 

Sherry: The last loving thing we can do for our dear furry friends is to release them when they reach this point. What a wonderful dog he was! Thank you, Margaret, for sharing his beautiful heart with us.

I came across Jennifer's farewell to her beloved Druke, and asked if we might add her voice to this feature. Let's meet another wonderful, loving dog.

Druke, ready for command (fetch!)

EVERLOVE (Softly To Be Let In)


This poem is about a dog,

you know the one,
the one who danced in the kitchen
with the kids after dinner;

the one who nibbled gently
on your shirtsleeve
when you played and scratched and loved him;

the one who howled happy,
and barked deep if asked to speak,
but softly to be let in;

the one who taught you more
than you taught him.

This poem is about a dog
who, with his final breaths,
looked you, each, in the face
one long, loving, last time.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

In Memory of Druke Wagner 2000-2016

[ “Druke” is how we spell his name, pronounced “drug/droogk” meaning “friend” in Russian.     до свидания, друг ]

Sherry:  Sweet Druke, with his loud bark for speaking, and his soft voice, to be let in. Oh my goodness, so hard to say goodbye to such a friend.

Jennifer: He was the sweetest, most gentle boy, and I wanted the poem to reflect that as well as capture a few special moments we shared with him. We got him when he was about two years old from friends who could no longer care for him. He was just what we needed to make our family complete. The boys fell in love with him instantly, of course. Every dog needs a boy, as they say, so I think he was pretty happy having several boys to love.

Druke the day we got him

True to his nature, as a Labrador Retriever, he loved to swim and fetch in the water. Even as he got older and didn't get around as well as he used to, he still loved the water and became almost like a puppy again when we'd take him to it. But he was never a hunting dog. The sound of a gun shot, even the sight of a gun, scared him. He was definitely a lover, not a fighter.

Sweet boy Druke

He was truly mellow and obedient. He did have a few little wild streaks, but even then, it just made us all laugh. I refer to some of those times in "Friend". Like when he stole a ham from someone! Our boys would often play in the cul-de-sac with him, and on a few occasions he snuck away. One one such occasion, he came prancing back, proud as can be, with a ham in a bag. We have no idea who lost their holiday ham, but we were laughing so hard imagining someone unloading their groceries only to find their ham missing!

He was so fun and so good and a wonderful friend. He often slept at the foot of my bed, especially on nights my husband worked. In his last days he was quite ill and could not make it up the stairs so we made a nice bed for him downstairs. On the night before we had to let him go, he came up the stairs after all the kids had gone to bed and came to our room. I was so surprised to see him sneaking down the hallway! It was like he was smiling at surprising me and being his old self for just a few moments. I told my husband and we both just cried knowing it was so special.

I had to wipe my eyes and blow my nose writing this! We are glad for the time we had with Druke, and our new dog Cooper is surely fun, but we still do miss our loyal, gentle giant.

Cooper 

New Year

Your collar, green,
his, blue.

You, so polite,
of course, he bites
(as new things do).

But how much he looks like you—
the curl of his tongue in Snoopy yawn,
stretched out
on the rug

where you lay, it feels,
only moments ago.

© 2017 Jennifer Wagner

Cooper 2017

Sherry:  Perhaps the way we most show how much happiness our dogs bring us is by opening our hearts and homes to new dogs, and passing that love along. Thanks, Jennifer, for sharing Druke and Cooper with us. They are both so beautiful. Druke was very special.

I have written a book of poems about Pup, and the grief of missing him. It was eight years this January, and I still have tears at the thought of him. I expect I always will. 

collage created by The Unknown Gnome

COYOTES AT LAST MOUNTAIN LAKE

I heard the coyotes howling
as evening fell
at Last Mountain Lake,
and I thought of you,
my old wolf-pal,
and how you would tip
your nose up to the moon
and howl mournfully
for all the wild places you loved
that we had lost.

Then you'd come to me and rest
your forehead against my knee,
wearily, for comfort.
We loved and lost so much together,
old pal of mine.
But, always, we had each other.

And now I am alone.
My nose tilted up
towards the moon,
an inner howl
expressed in secret tears.
Still missing our wild beaches.

And you.

     ***     ***     ***

Sherry: When I wrote the above poem, I was still living inland, missing Pup and the beach together. I hope his wild spirit gallops along with me on my beach walks, now that I am back to the shores we loved so much.

Gah! They give us so much love.  How we miss them when they leave us. 

Thank you, friends, for sharing your loving poems and your wonderful dogs with us. 

Do come back and see who we talk to next. Hint: next week's feature is all about cats!

Poems of the Week ~ The Whale Heard Around the World

Ken Balcomb / Center for Whale Research

Many of you have heard of the mother orca, Tahlequah (J35), who carried her dead calf on her head for 17 days and one thousand miles, near Victoria, B.C. The calf was born in a spot where effluent from fish farms pours into the ocean, and she lived only a half hour. We followed Tahlequah's grief-stricken journey with aching hearts. Ken Balcomb, of the Center for Whale Research, who has followed her journey closely by boat, surmises that perhaps the calf decomposed, and she could no longer carry her.

We know that animals grieve, but the extent of this whale’s mourning has not been seen before. The mother orca used enormous stores of energy and determination, diving down each time the 400 pound calf fell, to bring her back to the surface. The pod circled around to help her; on day nine they began taking turns carrying the calf, presumably to allow the mother to feed. Researchers tracked her journey.

On Sunday, we learned the calf was returned to the sea, and the mother swims on. But the problems which created this tragic story continue. And the whales' message to us is clear.

Michael Weiss / Center for Whale Research

This pod of orcas are telling us as plainly as they can that we have destroyed their habitat. Over-fishing, pollution and disease caused by fish farms along wild salmon migratory routes, warming seas and boat traffic all impact the southern pod's survival.

We have just learned that the Fraser River, a key starting point for the salmon migration, is now deemed  to be too warm, which will also impact the salmon spawn.

Lack of salmon results in orca miscarriages; two-thirds of their pregnancies have failed between 2007 and 2014. This calf was the first live birth since 2015. 

“She (Tahlequah) is a symbol of what we are doing wrong,” said Barbara King, the author of “How Animals Grieve”. This is such a large part of our grief, knowing we humans are responsible for the devastation of ecosystems across the planet.

(I can't believe the government is still dragging its heels on legislating fish farms onto land! And is proceeding with a pipeline no one wants.)

There are only 75 orcas in the Salish sea, (near Victoria, B.C., the southern tip of Vancouver Island.) Researchers are now trying to save a four year old orca  named Scarlet (J50), in the same pod. Her ribs are showing, and she is exhibiting lethargic behaviour. She is the size of a two year old, and in the past two weeks has been showing increased signs of distress. 

On Saturday Scarlet was darted with antibiotics, and First Nations are approaching with a boat loaded with live salmon in hopes of feeding her. Feeding a whale in the wild has never been attempted, but  they feel time is running out for this youngster.

J50 and her mother J16

NOAA Fisheries photo

Our hearts breaking, some of us wrote poems about Tahlequah and her calf. When I asked Toni and Susan if I might feature their poems, Susan said she would only if I would include mine. So here we are: poems of heartbreak. Mother Orca demonstrates beyond any doubt that animals feel everything we feel, grieve as deeply as we do.  They likely know they are dying. I cannot imagine a coastline without them.

The grief we are feeling now is for Mother Orca, but also for the world being destroyed before our eyes by big money interests. It is wrong, and it is hard to bear.

 Our Home

“I’m a radical environmentalist; I think the sooner we asphyxiate in our own filth, the better. The world will do better without us. Maybe some fuzzy animals will go with us, but there’ll be plenty of other animals, and they’ll be back. Anthony Bourdain”

The moon is a peach in the sky.
The stars are sparkling grape tomatoes.
The cicadas are singing now.
They’ve emerged from their underground homes.
Watching the garden grow
in the dark of the universe.
I hear the nightly owl fluttering overhead.
With all the beauty around me
I mourn.
The orca’s skull can be seen beneath her blubber
as she carries her dead calf on her emaciated body.
The calf kept sinking as the mother
tried to push her towards the surface of the water.
So much beauty in this earth
and it is rotting beneath our feet.
The earth is an overripe peach
long past its maturity.
One day maybe we will be gone
and all that remains will be the skeletons of cities
poking through the overgrowth
with whales and deer and wolves
living in our place
roaming free and safe.

Sherry: I share your feelings, Toni. Thank you for this poem. "The earth is an overripe peach" is such a powerful line. I read the wildlife in Chernobyl is flourishing with the humans gone. There is hope in that.

Your second poem about Tahlequah shares your deep grief so powerfully. Let's take a look:

source

The Wake

Tahlequah carries her dead baby gently –

either by the fin or on her nose,

refusing to let go of the calf who died

within a half hour of her birth.

The mother kept using her nose to push the baby to the surface –

She is hungry.

The bones of her skull can be seen through her depleted blubber.

Salmon farms are starving a race of beings out of existence,

Tahlequah carries her dead baby,

day after day.

Her pod is helping her carry her baby

mourning the loss of her baby with her.

They communicate with each other

in a complicated language only they can understand.

They mourn in their unique rituals,

forming circles around the mother –

Like a human wake.

Like mothers holding close the mother

whose baby has died,

crooning and holding the mother close.

We are starving this race,

We are depleting this race,

We are lessening their birth rate.

We are killing a race

more human than we are ourselves

who think only of ourselves,

not caring who we kill

in our killing of this planet.

Tahlequah carries her baby gently.

The mother continues to mourn.

Sherry: Wow, Toni. I feel this despair, this truth: all of the devastation has been for money and greed. What a species we are!

Toni: I wrote this poem because the situation breaks my heart. We did this. Plain and simple. This is our fault.

Sherry: That guilt is at the heart of my grief, for certain. Along with helplessness, because governments are not doing their part. Thank you, Toni, for putting it into words so clearly.

Then, came word of Tahlequah, no longer carrying her calf, swimming with her grieving heart up the coast, her baby forever gone. Any mother who has lost a child knows the depth of her pain. And so came your third poem, the final chapter in this story, while the future of the south coast orcas remains in question.

1000 Miles Later

Seventeen days 1,000 miles later
Tahlequah has dropped her dead calf.
Perhaps she is no longer sad and has
accepted the inevitability of death and life –
Perhaps she was where she wanted to bury
her dead calf – perhaps her heart said
Let go.
I picture the dead calf slowly sinking
to rest upon the bottom on the sand
asleep and at peace at last.
Tahlequah is healthy and leaping in the ocean.
The heart can only take so much grief
before it kills you
or sets you free.
We humans saw and wept with her.
Now perhaps she is telling us to move on,
to leap with joy, to wipe our tears.
I have been carrying my dead mother
for over a year.
The heart can only take so much grief
Before it kills you or sets you free.
I am sitting on my back porch
listening to the birds singing,
taking in the warmth of the sun,
watching the clouds dance overhead.
It is time.
It is time.
It is time.

Swim free, Mother Orca

onenews.com

Sherry: "The heart can only take so much grief." Indeed. We have lived a lifetime of grief during these heartrending days. Thank you for swimming with Tahlequah every mile of her journey, Toni. How many times can the heart break? I am sure my heart is losing count, as the whales die off, as the forests burn, and the wild animals flee before the flames.

My flagging heart responded, when I read Susan's poem, which offers us something to do besides despair: rally our hearts and minds, put on our marching boots. A glimmer of hope, something we can do, midst the grieving.

"See Me" by Lori Christopher
Used with permission, ©Lori Christopher

          LESSONS FROM EARTH AND OZ

           Dis ease hit all poets simultaneously.

Perhaps, we thought, the cure was writing depressing

poetry so no one could think we were untouched.

Though we did little else.  We couldn’t imagine

what else to do beyond words, letters and protests—

that is, not until Orca whales carried their dead.

Carried their dead for days and weeks and maybe years,

carried them so everyone could see, like open

coffins forever, saying, See? We won’t keep this

out of sight.  Look.  Look at my calf.  Look at your crimes.

See my community carry me when I’m tired.

And then it came to us: We could carry objects

more real than metaphor and signs.  We could carry

our dead outside our laden emotions.  We could

sanctuary and caravan, though we’ve lost

very little—not yet—but when the poor are gone

and the powerless fall silent, who will be next? 

This is an old song, one the whales are carrying.

Songs without words.  Living beings objectified.

Let’s lift up death.  Refuse to bury it.  Insist

on sight and smell. Press home. Ease on down the road.

We don't want wizards  We want hearts, minds and courage.

Sherry: "We want hearts, minds and courage." How I love that! The whales are telling us as clearly as they can, without actually carrying placards, that these, indeed, are our crimes. That is the heartbreak, the guilt, the near-despair. Your poem reminded me: we also have hope, and can ACT to insist leaders do the right thing, or we will vote them out.

Susan: The only other time that I know of that the mother of a victim had such a mix of grief and rage that she held the body up for all to see was in the 1950s when, against all precedent, the mother of the butchered Emmett Till displayed his mangled body in an open casket. Her choice -- and media reporting it with pictures -- boosted the civil rights movement.

My poem draws the two together and, I hope, amplifies community support for this action. I know that protests due to death and martyrdom are not unusual. But display of the beloved's dead body raises the power ten-fold. You may remember Marc Anthony carrying Caesar's body into the marketplace and pointing out each knife wound. He drew mob behavior from the fickle crowd. I don't ask for mobs, but empathetic and reasoning crowds who won't hide the only things that climate-change deniers and environment exploiters might take as proof. We must change human behavior on a larger scale; nature is begging us as part of the family of earth.

Sherry: So well said, Susan. What is left of my tattered old heart broke over this whale. My poem was written out of my despair. A friend noted that this only adds to the trauma, and to also write about what we can do, in response. Good point. I did so, at the end of this feature. Truly, the fate of the earth rests in our human hands, hearts, minds, voices- and votes!

WHEN I COME BACK, I WILL BE GRIEF, PART II

We start out whole,

losing pieces of ourselves

along the way

and then reclaiming them.

That is the journey.

I am collecting the last few bits,

before I fly into the light.

I pick them up:

ah, there you are!

and add them to my pack.

When I return,

I will change my shape.

I will be cattails,

standing dry, bent and broken

at the edge of the dried-up pond.

I will be wolf-pup, 

peering fearfully

from my den,

knowing, to survive,

I must elude

Earth’s biggest enemy:

the predatory Two-Leggeds,
and they are

everywhere.

I fear

I will find a planet burning,

humans and animals

on the run.

I will be Tree,

gasping for air,

a sudden irradiation

as the orange tongues

lick greedily at my corpse.

I will be deer,

fleeing the flaming forests.

I will be mother orca, holding 

my dead newborn calf 

above the water

for seventeen days, grieving,

unable to let her go,

saying to we humans:

See! See what you have done!

I will be grief itself,

watching the world I love

burning itself up.

As I am now.

As I am now.

Sherry: Well. That came from my first grief, as I shared Mother Orca's mourning for her lost child. The whales will disappear from the news but not, hopefully, from our consciousness. I think of the moment when she, finally, exhausted, must have had to let her calf go. It is unbearable.

My plan is to keep contacting our local, regional and national officials to clamour  for legislation to assist our planetary survival, and stop the destruction. I see other countries stepping up. Let's bombard our representatives with the changes we - and Mother Earth - need so badly. There are things we can do individually as well. They may seem small, but if billions of people do it, it adds up.

Thank you, Toni and Susan, for your heart-stirring poems about Tahlequah.  They have touched our hearts.

What We Can Do :

Implore your local, provincial / state, and national representatives to:

* move all fish farms onto land, away from salmon migration routes

* regulate and limit fishing to restore the salmon population

* prohibit the dumping of effluent / waste / pollution into the ocean

* legislate stiffer reduction of CO2 emissions

* increase carbon taxes at all levels

* make the largest corporate polluters, rather than taxpayers, pay to clean up their own     messes; make them pay their fair share of taxes

* stop the Site C project

* no pipelines ­- oil dependency is a dead-end street - and a planet-deadening one

* develop clean energy systems, which will create jobs

Other countries are taking  steps very effectively to address climate change. In Beijing, soldiers are planting millions of trees to counter air pollution.  In  Germany, all new cars are mandated to be electric by 2030.

North America, one of the worst polluters, is lagging far behind. 

Individually, we can do a great deal in our home communities: clearing streams, cleaning beaches, planting trees, banning single use plastic, not buying / objecting to over-packaged goods, living mindfully. Reduce, re-use, recycle. Pay to offset carbon emissions when we travel. Switching to a plant-based diet is one of the most effective ways of lessening CO2 emissions. We can join First Nations as they protest pipelines and salmon farms.

We can use our votes to support politicians who support action on climate change, and not vote for the deniers. Good luck to us all.

SOURCES: 

Ken Balcomb, The Center for Whale Research, and the article in the Seattle Times

The Narwhal     https://thenarwhal.ca/grieving-with-the-worlds-whale/;

https://theprovince.com/news/local-news/grieving-orca-highlights-plight-of-endangered-whales/wcm/1c67781a-b2c3-443e-933e-b33d04039dd3

A good article and petitions you can sign :  The Native Daily Network

A video of the ailing whale J50 is here.

POEMS OF THE WEEK ~ STAFF PICKS

It occurred to me, looking around for poems to feature, that it might be time to offer some poems by staff. Recently, Mary, Susan, Sumana and Rosemary posted poems that, together, follow a theme dear to my heart - love and concern for Mother Earth. So I gathered them together in a posey, and offer them to you, with our thanks and appreciation for sticking with us so faithfully, week after week, and month after month. We wouldn't be here, without each one of you.

MY SONG FOR TODAY

When I have no happiness,
the sunrise is my joy.
When I have no time,
I throw away my watch.

When I have no friends,
I walk with my dogs.
When I cannot sleep,
solitude is my rest.

When I lose my youth
I conjure myself sage.
When I have no voice,
poetry gives me words.

When I have no love, my
granddaughter gives a hug.
When I have no dreams
I learn to enjoy the dark.

When I have no faith
I act as if I do.
When I have no peace
I rest in my God.

Sherry: In these turbulent times, it is the simple cornerstones of our lives that give us ground on which to stand. I love this poem, Mary.

Mary: "My Song for Today" was first written in 2011, and as I look back on 2011, I realize that it was such a different world then than it is today.

It is amazing the changes a few years can bring. In 2011 the poem was written in past tense.  In 2017 I changed it to present tense which, most of the time, I prefer to write in anyway. In 2011 the poem's purpose was to reflect back on  some of  the ways I attained a positive perspective during difficult times.  In the 2017 revision, the poem in present tense instead gives me incentive / motivation to attain a positive perspective, despite our changed world.  Written as it is now inspires me to live this poem, and to think more positively than I ordinarily might. (Smiles)

Sherry: It does the same for me!

Susan's poem  really speaks to our love and pain for Mother Earth, and our wish to help her and her creatures.

GLOBAL HEART WARMING AND COOLING

Life is like a mountain hike: the pathway

both old and new, the heart that beats and blends

strata of rock, pebbles, flora and flesh.

Life is like a glacial hike: crevasses

turning to craters, cliffs, catastrophe

under our feet, heartbeat frozen between.

We are the mountain, we are the glacier

where ever we walk, city or sea shore

and so I claim the flowers and the weeds.

I woke this morning with joyful spirit:

a well the tweets dropped in with refugees—

Honduran mother and child—deported.

Certainly death awaits them in this new

slaughter of the innocents.  And we are

innkeepers offering not even caves.

We are this mountain.  We walk this glacier.

Hearts with the depth and warmth of this planet

can vanish into solitude and freeze.

Tears stream down my face and I plot

to take the pathway back with my people.

If we cannot, heaven cannot save us.

Life is like a mountain hike: the pathway

both old and new. Our feet walk for the earth.

Our hands create both with and for our God.  

Sherry: How I love this poem! The mountain hike, the crevasses we can fall into and disappear. And that we are mountain and glacier both. I so resonate with waking up with joy, then turning on the news. "And we are the innkeepers offering not even caves." I share your tears. "If we cannot - (change/care/transform) - truly "Heaven cannot save us." I am glad for the hope and activism in your last lines.

Susan: Exactly, Sherry. I had written half my poem the night before, happy, and determined to show it in my writing for a change. I had the mountain stuck in my head from the boogie-woogie hymn "Life is Like a Mountain Highway". Such happiness! But then in the morning, I heard the news. And the "blissful shore" disappeared. In the Nativity story, I have tended to identify with the refugees, but suddenly I got that we were those who locked our doors. Happiness is stark contrast to horror, and vice versa, so that feeling one allows us to feel the other even more. That's "the well". In the same way Hospitality and action contrast Isolation and inaction. (I should have used that word instead of Solitude -- I love Solitude. Hmm. I feel a revision coming on!) We have a choice to act for the greatest partnership  we know: Earth and God. Thanks for picking this poem to include with amazing poems by the wonderful PU staff.

Sherry: What a wonderful explanation - and poem! - this is. Thank you so much for sharing both with us.

Sumana recently wrote a most gorgeous poem, of nature and the lessons the earth has to teach we humans, if we listen.

SHE

I walk in the footsteps of Nature.

I am a She and believe She too is a She.

Her rivers run through my veins

so my feet tap unwittingly

to the rhythm of rain;

to the songs of rainbow;

I have embraced the Flame of Life.

In the thunderstorm days

I had learnt forbearance from Her.

I have seen how She is robbed of Her treasure;

She is abused, pummeled and battered

in the hands of greedy marauders

yet she breathes Her blessings into the sky

in the words of star-full nights

sunsets, sunrise.

Taking cue from Her

I’ve come to terms

with the child snatcher Death

and turned my sighs into words.

Sherry: How I love the way you turn your sighs into words, my friend!

Sumana: "One must be patient like Mother Earth. What inequities are being perpetrated on Her! Yet She quietly endures them all."- Sarada Devi

The poem is based on this quote. 

'She' is the female creative energy with infinite power that is wonderfully manifested in our Mother Earth. Her inherent beauty lies in her forbearance. She is an open book, a muse and inspiration Herself. She is darkness and She is light. Similarly any 'She' is the symbol of fortitude and a potent force. What matters most is how 'She' wields the power: sublimation or devastation. One must also keep in mind, when limit is crossed, Mother Earth will not forgive, neither would any 'She'.

I used imagery relating to energy, playfulness, beauty, devastation, sorrow and hope.

Sherry: And the result is a magnificent poem, Sumana. Thank you so much for sharing it with us.

Rosemary hit a note that resonates in her recent poem, looking back through the sands of time. Let's read.

A GRAIN OF SAND
FROM THE HOURGLASS

One more grain of sand

rolls through the hourglass;

his voice long stilled, and even I

am not that girl who once….

He was so much of his time!

And so, of course, was I. No wonder

I loved his poetry, its haunting

melancholic nuances, the longing

for beauty and freedom and a world

of perfect love – we children

of the flowers … now I read

predictions of war, and I think

we were not so wrong to want

magic and poetry and a dream

of love and peace. Were we?

Sherry: No, we were not wrong. 

Rosemary: This poem is only semi-autobiographical; and while the main theme is clear to readers, some details have been misunderstood. Some I fudged on purpose, but others which I meant to be clear were missed. E.g. I thought everyone would pick up on 'flower children', but because I worded it a little differently to avoid the cliché, it went over some heads. They thought I was talking about actual children. 

I forget how old I am! Some references such as that one, which are self-evident to me, are not in the forefront of the general consciousness any more. Also it probably didn't help that I referred to my younger self as a 'girl'. I didn't mean child but very young woman. That's probably politically incorrect terminology now.

I was trying to capture the flavour of an era. Implying that I myself was a flower child is one of the not-quite-true details, employed intentionally. (Poetic licence!) I was in fact a little older than most of them, and at that time was living a much more conventional life as a young wife and mother. But I was very much in sympathy with most of their ideals (though not so much the 'turn on, tune in, drop out' ethos).

Sherry: Me, too. I was also a young wife and mother back in those heady days, living a more conventional existence on 3rd than the smiling hippies along 4th Avenue in Vancouver. But my heart was right there with them. My inner being recognized that long before my conscious mind caught up. (Which was a shock to my very conservative husband!)

Rosemary: At my blog, Susan asked who the 'he' in the poem was. At the time I wrote it, I was revisiting the work of one of my favourite poets, Australian Michael Dransfield (who died young, and whom I never met) and noticing from this perspective how much he was of his time. Not that the poetry isn't lasting, but it does also express a sixties to early seventies zeitgeist.

At the same time, I didn't want it to matter to my poem who the 'he' was. Could have been any one of a number of poets, or even song-writers. Indeed, my brief summary of 'his' poetic preoccupations leaves out much of Dransfield's subject matter and over-simplifies the rest. So Dransfield isn't really the 'he' in the poem, but things in his work suggested to me a certain kind of poetic consciousness, and even style, which was prevalent at the time (again omitting the drug culture aspects, both from Dransfield's writing and my fictional 'he').

That era is now regarded as having a youthful naiveté. Hence the wistful tone of the final question. The speaker of the poem sounds as though her certainty in those old ideals has been shaken. The writer of the poem stands firmer on them than ever!

Sherry: As do I, my friend. Thank you for this moving contribution to the conversation.

I was nonplussed as to which of my poems to include here. Having written so many agonized poems about our destruction of the planet, I wanted to add a note of hope, to join my fellow poets in offering a loving and positive message in times that feel so dire. Then I remembered this one.

POSTCARD FROM THE EDGE
OF HOPE

I'm standing on the rim of the world,

at the far edge of far, 

next stop Japan.

I am thinking of you.

The news is bad.

It is very bad.

But the view is beautiful

from here.

I send you

a small postcard

of hope.

Believe in the essential goodness

of humankind.

Believe in Mother Earth

who, like us,

wants to live.

I stand on the edge

of the edge of the world.

I send you this

small postcard

of hope.

All of my life, hope has been my mantra. I refused to believe that the transformation of consciousness would not arrive in time. Never did I believe greed, power, corruption, and corporate control would overcome humanity's will to survive. Yet it seems it has. When the news cannot get much worse, for Mother Earth and for us as a species, (and for all the other species dependent on our good governance for their own survival), one small corner of my soul refuses to surrender, to give in to despair. For surely, surely, we cannot be blind enough to seal our interconnected fate by closing our eyes to the reality of what we are doing to our planetary home.

People on the march give us hope, and a voice. I sent you this small postcard, from the edge of hope, to encourage you, and myself at the same time, to continue the fight to defend Mother Earth from those to whom she is only a billion dollar paycheque.

Well, my friends, I don't know whether we have succeeded in fostering hope. My last comment nearly sent me into despair! But we can only try, with the same will to survive that Mother Earth and all her creatures share. Thank you to my fellow staff members, for their wonderful contributions to this feature. And for keeping Poets United going for all of us who love it, with your dedication and hard work. Each one of you helps shore up what is left of my poor old tired heart. Smiles.

We hope you take away something good from this exchange. We welcome your responses in the comments below. And do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!