Starlight

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Starlight used to make me so sad.

The bright light of a star long dead

reaching me here with a tragic hope.

I stare at them through teary eyes

and wonder if maybe, just maybe,

we are wrong about starlight.

~

Perhaps starlight should bring me joy.

Those bright lights, so steady, so true.

Guiding sailors, farmers and guides

through time unfailing in their task.

I stare at them through wondering eyes

and think, “How far does your light travel

and maybe, just maybe, your light

isn’t a dead light after all. But reborn!”

~

Starlight, like a phoenix, rises beyond our

measure and while the light of one fades

as it dies, it take so long to reach us that

it never really dims, but is replaced by

a new light, of a star reborn. Born anew

from the faded and thread bare universe.

A patch that seamless joins old and new.

~

Starlight, more alive than dead. Not an echo

of something long since gone but more than.

An echo and a newborn cry, a dying spark

and a flash of new life – all at once. Far in time.

And we, in hindsight only, see nothing but

the endless. The faithful. The star lights eternal.

~

Death conquered, and birth affirmed. Spirals

of eternity weave through my mind and I must

look away. Dizzy and holding tight to the endless.

The starlight.

~

This is what happens when I think too much about things like time, space, light, travel and stars.  I wondered last night, staring at an impossibly bright and starry sky if perhaps their dying light overlaps a birthing light and that’s how we never lose our stars.  And faith is like that too…but that is a deep thought for another day!  Enjoy.

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Surely you joust!

joust

Jesters dance, and joke before kings.

Their wisdom hidden in song escapes

the wrath of a leader deaf to truth.

`

Smiths sweat over forges, metal glowing.

Their muscles tense over tools of death

made to save them all and yet not so.

`

Maids wrapped and veiled wander.

Eyes flashing promise, or hope to

those whom they can catch looking.

`

Falconers send their hunters to the sky.

Screaming they soar, and return to

hood and ties – slaves who could be free.

`

Knights wait for their turn in the lists.

Horses pace, eyeing the tilts and

pennants flash brightly, armor gleams.

`

Blunted tips on lances signal this is not war.

Death is not the goal here, dismounting

your opponent is the not-so-secret wish.

`

Music rises and laughter rings loud.

The Medieval Festival makes me long

for a past far distant and darkly present.

`

All things Medieval over at dVerse…grab your sword, shine the armor and find a horse!  Check out the links and leave love, poets live on it! 

Blurred Hindsight

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When you get to this place you’ll know.

The lie of 20/20 hindsight vision.

Looking back the lines are blurred.

I can see you there, what is the year?

Such a fine balancing needed.

You can’t change the past if you

want to be who you have become.

And what a woman you are!

Those wounds they healed.

The scars started to ache less.

The joy lines never got deeper.

But your eyes sparkle so bright.

Looking out the window at the now,

I wish you could see how the wait.

THE WAIT you hated so is over.

You learned to serve in love.

Stayed true to the little gardens

you grew in the small places.

Those seeds now wildly bloom

here. There. EVERYWHERE!

You never knew. Had no clue.

That those things you seeded

along the path, they didn’t die.

They grew. Out of stone. In the sun.

From the dryness they found life.

Drove their roots down deep

past the dry season and found

an endless well of faith, filled.

EVERY time you wanted to quit.

You didn’t. Could have. But no.

Stubborn you, kept going,

If you could only see it now.

Even blurred looking back.

The amazing wild path

you trod. You sowed.

Hindsight may be blurred

and less than perfectly

20/20 is a lie, but the heart

it knows the truth. Wildflowers

bloom where it is wild, weeds

are only labeled by mis-location.

A letter from the future would be grand, giving me some encouragement during the times when the path seems harder, more barren than I’d like. Faith keeps me going forward when I can only see one step at a time, and I firmly believe that changing the past would change me, perhaps enough that I couldn’t be the person I am today. And today I love who I am. I am blessed beyond measure with my husband and my son, our family and friends. I wouldn’t change a thing that happened because it all made me who I am today. HOWEVER! I wouldn’t get in line for a repeat for some things either…ha ha

Check out the other great poets who are sharing at dVerse!

Breaking the American Sentence

Breaking the American Sentence into a Canadian form. eh!

Broken from haiku, the American Sentence was born into poetry. Lovely.

A true bird of snow, no feeble fleeing snow bird, she waits. Silent. Still. Deadly.

Invisible against a snow sky, often missed against the endless blue. Sacred?

Seeing them is a gift we seek. A gift we treasure. Something dear. Snowy!

How many miss the magic? What other treasures pass by unseen? Mystified.

Look around, see what you can see. Owl. Deer. Fox. Joy. Blessings to seek and find. Go! 

Snowy Owl – she flies!

The challenge at dVerse is to break and enter – take a form and make it your own. I broke the American Sentence a wee bit by adding a Canadian ending word. A question. A comment. A statement. Sarcasm. Hope. Something.

Great to be back at the Pub. Stop by the link below, see the magic other poets have woven.

http://dversepoets.com/2015/01/22/meetingthebar-breaking-entering/

Good News, Bad News, No News

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The Good News: harvest is done. Except for baling. Stacking. Hauling.

Essentially harvest is done. Fields empty of crop. Bins and bags filled.

Everyone takes a collective breath. Breathe. Stand back. Done.

`

The Bad News: terror comes home. Can’t go overseas to fight, so here.

Cars as weapons. Gunshots on Parliament Hill. Lock down. LOCK DOWN!

Across the country a collective gasp. Silence. Sit back. It is here. Home.

`

No News: we carry on. One step in front of another. Another day lived.

We pray. We cry. We rant. We rally. We stand. Silent. In awe of both.

Good news. Bad news.  Collective stories, without balance, but some hope.

`

My post harvest return to @dVerse for Poetics with Mary. It is fitting, perhaps, that it is a news day here on the farm and also internationally for my country.  Balance. Faith. Hope. Horror. Disbelief. Good thing we have poetry to turn to. 

Side note: I tried a new thing, QR code poetry. Check it out on Twitter here:

(just scan with a reader and enjoy!)

Where in the world

Riding the high foothills, cattle beside my horse.

Mountains rising high in a western sky.

Walking on red Maritime sands.

Lobster rolls at the Market.

Listening to Cree voices.

Dancing to country

music all night.

Visiting the

places my

ancestors came

here from. And places

I dream of seeing one day.

But most of all, the place in the

world I most want to be, day or night

is with those I love most. Those to whom

my heart belongs, as well as my smiles and tears.

Those who hold my tight when my faith wavers and

I falter in the road to the place God is preparing for us.

Where I want to be, most in the world, is right here.

In the right now. With them. Laughing. Crying.

Arguing and making up. Working. Playing.

Lego and lightning storms. Horses and

cows, tractors and trucks. Silly games

of tickle and Piggies. Making it up

as we go. The world shrinks and

I don’t mind when it only fits

just us three at a time. It is

okay for it to be our size.

The bigness comes and

out we go into the

noise and crowd.

But home. Home

is where we are.

And that is

Where I

Most

Long

To

Be.

 

Abhra has us thinking about where in the world we’d like to be. And there are many physical places I would love to visit again, and places in time I’d love to experience. But if I had to pack it up and go alone, I’d just as soon stay. With my beloved husband and sweet son. Together, wherever that is, is where I most want to be.   Join the other poets who probably took you on a more literal journey by clicking here: dVerse Poets 

does it belong or not?

Overjoyed by the end of the road, celebrating in the wild.

So the road ended, big deal! Make a new one, or have a rest.

 

Wedding photos in a barn loft, future growing out of the past.

Getting dirty. Getting tired. Knowing you are getting it done.

 

God gave us gifts and talents to use, not save up for heaven.

We aren’t supposed to get there in ‘show room’ condition!

 

Dance until the shoes wear out and music drums from your heart beating.

Don’t wait. Dance. Laugh. Be silly. Get dirty. What are you saving it for?

 

Holding dangerous goods close to our hearts – this living can be wild.

Nothing more dangerous than loving someone without reserve.

 

What would you choose: quality of life or quantity? If you could.

Maybe there is a reason we aren’t supposed to know, live each day fully!

 

Claudia has us thinking about contrasts and things on the edge of ‘normal’ (which my husband says is only a setting on the dryer anyway!)…my mix of American Sentences and then italic commentary.  Stop by dVerse and check out the other poets!

h(is)tory

Pirates to farmers, rebels and half breeds (or fractionals).

The wild. The crazy. The brave. The stupid. The lazy.

Shipbuilders and ranchers. Farmers and cowboys.

Huguenots and other refugees from ‘the man’ .

Names changed to hide faith, to change it

from being ‘foreign’ to more ‘English’.

Some stories kept, and held large.

Others more legend, myth. Whispers and old photos.

 

Ancestry.com is a waste of time when your name started here.

When no one kept records of babies born in farm houses.

When mama’s birthed and worked the same day.

Men kept their faith secret. Their color a red/black lie.

Family photos tucked away, hiding secrets or telling tales?

Circus family or royalty – does it matter? Aren’t they the same?

 

Rum runner, pirate. Shipbuilder. Hero of a ship wreck.

Mongol raider DNA mixing in hidden Jewish blood.

A Russian and a Ukrainian – don’t mix them up!

Irish and Scots. A drop of dreaded English. Creole.

Cree. Kootenay. German. Maybe? French. Ugh.

 

Our history is what we survived to get here. And our story.

He asks – wide eyed to know – are our ancestors cool?

Were they brave? Crazy? Wild? Were they ‘steady’ and true?

Big faith, or small? Did they love their children like you love me?

We tell stories of elders and Residential schools.

We learn words. We share a pride in that big bad blend

that makes us unique. Our history has parts

unwritten and long forgotten.

 

And yet in some place our DNA remembers,

it holds those things sacred that were remembered

down past blood and bone. Into the spirit, the soul –

we remember in a glance a storm across the steppes.

Or a frozen winter tree snapping.

The howl of rage against the storm and rocks, a quiet prayer.

 

In faith we carry part of them forward.

Those brave souls who ‘kept on keeping on’

across ocean, mountain, prairie and steppe.

Through war, hatred, and all the beautiful

and ugly of humankind.

Hands that felt rough equine manes in Asia, Europe and North America.

Feet that felt sand and beaches, rocks and salty wave on many shores.

Hearts that beat, bled and died in every land they chose to love.

A heavenly reunion awaits when we get to hear their tales first hand.

Of ships lost, crops grown, horses rode and loves held deep.

Of faith. Of being faithful. Faith-filled too.

Heroes of the ordinary kind.

Those who said they wouldn’t live to kneel to the ground,

but would die standing. The kind who shook their fist at stormy

skies and naysayers equally. And turned to walk away.

To somewhere new. Somewhere brave.

So many left it all behind and chose to go.

Few treasures or heirlooms. Mostly stories.

Faded dreams and vivid passion. Flaring across time.

I see their faces, faded in photos old, and wonder

about them in color. Alive. Living. Vibrant.

Colorizing our black and white history.

We imagine them from the future,

and wonder if they thought of us?

 

History is often kept by those who feel the bearers of it have value to the future. So many of my ancestors came here and had their names changed to remove the connection to homeland or religion.  So many have no listing on Ancestry or any other site. Family histories are hard to piece together, and yet sometimes we find a treasure. An old stitchery lesson, a diary or a photo ‘no one talks about’ and we see glimpses of an epic worthy history.  Come over to dVerse and see how others are poetically tackling their own history!

More than words

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“Use your words Jerry!” admonished a cartoon quasi-evil scientist to one of his creations.

“Ouch! No biting!” a response, without words, and yet very clearly communicating!

Talking heads talk and talk and talk it becomes “blah blah blah” and blank spots.

sawêyihtowak ᓴᐁᐧᔨᐦᑐᐊᐧᐠ V they bless one another; they love one another

Bless and love. More than words, becoming the bridge when the words fail.

They are the balm when words wound. They move and live word-free.

 

Maybe words should fail and more often. What if poets wove their words to fail?

If a picture is worth a 1000 words, what could our actions speak then? Millions?

We stare at screens. Books. Images. And freeze. Unable to act or move. Still.

We think because someone saw it they did something. We observe and are

removed from the mud, the blood, the tears and the pain. We are stone.

 

Our empathy mocks, and our “shares” and “Likes” and “Tweets” buy some peace.

“Well I DID do SOMETHING!” and yet we know, down in that dark place below.

We know there is more to do. Not across the ocean. Or even across the street.

Across the room. A hand or breath away. Our words should fail us then. 

We should be unable to be poetic without action, without touch or voice.

 

Poetry – a call to action. A place for words to fail because we should not. Cannot.

Poetry – the memorial, the eulogy, the celebration. A place for failed words.

I wrote today about time healing all wounds, and scars still there to ache.

Scars are where the words failed and action struck. Ragged poetry seen.

Dug into skin. Aching and remembering the wounding. The wordless

time when there was nothing but getting out, away, being gone.

 

Words should fail when we fail to hear their call to act. To speak. To reach out.

To them. Especially to them. To walk away. From them. YES THEM! Go.

My words bubble and boil to the surface. Banging against lips and teeth.

Knowing their acid and bile won’t wound anyone but me I chew them.

Swallow deep and plan my exit steps. Silent prayer for grace. Again.

Words meant to wound when I need to feel better need to fail.

 

“You shoulda gave her a piece of your mind!” and “Why do you take that from them?”

And I can’t help but see their words as bait, hiding a sharp deadly hook inside.

Their words fail as I walk away, poetry in motion, leaving the scene before a

crime happens against poetry, against words and against self and life.

My words failed. And I”m glad. My actions were loud enough.

And my prayer for grace, instead of repentance, was healing.

 

Brian has us thinking about when words fail for Meeting at the Bar tonight. I’ve had lots of opportunity to see when words do fail – in good and bad ways. And in ways that turned around unexpectedly from one thing into something else entirely. As I get older I am learning the wisdom of poetry in motion, of walking away. Sometimes it is good for words to fail, it leaves room for action. And then sometimes we make them carry too much instead of doing it ourselves.  Not sure where I am going with this but deep thoughts are rambling around, so thanks Brian!  Stop by dVerse and see how the other poetic people are responding! Share your own thoughts and leave love.

 

Seeds, weeds and geraniums

I

Belly to the soil, fingers in the trough.

Depth and rates to check. Seeds in soil.

Each row rises, orderly and only the

weeds run wild. Taunting. Surviving.

 

II

No weeds dare grow in her gardens.

Fierce with knife, spoon and spade.

Grandma grew flowers, vegs and fruit.

Weeds were banished from her order.

 

III

She hated to see them die in fall.

The geraniums in her random pots.

So in they came, Scraggly. Stinky.

Living in a year round summer.

 

IV

“Can’t you just….?’ they asked knowing.

Knowing the blank would be always that.

“Just be tame?” or “Just be unlike me?”

I’m sure I’ll always be a weed there,

tossing out the order of someone’s

beloved garden. A dandelion blooming

through cement cracks, a sunflower

in the highway median. Something not

quite right, not really belonging there

and yet thriving where you said I would

die…or where you wanted me to not be.

`

V

Seeding requires faith. You gotta let em grow.

No diggin’ them up to see ‘wassup’ when in

the soil they are restin’ dark and moist.

 

Seeding requires patience. You gotta let them go.

No foolin’ with them once they start to come up

trusting their roots and their leaves to reach.

 

Seeding has one hand in the soil and one eye

on the sky…prayers of hope rise up and

tears sometimes wash the dirt back down.

 

But when they rise up, tall and reaching

for the sun’s light to follow, then we see

what the hard work of faith can show!

 

I am hosting Poetics tonight for dVerse and I’m feeling in the mood for some short stuff…enjoy the other poetry, and plant those words and poems people!

 

Learning how to check the seeds close up!

Learning how to check the seeds close up!

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