Poetic Musings

For dVerse Open Link Night my son, Luke, and I have decided to share some poetic musings. Enjoy!


Summer Storm by Luke

Hail smashes down hard

Summer storms sweep skies dark

Thunder crashes loud


Fort McMurray in 17

A sudden hush awakes me from my slumber – the rain has come once again!

80k people flee, smoke eaters rush in to fight a wildfire you can see from space.

Convoys drive to the flames, fuel for the stranded, bringing hope in the smoke.

Hashtags and hope; the spirit ignites us to action and we open our hearts.


Note: It has been a very traumatic and inspiring time for those of us in Alberta, in Canada. With the wildfires across the prairies, especially the enormous fire that forced the evacuation of Fort McMurray. People have come together in amazing ways to help – in conventional and unconventional ways. I am proud of our responders, our people who just decided to help and did. From children inspiring fundraising bbq’s to people filling their own vehicles and going in to offer help. And those who are fighting the fires and rescuing the animals, those who are volunteering, praying and those who are doing what they can – thank you.  I won’t share images here – do some Google searching. See how big it is, how it is still burning along with others across BC, Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba and into Ontario. Those giving their homes, their food, their money. Sharing hope and already working on the day they get to rebuild.

 

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BIG & small

Nature, the touch of God’s hand in His creation.

Moves me. Touches me. Soothes and rouses me.

Brings me tears and silences me in awe. Heals me.

Something as small as a sunset reflected in a

rain drop, something as massive as a storm.

Wee little bee darting bloom to bloom.

River carving it’s way to the sea.

There is a touch there.

A plan. In the places

where I feel the ground

most holy are those where

God speaks through the wind and animals.

Where flowers struggle to bloom, and burst forth.

Exuberance embraces to soul when birds soar where we

can never really and truly go. Lifting wings and crying out from it.

Nature soothes my soul when there is too much paved over. Too much built.

Too many machines, wires, poles and buildings. Too many people crowded around.

Nature releases me when I stop to breathe. To hear baby magpies complaining.

When I see birds hopping on hedge tops or dancing in puddles fresh from the rain.

Apples fallen before they ripen, feeding the tree from below. The circle of life, the cycle.

It is part of us. Lay on the earth, feel your pulse in the soil. Hear it in the wind.

Clouds soar above, weightless seemingly, and yet full of many millions of gallons of water.

Life given from both storm and calm. Sunshine and rain. Met, sometimes, in violence.

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dVerse has us thinking about nature. Nature is something near and dear to me.

As a farm wife, photographer and lover of all things created I find both healing and balance in the nature around me. From the aftermath of a storm to the reflection of sunsets in the rain barrel. Animals playing, hunting, living. Plants growing and dying. Being no more, and no less, than intended. Being fully. Isn’t that what we all should be doing? Working on the being and not the doing?

Visit the other poets, and leave them some love. 

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.

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 

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!

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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