Sky so wide with light play on the clouds that I stopped the car and stuck my camera (cell phone) out the window for a picture. As might be expected, I was belly full and bursting with love for the world. This land, these mountains, seem the perfect place to celebrate thanksgiving; wild turkeys thrive here! This year was particularly warm, but that made for good long walk with Mr Lee up to the swings. Sending delight out, back and forth, as I kick my legs and stretch them out.
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Saturday, November 19, 2016
I remind myself that I was frightened of Reagan's presidency, scared of nuclear war, wrote letters to the White House, agonized as a single mom with two sons that the draft might be reinstated. I then recall that we survived the Cuban missile crisis. I remember marching to end the Vietnam war; later joining the women's marches for reproductive rights. I know what Jim Crow looks like. The horror of now, with a Trump future, is that all, all of what we have fought to change is in jeopardy. It is as if the US is at the brink of moving backwards into a world of repression of women more similar to that of the Taliban. The loosening of EPA regulations can only spell doom, more pollution of air and water. So my friends and I are planning to join the women's march in DC on January 21st the day after the inauguration. It is absolutely necessary to keep vigilant, to keep speaking out, to defend the Earth and the dignity of all people, to show up.
Posted by mary hayne at 4:57 AM No comments:
Labels: Activism, The Hollar
Monday, November 14, 2016
Friday, November 11, 2016
A Second Poem
11/10 A natural death?
this is the hardest hour as the evening descends like a coat,
to not go out to call my hound home,
to stay with my soup
to leave him out where he has wanted to go
I carried him home once this morning
not able to stand his frozen stance
hesitating on his quivering hind legs
not circling down
not coming home.
He slept hard, but
this afternoon he stood at the door
and i let him out.
he bent to the river path.
(He was born on the river, son of a plot hound and who knows dad,
elegant mutt, sitting with legs crossed in front, a
Cary Grant, and the best ever with kids.)
I’m leaving the outside light on,
I hate to think coyotes might roam,
It’s cold tonight, will hyperthermia speed him away?
I always imagine my self following this road
when I’m old, stiff, unable to eat,
taking off ever so slow, but full of intent and a pull from another domain,
curling into the leaf litter,
and tucking down close.
I’ll probably fail to stay
hobbling home, until I can’t manage the stairs
as Mojo has these past two days. But today he was
Today I’m letting him go.
Posted by mary hayne at 4:31 PM No comments:
Mourning dog, Leonard Cohen and election
I defecate on three raisin size ticks sunk in the bowl
I try not to hate
but I hate ticks, these
who clung to the skin over bones
of my dying hound.
I gently rub along his ribs, not too hard
his hips, his gentle dignified nose
which still turns his head
on our slow slow walks, I
pick up each ear and scan
for a parasite, I freeze
on a thought of Mojo
out in the evening, gone too far,
curling down in a round of grass
and I cry.
But he’s not dead yet, I coaxed
a bit of food into his mouth this morning;
perhaps yesterday was not the last time
he will stand in the river
sniffing the wafting scents from the other bank.
Last night I woke to hear Mojo stir from his bed
get up like a new born colt, all legs
throwing his head as a weight, all motion down to intent,
I thought to gather a blanket around my shoulders,
go lie with my dog. But I haven’t yet.
mh north 11/6/2016
Posted by mary hayne at 4:27 PM No comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)