Category Archives: poetry

Hidden Voices (a poem)

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Walking along the shoreline, water calm, air crisp with spring’s promise. Beau sniffs and snuffles the grass and bushes at the edge of the road, seagulls swoop and screech overhead,

I meet a woman and her dog. She shares her joy of see a pod of eight Orcas surface close in to where she stood on the rocks yesterday as dusk began to settle in.

“They appeared, and then they were gone,” she said after telling me that three seals scampered onto the rocks as the Orcas passed. Her dog barely noticed them.

Her dog and Beaumont sniff. Lose interest and continue to smell the greenery all around where we stand at the edge of the ocean.

I haven’t seen the Orcas yet. Lots of Humpback but no Orcas.

I know I will. One day. Soon. I hope.

I continue walking along and something she said about her heart feeling like it was blossoming out when she spied the whales resonates. The muse picks up the thread and when I return home, these words wove their way into substance.

Hidden Voices 
by Louise Gallagher

Sing out loud, he urged,
but she held back, 
ignoring the melody 
stirring within her 
hidden behind the secrets of childhood.

Everyone can sing, he said gently. 
I don't dare, she demurred, 
then hummed a little tune to herself, 
a sweet, melodious note so pure,
the air stilled around her, 
rustled through the leaves 
swaying gently to her song.

That was beautiful, he whispered.

She shook her head, side to side
a nervous laugh escaping her lips
as soft as a moonbeam kissing the night.

It was nothing, she said. 
Nothing we do is ever nothing 
if we do it from the heart, he replied.

Her heart bloomed open, 
a flower releasing its fragrant song.

His words rang true, a siren call, 
urging her voice to rise up 
loud and strong 
no matter who was listening.

Dances in the Wind (a poem)

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This morning a beautiful friend from the poetry circle I wrote with for several years and then had to miss out on most of last year because of a competing Monday night commitment, sent a poem to our group, ‘Acceptance‘, by Kerry Hardie. (Thank you Lilli Ann)

One of the images caught my imagination. Still January.

The muse whispered, “Write it out.” So I did.

DANCES WITH THE WIND
by Louise Gallagher

Still January 
yesterday, 
I walked the shoreline 
morning calm stretched across grey water
lapping, gentle, muted sounds
caressing, rocks

slick and slippery
seaweed a blanket of vivid green
I step, 
slowly, carefully, 
remembering

there was a time 
I leapt 
rock to rock, 
arms flung wide 
head tilted back to catch 
the salt-laced breeze 
effortless

those were the days my friend 

we danced ‘til dawn 
and slept fast 
fell in and out of love faster

Who can tame the wind? 
A weathered branch creaks 
memory slips 
against the jagged 
edges of daybreak whispering 
only time can stifle age

Still January 
today, I walk along the road 
hugging the shoreline, close
mist hangs low 
steel grey waves frothy, rolling 
in and out, in and out 
trees sway, leaves rustle,
dances with the wind

On solid ground I walk, 
confident 
an eagle soars above 
time is on the wing.

The Evidence of Time

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The muse has a delightful way of weaving her magic throughout my being, even when I’m not paying attention.

Whether I’m walking along the shore, immersed in the quiet of the forest, or kneading dough for bread, her whispers find me. Like tendrils of smoke, these fleeting thoughts curl into my mind, each one vanishing as quickly as the next.

Yet, when I finally return to the page, fingers poised over the keyboard, a torrent of inspiration flows forth, like a stream rushing down a mountainside, seeking the boundless freedom of the river that will lead it to the sea.

I cannot see its source. I cannot feel its pulse. I can only respond to its urgings to let the muse flow free. Surrendering, consonants and vowls, letters and words tumble out seeking form unhindered by my manipulations. As phrases form and coalesce, and I dive beneath the surface meaning like a pearl diver seeking treasure, my creative essence transforms from a thought into reality.

Immersed in the long exhale of creative expression, my thoughts find space and air to breathe on the page; naked, exposed, vulnerable.

And in that vulnerability, I find my heart soaring, my spirits lifting and my voice rising up to sing out loud, “This is Life and I am so grateful for every moment. No matter how I label them, good, bad or indifferent, every moment is full of life teeming with possibility, adventure, hope and Love.”

What a gift!

The Evidence of Time
by Louise Gallagher

To age and not fear, 
to grow older, unburdened by worry, 
free from the whispers of wrinkles and lines, 
the creaks and aches, 
the evidence of time passing. 

To live a life where age 
holds no sway over worth, 
where spirit soars 
beyond the measure of years.

This is the defiance of our days, 
as time's river flows ever forward, 
calendar pages turning
 with quickening pace.

These are the reminders 
of the inevitable truth: 
One day, the final page will turn, 
the heart's rhythm will cease its beat, 
the last breath will softly fade, 
and the echoes
 of "I love you" will fall silent.

No magic potion halts the passage of time,
no secret formula holds back the years.

Yet, the choice remains ours: 
To live each day fearlessly, boldly, bravely, 
passionately alive, 
with wonder and awe, 
celebrating every heartbeat, 
every breath, 
every whispered "I love you," 
as precious gifts 
weaving the grand tapestry of our days
into a life well loved.
A life well lived.

Old Friend

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Image created by Gemini – Imagen 3
Old Friend
by Louise Gallagher

Hello, old friend. 
I see you
your shadow hunched
dark and brooding
in the mists of doubt
that crowd my mind
when I dare to step
beyond the comfort of these walls
we’ve built together
believing, they will hold me safe
from living
free
from doubt.

I sense you
my friend
lurking
withered arms outstretched
waiting
to catch me
leaning out
beyond the edges
of this uncomfortable box
I inhabit
because I hold tight
to the fear
of stretching beyond
the things I’ve always done
so that I can stay 
close to you.

I feel you 
old friend
fighting
to keep me safe
when safety is not what I need
to live 
fearlessly 
beyond this cage I’ve built
trapping me
in believing 
here
is where comfort lies.

The truth lies,
my friend,
in believing
I am alone
when I plunge 
heart first
into the unknown
because, 
the truth 
is always felt 
in your hands
on my back
ready to lift me up
when I dare 
to let go of doubt
and fly free.

In the language of trees (a poem)

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I walked with the trees yesterday. Listened to their leaves rustling in the breeze that blew in off the water. Felt their roots buried deep within the earth stirring the mysteries only my heart can hear.

And as I walked, I imagined I could hear the wind whispering its stories of far away places into the open branches stretched out across the sky – tales of wonder and awe, love and war, joy and sorrow. Stories it’s witnessed on its journey through time and space.

The trees have much to teach us. 

In The Language of Trees
by Louise Gallagher

In the language of trees, 
there is no me or you, 
  only us, 
    intertwined 
with roots that grip the earth
that binds us deep to one another.

In the language of trees, 
there is no beginning, 
 no ending, 
  no in between,
  only winds of time 
   that sculpt our limbs,
  whispering through leaves 
 forever reaching out
to capture sacred stories 
of far away places.

Each dawn unfolds a tapestry of leaves, 
a fleeting masterpiece of green. 
  Every leafy tendril counts, 
   from roots that divine the mysteries
  of the dark soil below
 to the tips of branches 
that sing songs of joy
to the sky above.

We are a symphony of wood and leaf,
 earth and water
   wind and storm
    a chorus rising from the soil,
   each voice distinct, 
  each song an opus 
 a tapestry of voices, rich and deep,
woven into the story of our humanity
grounded in the language of trees.

Where Tomorrow Hides (a poem from where I sit)

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The muse never tires. Always present, she flows like the sea outside my window. Enduring. Always present. Always changing.

This morning, Beaumont the Sheepadoodle and I sat in silent communion with the waves gliding across the ocean surface. Mesmerized, I heeded the muse’s urgings and let time slip away as morning crept across the sky and I found myself effortlessly breathing into the pure joy of being present, wholly embodied in the now.

It is fleeting, this being embodied in the now. Busyness. Things to do. To read. To see. Places to get to. People to connect with. Rooms to organize. And still boxes to unpack. Too many. I’m tempted to tell myself to leave them unpacked and if in six months I haven’t missed anything, to let whatever is in them be released without examining the contents of each unopened box.

We shall see…

For this moment, right now, I sit in silent communion with Beau, sipping my latte, listening to Hildegard von Bingen’s ecclesiastical sounds fill the morning air. And I breathe.

Where Tomorrow Hides
by Louise Gallagher

Light stalks the darkness, 
slithering across cloud laden sky
slipping effortlessly below the far horizon 
where tomorrow hides, 
safe beyond my sight.

Here and now, mesmerized,
I sit watching undulating waves 
wash up from a gunmetal sea,
whispering stories of far away places
hidden beyond the distant edge of the world.

Tomorrow stretches, 
pregnant with cloudy mystery,
waiting beyond this realm
where I sit
watching waves wash ashore.

Mesmerized
time slips away
and I become one with the world around me.

Will You Cry With Me?

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This morning on CBC Radio, I listen to Residential School Survivors talking about the horrific conditions they encountered while attending schools run by priests and nuns who were ordained to do ‘God’s work’. I am, again, struck by how blind, selfish, arrogant and cruel those who ran the schools were under the auspices of our government.

At the end of the program, the moderator, whose parents and other family members attended the schools, asks the question, “Will You Cry With Me?”

My heart heavy with sadness and anger, I do what I often do when confronted by the inexplicable. I write it out.

Will You Cry With Me?

Will You Cry With Me?
by Louise Gallagher

Will you cry with me? she implored. 
Mourn for my ancestors, my people 
the families torn apart
the lives destroyed
the futures stolen?

Will you shed your tears 
and bow your head 
for the lost and wounded 
the forgotten and buried 
the ones who never made it home?

Will you hear our stories 
with an open heart and mind 
leaving your judgments in the past 
where we’ve been imprisoned 
searching for your humanity to recognize ours?

Will you mingle your tears with mine 
flowing together 
so that we can heal the wounds 
of the past you cannot change 
yet must never forget, lest they be repeated?

Will you cry with me?

Awakening (a poem)

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Between getting the house ready for sale and the endless stream of viewings, as well as being away for almost two weeks, life’s been a whirlwind! 😅 Like a sailor waiting for the wind, or a surfer for that perfect wave, we’re patiently (and sometimes not-so-patiently!) waiting for the right buyer to walk through our door. The uncertainty is definitely challenging, but it’s the constant “viewing ready” mode that’s truly exhausting! 🤪

And here’s the thing. Amidst the packing and clearing out, the visiting family and walking on the beach and playing with my grandchildren and baking bread for my daughter and lazing on the patio sipping wine and talking late into the night, I’ve realized that stressing about every little detail just isn’t worth it.

Life is too short to worry about fingerprints on the counters or pillows not being perfectly fluffed. I’m choosing to trust the process, and focus on living each day with passion and purpose. Cooking, laughing, and enjoying my home are back on the menu! 🥳

Because, here’s the thing… In the midst of all the chaos, I realized I have not been doing the things I know nurture and sustain me. I’ve avoided being here, writing, painting and a host of other things I love to do, that de-pressurize my state of mind, and set my heart free and my spirits soaring.

it’s time to reignite the spark! 🔥 To dream and create and explore and expand.💖

It’s time to let magic happen! ✨ It’s time to begin again and let dreams unfold and spirits rise.

Awakening

Awakening
by Louise Gallagher

Moments of sudden clarity, 
like waking from a dreamless sleep
after days spent sleepwalking, 
blind and deaf to the beauty all around.

Dark thoughts cloud the mind, 
a heavy fog obscuring the light 
beneath inertia's suffocating blanket. 
Unannounced,
a crack appears, sunlight floods in.

Warmth chases away the shadows,
fear retreats, slithering back into the darkness.
Hope blossoms in the open space,
a fragile flower pushing through the concrete.

The prison of stagnation crumbles,
the chains of self-doubt fall away.
Dreams reawaken, vibrant and alive.
No longer afraid of falling,
I rise. 
Sails full of promise, 
I soar.

Selling A Home-Acing an Interview – It’s all about presentation

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As my beloved, C.C., and I prepare to list our house for sale (it goes live on Monday!) before our big move to a Gulf Island, I’m neck-deep in the art of decluttering, clearing out, and staging.

Staging is all about creating an illusion of space, especially in smaller homes. But it’s more than that. Our realtor says our location and river view are the stars of the show (we’re not on a floodplain!), yet I still feel the pressure to create a flawless first impression. It’s like dressing for a job interview – your chance to shine.

The sales page with its numerous photos is like your carefully crafted resume – designed to land you an interview. Then, the main living area becomes your in-person presentation: open and inviting, just like your warm smile and genuine interest in the interviewer’s questions. Of course, it’s important to not only look the part, but to act it too—ensuring your “home” reflects the qualities that make it a perfect fit for the lifestyle the buyer envisions just like how you dress for success in an interview makes you a perfect fit for the workplace.

But what about the hidden depths? I’ve tackled every closet, drawer, and cubbyhole, making them presentable and tidy. Yet, just like the quirks beneath a perfectly curated resume, I hope potential buyers don’t dig too deep! We all have our little imperfections…(like the bottles and jars that usually reside beside the sink in the master bath that get tucked away in a drawer for viewings.)

Another early morning has me pondering these parallels, inspired by the quiet whisper of the muse. It’s a reflection on time passing, on moving forward, and on presenting the best version of ourselves – or our homes – to the world.

Let’s see if this resonates with our potential buyers on Monday. Wish us luck!

The poem was written one early morning when I arose at 4 and heeded the muse’s urgings. Words flowed in the silent beauty of dawn’s rosy glow slowly seeping across the horizon.

The Language of the Soul

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Perhaps it’s the unwinding of memories as I declutter and organize, or the echoes of poet and philosopher David Whyte’s words echoeing in my mind from the podcast I listened to yesterday as I worked in the garage. Or, perhaps it’s simply that my focus turns inward as I sift through the outward markings of our life in this beautiful home…

Whatever the impetus, this morning was not meant for poetry. I awoke early, completed my morning puzzles (Wordle, Connections, The Mini) and embarked on the all-consuming quest for Spelling Bee Genius status. Barefoot, I made coffee, tidied the kitchen, and took Sir Beaumont for his morning saunter.

But as I sipped my latte, sitting at my desk, looking out at the river flowing past, responding to messages on my computer, the muse beckoned. I fell under her thrall. Words flowed in that space of limitless expansiveness. Two hours later, a poem was born. Heart unburdened, now it’s time to return to the task of decluttering.

Those two hours were not lost time in preparing our house for market. They were overflowing with soulful nourishment, soothing the edges of sadness as we leave this beloved home and our wonderful community here and fueling the excitement for our next adventure—into the mists of the known and unknown.

Life is an incredible journey when I listen to my heart, live with soul, and weave creativity into everything I do.

Namaste