I am not doing this thought justice, because it insists on coming out in rhyme. However, I'm capturing it for reworking later... don't judge me too harshly.
I am earth, you are air;
It's elemental what we share--
water, fire and spirit bright,
sparks fly up in the dark night.
Rooted to this place, a part
Of every tree's living heart,
Closed system energy flow
Through soil and green, and me, I know.
Above the petty fray, among
The clouds, the birds' flight song
You soar, unrestrained and out of touch
Above my reach and gravity's clutch.
Where we meet, mountain peak,
In the cyclone's spinning streak,
Among the leaves of a thousand trees,
We are tied together, god decrees.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Tumorous
I'm sorry,
The doctors' whites bled into the bright light,
Their goggle eyes blinking at my aberrations.
The words are wrapped around vital organs.
They are firmly attached to your spine.
They can't be removed or
You will die.
The doctors know science,
Their shiny degrees frown down in Latin with wax seals.
I will die.
The doctors don't know that the words must come out.
They will come out.
They will grow, expand, pile up, push on my diaphragm
Till every breath is a belch of swallowed sentiment,
Every hiccup a propulsion of pickled, sour prose.
They will grow and leach the iron from my soul,
Absorb the toxins that seeped through my skin in
A long lonely soak in a mire of grey moods.
They will grow and squeeze my liver,
Wring out the lemon-scented melancholy buried under tequila,
The bile of tabasco-hot temper I never expressed when you stole my light.
The words will come out and I will die.
And when I awake from the torrent of trance-word explosive
vomiting death.
I will be whole, and light, and I will know the science of healing
Myself.
The doctors' whites bled into the bright light,
Their goggle eyes blinking at my aberrations.
The words are wrapped around vital organs.
They are firmly attached to your spine.
They can't be removed or
You will die.
The doctors know science,
Their shiny degrees frown down in Latin with wax seals.
I will die.
The doctors don't know that the words must come out.
They will come out.
They will grow, expand, pile up, push on my diaphragm
Till every breath is a belch of swallowed sentiment,
Every hiccup a propulsion of pickled, sour prose.
They will grow and leach the iron from my soul,
Absorb the toxins that seeped through my skin in
A long lonely soak in a mire of grey moods.
They will grow and squeeze my liver,
Wring out the lemon-scented melancholy buried under tequila,
The bile of tabasco-hot temper I never expressed when you stole my light.
The words will come out and I will die.
And when I awake from the torrent of trance-word explosive
vomiting death.
I will be whole, and light, and I will know the science of healing
Myself.
Friday, December 4, 2015
Things to stop
Stop biting your nails
Stop swallowing your words
Stop eating fat
Stop recycling passwords
Stop picking
Stop chewing with your mouth open
Stop swallowing your words
Stop eating fat
(When you swallow feelings that you have half buried since childhood
How is it they in turn can devour you? Parasitic.)
Stop recycling passwords
Stop picking
Stop chewing with your mouth open
Do's:
Drink milk.
Eat greens.
Choose superfoods.
Stop drinking
(Never sip the bitter bile of the things you will never do in life, it's as toxic as hell. Live in the now.)
Stop smoking
Stop underachieving
Stop caring so much
Stop being so fucking smug
(Just be awesome. Just do it.)
Stop hating.
Stop being angry.
Stop arguing.
Stop talking.
Stop being defensive.
Stop being crazy.
(Choose life!)
Stop dying.
Process matters.
Process matters.
We live in the process
the process is the continuum
the process is now
there is room in the process.
For things that grow and change
like hearts, feelings,
minds and bruises.
Destination is a
two dimensional room.
No one lives there.
You see your destination only
over your shoulder...
After you've passed into
the next process.
We live in the process
the process is the continuum
the process is now
there is room in the process.
For things that grow and change
like hearts, feelings,
minds and bruises.
Destination is a
two dimensional room.
No one lives there.
You see your destination only
over your shoulder...
After you've passed into
the next process.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
elemental
A writer is a worm.
Crawling through the dark, devouring
Converting the bitter peels and discarded
thoughts to rich soil, Wriggling
in double-ended discomfort,
two heads always
Thinking in different directions.
A writer is a worm
Feeling the way through dead rotting flesh
To the heart within that still holds
A charm, a blessing, a kiss.
A writer is a worm in the apple
of time, browning syntax to squirm
into a pentametric rhyme scheme,
Rotting away with a barrage of
metaphorical dismay and
outrage.
A writer is a worm.
The spice must flow.
Crawling through the dark, devouring
Converting the bitter peels and discarded
thoughts to rich soil, Wriggling
in double-ended discomfort,
two heads always
Thinking in different directions.
A writer is a worm
Feeling the way through dead rotting flesh
To the heart within that still holds
A charm, a blessing, a kiss.
A writer is a worm in the apple
of time, browning syntax to squirm
into a pentametric rhyme scheme,
Rotting away with a barrage of
metaphorical dismay and
outrage.
A writer is a worm.
The spice must flow.
everything is great
everything is great
except for the damned ghost
it dogs me into the shower
cries into my ear when I would sleep
i feel it when you hold me
when we silently apologize
to each others hearts
for the future breaking
Everything is great except
for the one thing you want
I can't give.
except for the damned ghost
it dogs me into the shower
cries into my ear when I would sleep
i feel it when you hold me
when we silently apologize
to each others hearts
for the future breaking
Everything is great except
for the one thing you want
I can't give.
No one paints a calm sea
No one paints a calm sea.
Okay, some artists do,
Paintings that chronically stressed women
Choose to match the sofa
And never sit and meditate before.
Calm seas and happy endings do not merit art.
We need to feel,
To be caught in the churn
The sloppy, salty tide bearing down on
Dark rocks, barnacle-jewelled,
And crunchy shell-strewn shores.
We journey with the turmoil of
The storm-thrown vessel on burning cold
Rivers, through a washing cycle of
White water beaten on hard sand
And we emerge clean.
We need to be tossed, shaken, inverted, pummelled,
Hearts battered, no timid knocks,
To be reborn.
Let my words be big and violent, thrash and pierce.
I do not want to soothe. I want to wound.
Okay, some artists do,
Paintings that chronically stressed women
Choose to match the sofa
And never sit and meditate before.
Calm seas and happy endings do not merit art.
We need to feel,
To be caught in the churn
The sloppy, salty tide bearing down on
Dark rocks, barnacle-jewelled,
And crunchy shell-strewn shores.
We journey with the turmoil of
The storm-thrown vessel on burning cold
Rivers, through a washing cycle of
White water beaten on hard sand
And we emerge clean.
We need to be tossed, shaken, inverted, pummelled,
Hearts battered, no timid knocks,
To be reborn.
Let my words be big and violent, thrash and pierce.
I do not want to soothe. I want to wound.
No great loss
That kind of guy
Who unselfconsciously in open robe
Retrieves his paper
Bathmat-scratchy chest exposesd,
Coffee slopping as he waves pleasantly to
The greymalkin next door, who purrs
Into her cane.
That kind of man with a touch
Of clinging shaving cream garnishing a
Lengthening earlobe, who dashes, late,
To his Volvo, but brake-screeching stops midblock
To retrieve and return a wayward basketball
To a sheepish purple
Hello Kitty shirt and a wide
Pair of eyes.
That particular species of fellow who,
Mostly harmless in all his peanut-munching
Placid days, who loves his digital watch and
His high-achieving accountant bride, and his
2.5 kids and normal existence
In middle America.
That man.
Wobbly, in his third
Buddy-delivered-with-high-slaps beer of
A Thursday night, post-game.
Pulls out his phone, friend ear-talking loudly about the
Pros and cons of heavier characters as
You drift on a corner and
The way pretzels bloat him.
That dude. Pokes at the fuzzy bird icon, scanning
Timeline while agreeing heartily in a vague nod,
Bowser! Am I right?!
Inside his face, a foreign snarl forms, feeling
Like a hot flush on his droopy blotched cheeks.
He squints with one eye, hits reply,
Starts to index-finger type at the
Awkward, robe-wearing woman in the tiny square, answering
Her comment on a technical play strategy in the
latest Star Wars game, which he hasn't played yet but Goddamit
it's STARWARS and he and his dad had agreed mom knew
Nothing about the logic of Tattoine and what the hell
do basketball-losing, slack-jawed, job-stealing, ball-busting
LADIES even think they are DOING having opinions on StarWars
It's not like a doily set or a where the hell the sofa goes or whether your
Feet should be on the coffee table or not, even when it's your house,
Having OPINIONS like a goddamn unnatural talking trained dog, a mouse in a maze
Pinky and the Brain, so he types, he types words he would disavow later
If anyone asked, It was that Brian stealing my phone, he's
Such a jerk, he's just trying to get me in trouble, words
That would make the awkward woman feel cold and alone and afraid,
Dictated by the lump of reptile logic deep within his manbrain,
"Die in a fire you stupid cunt."
As he holds the screen back to squint for a final look before posting,
His planet is unfortunately destroyed to make way for a new hyperspace bypass.
Who unselfconsciously in open robe
Retrieves his paper
Bathmat-scratchy chest exposesd,
Coffee slopping as he waves pleasantly to
The greymalkin next door, who purrs
Into her cane.
That kind of man with a touch
Of clinging shaving cream garnishing a
Lengthening earlobe, who dashes, late,
To his Volvo, but brake-screeching stops midblock
To retrieve and return a wayward basketball
To a sheepish purple
Hello Kitty shirt and a wide
Pair of eyes.
That particular species of fellow who,
Mostly harmless in all his peanut-munching
Placid days, who loves his digital watch and
His high-achieving accountant bride, and his
2.5 kids and normal existence
In middle America.
That man.
Wobbly, in his third
Buddy-delivered-with-high-slaps beer of
A Thursday night, post-game.
Pulls out his phone, friend ear-talking loudly about the
Pros and cons of heavier characters as
You drift on a corner and
The way pretzels bloat him.
That dude. Pokes at the fuzzy bird icon, scanning
Timeline while agreeing heartily in a vague nod,
Bowser! Am I right?!
Inside his face, a foreign snarl forms, feeling
Like a hot flush on his droopy blotched cheeks.
He squints with one eye, hits reply,
Starts to index-finger type at the
Awkward, robe-wearing woman in the tiny square, answering
Her comment on a technical play strategy in the
latest Star Wars game, which he hasn't played yet but Goddamit
it's STARWARS and he and his dad had agreed mom knew
Nothing about the logic of Tattoine and what the hell
do basketball-losing, slack-jawed, job-stealing, ball-busting
LADIES even think they are DOING having opinions on StarWars
It's not like a doily set or a where the hell the sofa goes or whether your
Feet should be on the coffee table or not, even when it's your house,
Having OPINIONS like a goddamn unnatural talking trained dog, a mouse in a maze
Pinky and the Brain, so he types, he types words he would disavow later
If anyone asked, It was that Brian stealing my phone, he's
Such a jerk, he's just trying to get me in trouble, words
That would make the awkward woman feel cold and alone and afraid,
Dictated by the lump of reptile logic deep within his manbrain,
"Die in a fire you stupid cunt."
As he holds the screen back to squint for a final look before posting,
His planet is unfortunately destroyed to make way for a new hyperspace bypass.
Wednesday, October 14, 2015
Destiny drives us all
Destiny
Is it a thing?
A haunted place we inhabited in the in-between
Towards which we now hurtle, heedless of space,
Unconscious of the ripples we fling across the face of the sky, the
Hearts of those around us?
Or is it a mirage,
Borne on a tidal pulse beat, pushed
By adrenaline, our endocrine drives, my
Cell-deep need to create, procreate, thrive, survive?
What calls me, is it the golden-lit island where I am fulfilled, or
Just the siren drawing me off the cliff hills?
If this magnet drawing me will not be denied, if
I am allowed no peace from ambition, no respite from pride,
Then I ask only to rest here,
Out of the water, on the
Quiet shore, where I am not fraught,
Nor sought evermore.
Is it a thing?
A haunted place we inhabited in the in-between
Towards which we now hurtle, heedless of space,
Unconscious of the ripples we fling across the face of the sky, the
Hearts of those around us?
Or is it a mirage,
Borne on a tidal pulse beat, pushed
By adrenaline, our endocrine drives, my
Cell-deep need to create, procreate, thrive, survive?
What calls me, is it the golden-lit island where I am fulfilled, or
Just the siren drawing me off the cliff hills?
If this magnet drawing me will not be denied, if
I am allowed no peace from ambition, no respite from pride,
Then I ask only to rest here,
Out of the water, on the
Quiet shore, where I am not fraught,
Nor sought evermore.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Oscar
In my deep place I birthed a dragon.
It wasn't real of course,
But it flew with terrible grace
Blew fire that burned the clutter away
Showed the secret door forward.
Through the door but slowly,
Sadly waving farewell, not
Knowing who my next guardian would be.
In the meadow I found a horse,
Sparks from her hooves,
Mane whipping in the harsh wind, and
On her back I rode and rode.
She crossed a desert with me, nearly,
Dying a day's walk from its edge.
I mourned.
Alone I walked from the desert, dry,
Calm, quiet, at peace.
At the edge of the city I found a
Mewling cat, demanding worship.
In his eyes, the desert remained.
In the market, in the bustle, I
Nestle into his fur and I
Still can find peace.
It wasn't real of course,
But it flew with terrible grace
Blew fire that burned the clutter away
Showed the secret door forward.
Through the door but slowly,
Sadly waving farewell, not
Knowing who my next guardian would be.
In the meadow I found a horse,
Sparks from her hooves,
Mane whipping in the harsh wind, and
On her back I rode and rode.
She crossed a desert with me, nearly,
Dying a day's walk from its edge.
I mourned.
Alone I walked from the desert, dry,
Calm, quiet, at peace.
At the edge of the city I found a
Mewling cat, demanding worship.
In his eyes, the desert remained.
In the market, in the bustle, I
Nestle into his fur and I
Still can find peace.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
oh canada
I will never be warm
Block-hard feet in black boots
Mittened hands clutching my Otterbox as if
It could deliver me from this
Snow
As if I could tweet myself away.
Creeping down, soft,
Innocuous, looking like Christmas,
Like childhood, like a white blanket.
Like a landslide that looks like clouds in the distance.
Smothering trees,
Lawns, roads, cars,
Steps, hats, upward gazing churches.
Smothering hope of spring
Hope of light, gasps for help.
Smothering.
I close my eyes, imagine
A beach, the crystal blue Dominican sea,
The sharp explosion of a beach grape on my tongue,
Sand and sunburn and coconut.
Imagine Balinese breezes,
Loose cotton pants, big hats,
Grass thatch.
But my feet are clay, frozen to this place and
I hate snow.
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Southern Cross
It's the imperfections that make it art.
That moment in Southern Cross where Stills' voice cracks
breaks my heart wide open to the salt sea
every time
every time
The messy people, the odd ones, the ones who don't fit
The stripper feminists, the androgynous ones pining for princess treatment
The ones who bluster and cuss and make uncomfortable spaces more
uncomfortable
80 feet of waterline.
read riot, blast on, trample your fucking etiquette
this is the stuff of life
nicely making way.
Punks and Stephen Stills
Feminists and arrogant men
Black hearts and bleeding hearts
I have been around the world
but I haven't, I haven't, I have been safe, here,
in the invisible buffers of everyday life, contained.
I may not get to the Marquesas but I can
be the mad one, love the differences, embrace the unusual
I can fall out of your polite society, push out, punch my way out,
I can rave with the ravers, rant with the newfoundlanders,
Spirits are using me
These things make life bearable.
That moment in Southern Cross where Stills' voice cracks
breaks my heart wide open to the salt sea
every time
every time
The messy people, the odd ones, the ones who don't fit
The stripper feminists, the androgynous ones pining for princess treatment
The ones who bluster and cuss and make uncomfortable spaces more
uncomfortable
80 feet of waterline.
read riot, blast on, trample your fucking etiquette
this is the stuff of life
nicely making way.
Punks and Stephen Stills
Feminists and arrogant men
Black hearts and bleeding hearts
I have been around the world
but I haven't, I haven't, I have been safe, here,
in the invisible buffers of everyday life, contained.
I may not get to the Marquesas but I can
be the mad one, love the differences, embrace the unusual
I can fall out of your polite society, push out, punch my way out,
I can rave with the ravers, rant with the newfoundlanders,
Spirits are using me
These things make life bearable.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Storm riders
"Out here we is stoned, immaculate."
Jim Morrison carves an altar out of a grey Sunday and I
am flooded
by colour making my fingers itch, words
piling into stalagmites
pushing for release
Lizard king, slither out now, I
can't focus in the deluge. My
eyes ache for wool's soft tug, I crave
Pattern and rhyme, need to hear
A mosaic of line and shade.
Spattered and bruised and ragged,
Not immaculate,
Not stoned. I need a funnel, a filter, a
Priority system.
When this gladiator war is complete, I will lapse into
re reading cookbooks and knitting books
Lamenting my spare time.
Jim Morrison carves an altar out of a grey Sunday and I
am flooded
by colour making my fingers itch, words
piling into stalagmites
pushing for release
Lizard king, slither out now, I
can't focus in the deluge. My
eyes ache for wool's soft tug, I crave
Pattern and rhyme, need to hear
A mosaic of line and shade.
Spattered and bruised and ragged,
Not immaculate,
Not stoned. I need a funnel, a filter, a
Priority system.
When this gladiator war is complete, I will lapse into
re reading cookbooks and knitting books
Lamenting my spare time.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Monday haze
I know to escape the labyrinth I must turn always to the right, but
A bright flash of red turns me left,
The smell of coffee, the crunch of gravel, a tumbling shapeless mass of green fuzz,
Light jazz, loud punk, taste of sugar-caramel, taste of garlic, taste of bitter melon,
Soft shag carpet, sharp rocky path, cliff over a vast ocean...
Where
is my
right turn again?
A bright flash of red turns me left,
The smell of coffee, the crunch of gravel, a tumbling shapeless mass of green fuzz,
Light jazz, loud punk, taste of sugar-caramel, taste of garlic, taste of bitter melon,
Soft shag carpet, sharp rocky path, cliff over a vast ocean...
Where
is my
right turn again?
Saturday, February 1, 2014
Bus Time
Bus Time.
Thoughts tick,
Pen clicks,
Time sticks.
Bus Time.
Bus time:
Phone out.
Cell-shouter,
Smelly pouter.
Bus time.
Bus time.
Co-eds preening,
Disturbed keening,
Cars careening.
Bus time.
Bus Time -
bell rings,
child clings,
drops things.
Bus time.
(It's odd, I know
It should be so, but
Poems help the anger go.)
Thoughts tick,
Pen clicks,
Time sticks.
Bus Time.
Bus time:
Phone out.
Cell-shouter,
Smelly pouter.
Bus time.
Bus time.
Co-eds preening,
Disturbed keening,
Cars careening.
Bus time.
Bus Time -
bell rings,
child clings,
drops things.
Bus time.
(It's odd, I know
It should be so, but
Poems help the anger go.)
time
Most unappreciated gift, spend
pound-foolishly, profligate
on Not To Be Missed TV, witty
word-swords crossed with imagined opponents,
puttering, tidying, erranding for all we are worth,
making ready for when there's
more time.
pound-foolishly, profligate
on Not To Be Missed TV, witty
word-swords crossed with imagined opponents,
puttering, tidying, erranding for all we are worth,
making ready for when there's
more time.
perfect bus teeth
Cancer ads with perfect smiles, banks
Luring with colourful infographics and charts,
Superb, sophisticated and simple typography
Elegantly leering over the frowsy
Grocery-carting lower classes.
The masses with earflap hats, strapped-on toddlers,
Earbuds and ball caps, stolid faces,
Bundled in brown and black and gray.
Stoic under the smug wordplay.
Luring with colourful infographics and charts,
Superb, sophisticated and simple typography
Elegantly leering over the frowsy
Grocery-carting lower classes.
The masses with earflap hats, strapped-on toddlers,
Earbuds and ball caps, stolid faces,
Bundled in brown and black and gray.
Stoic under the smug wordplay.
Feeders
Glutted on the ephemeral morsel of aesthetics.
I crave experience's savoury meat.
Fill my soul with the real
Gorge me with substance
Let me sup on the tangible for
I starve.
I crave experience's savoury meat.
Fill my soul with the real
Gorge me with substance
Let me sup on the tangible for
I starve.
Today I am a hound
Today I am a hound.
Rich beany bitter coffee
Ozone-burnt air computer fan
Toast.
Exhaust, burning dust, warm car
I can't drive if I hang my head out the window.
Sweater rubs strangely on my hackles as
Man in next car leers.
Growl.
Today I am a hound.
Eucalyptus hand cream stops by to sniff out
Last night's drama.
Air conditioning meeting room,
Sweaty meaty hands strikes submissive with Brylcreem.
Howl.
Leashed to my cubicle. Feign work through
Open-eyed nap. Internet. Squirrel!
Released! Car bounds happily home.
Yoga mat wriggle. Smokey incense tickles.
Today I am a hound. Fed. Petted. Rest.
Rich beany bitter coffee
Ozone-burnt air computer fan
Toast.
Exhaust, burning dust, warm car
I can't drive if I hang my head out the window.
Sweater rubs strangely on my hackles as
Man in next car leers.
Growl.
Today I am a hound.
Eucalyptus hand cream stops by to sniff out
Last night's drama.
Air conditioning meeting room,
Sweaty meaty hands strikes submissive with Brylcreem.
Howl.
Leashed to my cubicle. Feign work through
Open-eyed nap. Internet. Squirrel!
Released! Car bounds happily home.
Yoga mat wriggle. Smokey incense tickles.
Today I am a hound. Fed. Petted. Rest.
Opal Dance
It's an opal dance,
A milky flailing of limbs
A rocky place I skip across
Red leaves black the sun but
I burn and whirl.
Velvet slime caresses wrist
This moment is mine.
And you, in your hard garnet orbit,
Drift away through obsidian space
A milky flailing of limbs
A rocky place I skip across
Red leaves black the sun but
I burn and whirl.
Velvet slime caresses wrist
This moment is mine.
And you, in your hard garnet orbit,
Drift away through obsidian space
Savage, or Boredom of a Saturday Afternoon
As my teeth grind, I long to lunge
Rip the throat out of today
Feel its blood warm on my face,
Frenzy in my limbs.
I want to fly, not lazily aloft on breezes,
Beating wings into a downdraft off a
Volcanic cliff, pursuing the darting promise of prey
Diving into the hard air, feathers rippling,
Savage.
I want to man the cannon,
Plunge on smashing waves towards
The placid pleasure craft, smash it,
Splinter the hull and suck the treasure
From its marrow.
I snarl at the sun, enfeebled by lethargy that captures
Only my body.
My spirit broods, paces,
Savage.
Rip the throat out of today
Feel its blood warm on my face,
Frenzy in my limbs.
I want to fly, not lazily aloft on breezes,
Beating wings into a downdraft off a
Volcanic cliff, pursuing the darting promise of prey
Diving into the hard air, feathers rippling,
Savage.
I want to man the cannon,
Plunge on smashing waves towards
The placid pleasure craft, smash it,
Splinter the hull and suck the treasure
From its marrow.
I snarl at the sun, enfeebled by lethargy that captures
Only my body.
My spirit broods, paces,
Savage.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
blue
all the baking and busy and shopping and fierce intense face-down
in cookbooks will not
make this 1982
will not allow me to climb that plane, live on that
wavelength where all the past and present are future are in a line and you know they
are all one, all now, all to come, all in the past.
my poor limited logical brain knows
knows too much
knows too well
knows that I am not 12, that santa is not
poised over mexico
that a magical entry to a new world is not
wrapped in tinsel under my tree
that the six faces that go with this date
this night
are not here
won't be here
today is just a day
a post-solstice step along the way, crawling back toward sunshine.
That too, shall come
This too, shall pass.
in cookbooks will not
make this 1982
will not allow me to climb that plane, live on that
wavelength where all the past and present are future are in a line and you know they
are all one, all now, all to come, all in the past.
my poor limited logical brain knows
knows too much
knows too well
knows that I am not 12, that santa is not
poised over mexico
that a magical entry to a new world is not
wrapped in tinsel under my tree
that the six faces that go with this date
this night
are not here
won't be here
today is just a day
a post-solstice step along the way, crawling back toward sunshine.
That too, shall come
This too, shall pass.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Reunited
The lies they told us
in high school
the lies that divide
That clothes matter
Interests define
That you and I
Could never see
eye to eye.
Labels strip identity,
Make you feel separate from me.
But we are music,
You and I
We fly,
Rhythm and beat,
A blended harmony
We are poetry,
You and I
We sigh,
Meter and sound and
Raw emotion.
Our colours break prismatic
from this black
and white
and grey color bar
Together, we are more than apart.
A whole, complete beating heart.
in high school
the lies that divide
That clothes matter
Interests define
That you and I
Could never see
eye to eye.
Labels strip identity,
Make you feel separate from me.
But we are music,
You and I
We fly,
Rhythm and beat,
A blended harmony
We are poetry,
You and I
We sigh,
Meter and sound and
Raw emotion.
Our colours break prismatic
from this black
and white
and grey color bar
Together, we are more than apart.
A whole, complete beating heart.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Rainy Summer
Writing happy poetry is HARD!
It seems the rain won’t stop
This summer
And I won’t see the buttercups
Reach for the sun
I won’t see
Diamonds on the harbour next to the oil rainbows
I won’t see you
Tanned
But the rain sparkles on your hair
And your eyes are all the warmth I need.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Teal Tennis Shoes for a Great Escape
Brittany wasn't sure how she'd gotten here, but she knew that SHE had not put those shoes on. She was wearing a very cute party dress--where had this come from? She'd remember this dress. Black and sequinned with splashes of colour. Very elegant! Whose dress was this?
Anyway, she would NEVER have chosen to put teal tennis shoes on to complete this outfit. So something funny was going on.
Besides that, she was in a small round room with a very high ceiling. Wait... make that no ceiling. A well? Was she in a well? Maybe something similar, but with no water.
Designer cocktail dress. Tennis shoes. Imprisoned. And... her hand suddenly went to the back of her neck... her hair had been cut.
This was starting to add up to one thing: Timothy.
"JESUS CHRIST TIMOTHY. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?"
Her voice was echoey. She felt alone, but was entirely unfazed to hear a faint "Brittany..?" coming from behind a round wall.
She gritted her teeth.
"Brittany, I think I'm hurt."
"What the hell have you done?"
"I need a glass of water. And one of my pills." So feeble.
"TIMOTHY WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?!!"
She could feel the heat building up in her midsection. She sighed. Might as well use the rage. "TIMOTHY I HATE YOU!" She cocked her fist and smashed it into the wall... and it bounced back, snapping her shoulder uncomfortably.
Rubber stone walls. Nice touch. Fuck fuck fuck.
"Timothy, tell me what happened."
"Brittany," came the whiny reply, "are you mad?"
She felt a molar crack. Deep breath.
"A little, Timothy. I'm trying not to be. Where are we?"
"I don't know. I don't knoooooowwwww. I was just saying you should dress up more and then you blinked out and I thought I'd help by trimming your mullet..."
"I DON'T HAVE A MULLET."
"Well, not NOW you don't, you've got a very chic cut NOW. But it WAS a mull..."
"THE CHASE, TIMOTHY. CUT TO IT."
"I'm GETTING there," he was whiny again. "So I cut your hair, and you were still out. I was SO BORED."
She remembered now, getting called to the university board to defend her thesis. She'd explained to Timothy that the call could come at any time, but she'd astrally projected without actually telling him when she did. Sigh. Her brother was a mental seven year old. He needed constant supervision.
"So then I thought we should go dancing, and so I conjured you a dress--"
"--which is very nice. Lovely, Timothy."
"--but you know you'd always want to wear uncomfortable shoes and then you never DANNNCE, so I asked Bobo what shoes were comfortable and he said tennis shoes, so I got you some..."
Bobo. The house monkey. Of course.
".. and then there was a flash and then we were here and I bumped my head and I'm THIRSTY and I never got to dance at all. Why did you bring us here?"
Hm. Why did SHE bring them there? She was pretty sure she'd had nothing to do with it. However, telling Timothy that would only make him whinier or panicked, and in either case, he would be no help.
"Timothy are you in a room? A round room?"
"Parts of it are. Round the wrong way. Why didn't you take me with you into your room? I don't LIKE being alone."
"I know, bub. I know. I'm going to try to get us out. Do you want to help?"
"If I CAAANNN."
"Let me use your hand. Yes--" she cut off his interruption,"I know it will hurt, but only for a minute, I promise. Okay."
"I guess so." The answer was definitely pouty. She focussed, rubbed her bare neck again, looked at the tennis shoes and let the anger bubble. Then she closed her eyes and felt Timothy's arm. Slid it on like a glove. Pulled back, and... POP. His hand popped through the wall. Single-sided rubber, as she'd suspected.
Anyway, she would NEVER have chosen to put teal tennis shoes on to complete this outfit. So something funny was going on.
Besides that, she was in a small round room with a very high ceiling. Wait... make that no ceiling. A well? Was she in a well? Maybe something similar, but with no water.
Designer cocktail dress. Tennis shoes. Imprisoned. And... her hand suddenly went to the back of her neck... her hair had been cut.
This was starting to add up to one thing: Timothy.
"JESUS CHRIST TIMOTHY. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?"
Her voice was echoey. She felt alone, but was entirely unfazed to hear a faint "Brittany..?" coming from behind a round wall.
She gritted her teeth.
"Brittany, I think I'm hurt."
"What the hell have you done?"
"I need a glass of water. And one of my pills." So feeble.
"TIMOTHY WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?!!"
She could feel the heat building up in her midsection. She sighed. Might as well use the rage. "TIMOTHY I HATE YOU!" She cocked her fist and smashed it into the wall... and it bounced back, snapping her shoulder uncomfortably.
Rubber stone walls. Nice touch. Fuck fuck fuck.
"Timothy, tell me what happened."
"Brittany," came the whiny reply, "are you mad?"
She felt a molar crack. Deep breath.
"A little, Timothy. I'm trying not to be. Where are we?"
"I don't know. I don't knoooooowwwww. I was just saying you should dress up more and then you blinked out and I thought I'd help by trimming your mullet..."
"I DON'T HAVE A MULLET."
"Well, not NOW you don't, you've got a very chic cut NOW. But it WAS a mull..."
"THE CHASE, TIMOTHY. CUT TO IT."
"I'm GETTING there," he was whiny again. "So I cut your hair, and you were still out. I was SO BORED."
She remembered now, getting called to the university board to defend her thesis. She'd explained to Timothy that the call could come at any time, but she'd astrally projected without actually telling him when she did. Sigh. Her brother was a mental seven year old. He needed constant supervision.
"So then I thought we should go dancing, and so I conjured you a dress--"
"--which is very nice. Lovely, Timothy."
"--but you know you'd always want to wear uncomfortable shoes and then you never DANNNCE, so I asked Bobo what shoes were comfortable and he said tennis shoes, so I got you some..."
Bobo. The house monkey. Of course.
".. and then there was a flash and then we were here and I bumped my head and I'm THIRSTY and I never got to dance at all. Why did you bring us here?"
Hm. Why did SHE bring them there? She was pretty sure she'd had nothing to do with it. However, telling Timothy that would only make him whinier or panicked, and in either case, he would be no help.
"Timothy are you in a room? A round room?"
"Parts of it are. Round the wrong way. Why didn't you take me with you into your room? I don't LIKE being alone."
"I know, bub. I know. I'm going to try to get us out. Do you want to help?"
"If I CAAANNN."
"Let me use your hand. Yes--" she cut off his interruption,"I know it will hurt, but only for a minute, I promise. Okay."
"I guess so." The answer was definitely pouty. She focussed, rubbed her bare neck again, looked at the tennis shoes and let the anger bubble. Then she closed her eyes and felt Timothy's arm. Slid it on like a glove. Pulled back, and... POP. His hand popped through the wall. Single-sided rubber, as she'd suspected.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Squirrel!
It started with the old "watched pot" saying. Jonah had been driving her nuts for days using the expression, so at supper, she stood inches from the peas, intensely staring until -- just before the bubbles burst the surface of the water, the phone by her head rang sharply.
Gasping, she leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding knocking the pot to the floor and onto her feet. As she turned to grab the phone, the pot boiled.
Damn you, Jonah.
So naturally, she snapped as she answered the phone, "Yes? What?"
And equally naturally, it was Jonah's mother who frostily asked to speak with her son. Karen didn't even bother to try and explain. She just rounded the corner into the living room and dropped the phone into his lap. He was watching a squirrel documentary, so he put his mother on speaker phone. To Jonah, this was sensible.
Rolling her eyes, Karen stepped back into the kitchen to remove the rapidly boiling peas from the heat and take the chicken out of the oven. She could hear Jonah's mother indignantly demanding why he stayed with such a harridan.
Who uses the word harridan?
On the television, the narrator spoke soothingly and indulgently about the bad habits of squirrels. He called them "peccadilloes."
***
A power outage knocked out the power overnight and so, not only was Karen late waking up, but the coffee pot wasn't on. She lifted the kettle and then slammed it back down again. Might as well make lemonade from the mess: she'd treat herself to take-out coffee on the way to work.
Naturally, the drive-thru was backed up to the street, since everyone else on the block had the same thought. Finally, Karen coasted to the window. As she retrieved her coffee and slid a toonie at the server, she saw a swift movement out of the corner of her eye. She blinked and dropped the toonie beside the car. Cursing, she put the vehicle in park and opened the door to grab it. As she reached up and dropped the money on the counter, her eyes focused on the dark corner of the window above the cash register. She saw the sharp bright eyes of a squirrel looking back.
She blinked again. Closed her door. Shifted out of park and drove away. There were no squirrels in coffee shops, for the love of god.
****
At the office, she spilled the last half of her coffee on the notes she'd just printed for the CEO's speech. Mutter mutter. Mopped it up and hit print again. The photocopier was on the fritz more than it was working, but seemed to be doing okay today, although it was making weird chattering noises.
After dropping the speech on Mr. Panzer's desk, Karen swung by the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Clicked on the kettle. Stared. Nothing. After five minutes, Linda came into the kitchen. Looked at her oddly. Plugged in the kettle and left.
Sighing, Karen trailed back to her office. Stupid bloody pots. Stupid watching. Bloody squirrels. She looked out her window across the parking lot. There was a tidy pile of 4 or 5 pinecones on her car.
****
On the way home, Karen stopped at the mall to pick up eggs and chocolate chips to make cookies. Leaving, she passed a small cardboard box. "FREE KITTYS" was written on the side of it, and two mewling scraps of felinity were inside. She barely glanced down.
At home, she assembled the cookies, then as they were cooling, remembered her good cookie tins were still in the spare bedroom closet. She yelled, "JONAH". No answer. As if from a distant universe, she heard the shrill PSHING PSHING of laser fire. She sighed. Well, when the marshall of the house was in the basement fighting space crimes, a gal had to do stuff for herself. For the greater good.
She pulled herself up the dark stairs and flicked on the spare bedroom light. Only one 20 watt bulb was in the overhead fixture. She remembered swapping it now with her sewing room task lamp bulb. Hmph. Oh well. In the dusky room, she opened the closet, and a small chittering satellite sprang from an inner orbit to glance off her left shoulder and run straight up the canopy on the bed.
Karen, shocked, sat down hard on the floor. "WHAT's GOING ON?" she heard distantly from downstairs. She looked up. The squirrel stared down at her balefully.
***
Back at the mall, the box was still there. She grabbed the ginger cat, and then decided to take the tabby too, for good measure.
The phone was ringing when she came in. She glanced at it. Jonah's mother. In the distance, the ek-ek of interstellar machine guns sounded. She put down a dish of milk, released the wee kittens to roam and explore, and turned on a pot of water. Stood up, pulled the phone cord from the wall and sat back down, bringing a recipe book.
"Wild game," said the book. "You can fry, fricasee, broil, roast or even boil squirrels."
Karen smiled.
Gasping, she leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding knocking the pot to the floor and onto her feet. As she turned to grab the phone, the pot boiled.
Damn you, Jonah.
So naturally, she snapped as she answered the phone, "Yes? What?"
And equally naturally, it was Jonah's mother who frostily asked to speak with her son. Karen didn't even bother to try and explain. She just rounded the corner into the living room and dropped the phone into his lap. He was watching a squirrel documentary, so he put his mother on speaker phone. To Jonah, this was sensible.
Rolling her eyes, Karen stepped back into the kitchen to remove the rapidly boiling peas from the heat and take the chicken out of the oven. She could hear Jonah's mother indignantly demanding why he stayed with such a harridan.
Who uses the word harridan?
On the television, the narrator spoke soothingly and indulgently about the bad habits of squirrels. He called them "peccadilloes."
***
A power outage knocked out the power overnight and so, not only was Karen late waking up, but the coffee pot wasn't on. She lifted the kettle and then slammed it back down again. Might as well make lemonade from the mess: she'd treat herself to take-out coffee on the way to work.
Naturally, the drive-thru was backed up to the street, since everyone else on the block had the same thought. Finally, Karen coasted to the window. As she retrieved her coffee and slid a toonie at the server, she saw a swift movement out of the corner of her eye. She blinked and dropped the toonie beside the car. Cursing, she put the vehicle in park and opened the door to grab it. As she reached up and dropped the money on the counter, her eyes focused on the dark corner of the window above the cash register. She saw the sharp bright eyes of a squirrel looking back.
She blinked again. Closed her door. Shifted out of park and drove away. There were no squirrels in coffee shops, for the love of god.
****
At the office, she spilled the last half of her coffee on the notes she'd just printed for the CEO's speech. Mutter mutter. Mopped it up and hit print again. The photocopier was on the fritz more than it was working, but seemed to be doing okay today, although it was making weird chattering noises.
After dropping the speech on Mr. Panzer's desk, Karen swung by the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Clicked on the kettle. Stared. Nothing. After five minutes, Linda came into the kitchen. Looked at her oddly. Plugged in the kettle and left.
Sighing, Karen trailed back to her office. Stupid bloody pots. Stupid watching. Bloody squirrels. She looked out her window across the parking lot. There was a tidy pile of 4 or 5 pinecones on her car.
****
On the way home, Karen stopped at the mall to pick up eggs and chocolate chips to make cookies. Leaving, she passed a small cardboard box. "FREE KITTYS" was written on the side of it, and two mewling scraps of felinity were inside. She barely glanced down.
At home, she assembled the cookies, then as they were cooling, remembered her good cookie tins were still in the spare bedroom closet. She yelled, "JONAH". No answer. As if from a distant universe, she heard the shrill PSHING PSHING of laser fire. She sighed. Well, when the marshall of the house was in the basement fighting space crimes, a gal had to do stuff for herself. For the greater good.
She pulled herself up the dark stairs and flicked on the spare bedroom light. Only one 20 watt bulb was in the overhead fixture. She remembered swapping it now with her sewing room task lamp bulb. Hmph. Oh well. In the dusky room, she opened the closet, and a small chittering satellite sprang from an inner orbit to glance off her left shoulder and run straight up the canopy on the bed.
Karen, shocked, sat down hard on the floor. "WHAT's GOING ON?" she heard distantly from downstairs. She looked up. The squirrel stared down at her balefully.
***
Back at the mall, the box was still there. She grabbed the ginger cat, and then decided to take the tabby too, for good measure.
The phone was ringing when she came in. She glanced at it. Jonah's mother. In the distance, the ek-ek of interstellar machine guns sounded. She put down a dish of milk, released the wee kittens to roam and explore, and turned on a pot of water. Stood up, pulled the phone cord from the wall and sat back down, bringing a recipe book.
"Wild game," said the book. "You can fry, fricasee, broil, roast or even boil squirrels."
Karen smiled.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Jinxed
Taxi Driver could not be the same film with a female protagonist. A woman scarred by trauma and unable to connect with people won't turn to ammunition. She won't shave her head. She may seek out needy people to rescue, but these will be men who will absorb and deflect her need to be needed. She may experience a few rejections, but often she'll find a man willing to be her object. He will soak up and manipulate her attentions to make himself feel better, eventually discarding her, but not as a ticking time bomb. She will be a husk, an empty vessel. Not enough self left to produce a psychotic break.
I writing this, and the wander to the sink. I have a razorblade in my hand. Last week, I had the word "Sorry" tattooed across my chest. The tattoo artist paused with a short look of concern, but I look haggard, mean, hard. I am not a middle-class woman having a mid-life crisis. He shrugged and carefully applied the tattoo. Sorry.
I use the razorblade to carefully trim away the dark hairs on my upper lin.
I closely examine my face. Find a few blackheads on my chin, and lose myself in squeezing them, pushing out the dirt and pus, making the pore empty and clean. In five minutes my chin is red, inflamed, with a few spots of blood, but purified. I squint at my eyebrows. A memory pushes forward, Tom's hand on my cheek, his thumb tracing the line between my eyes, smoothing it upwards, like I am a cat. His pussy.
I reach for the tweezers, plucking the stray hairs from between my brows, the hairs growing under my browline, as if ignorant of the fact that this is not their place. Stupid hairs. Squint again at my chin. Whiskers. Those hard hairs, the bristly ones, the hairs that say I'm over forty. Pluck them too.
I open my shirt, check my nipples for stray hairs. Pluck them too. Someone inserts a rogue slide into my mental presentation: Amber's perfect rounded cleavage. I take the razorblade, underline the Sorry.
Trance-like. I idly apply the razor to my hair. I shave a patch around my right ear. It's harder than I imagined. Not much wonder deNiro's mohawk wasn't straight.
I fill the tub with water, hot hot water. Put in a capful of bleach, and a bath bomb one of Tom's cousins had given me two Christmases ago. Remember the overheard kitchen conversation: God, I never know what to get her. I know, right? She's so.... weird. I got bath bombs from Liquidation World. Some for the kid's teachers, some for the lady who does our cleaning, and one for her. What else are you gonna give her? Right?
I put the razorblade in reach, pour a glass of wine. Cheap red, tastes like cardboard and vinegar. Whatever. I slide into the tub. Now? No, not yet. Sip the wine. The wine & hot water are relaxing. Masturbate one last time first. My hand cups my right breast. Imagine a man behind me. Not Tom. Someone with a big dick and a hard need. My eyes close. I knead, pinch the nipple, press my thighs together tightly. I feel the blood pounding in my clit. Soaped, I glide my hand over my belly, down to my thighs, fingers in position, dip between my legs.
I watched Transsiberian last night. Now I imagine sex on a train, in one of those tight bunks. So public. So naughty. I rub around my clit, moaning, feeling everything becoming lubricated. Sip more wine. Imagine for a moment that it's Amber's cunt. That appeals to my humour. What if Amber left Tom for another woman? Yeah, fuck, feel that bitch? Feels good, doesn't it? I moan more, picture her big round titties floating in the water. The man I imagined into being is still behind me. Likes seeing me fingering Amber. His dick is rubbing against my ass. I feel my orgasm bearing down on me, bursting out like sunlight from the clouds. I ride the waves for nearly 30 seconds. Lay still, panting. Eyes closed. Maybe I can drown.
Open my eyes to see a wee pair of paws on the tub side. A little pink nose and two green eyes. A loud MREOWR. Jinx wants to be part of everything. Or maybe she's just hungry. I sigh. Look again at the razorblade.
Travis Binkle should have bought a cat. I wonder if I can find the screenwriter's email address and send him this message. I rise from the tub and wipe the blood from my chest. Go find polysporin. Pour another half-glass of wine. And then wait.
I writing this, and the wander to the sink. I have a razorblade in my hand. Last week, I had the word "Sorry" tattooed across my chest. The tattoo artist paused with a short look of concern, but I look haggard, mean, hard. I am not a middle-class woman having a mid-life crisis. He shrugged and carefully applied the tattoo. Sorry.
I use the razorblade to carefully trim away the dark hairs on my upper lin.
I closely examine my face. Find a few blackheads on my chin, and lose myself in squeezing them, pushing out the dirt and pus, making the pore empty and clean. In five minutes my chin is red, inflamed, with a few spots of blood, but purified. I squint at my eyebrows. A memory pushes forward, Tom's hand on my cheek, his thumb tracing the line between my eyes, smoothing it upwards, like I am a cat. His pussy.
I reach for the tweezers, plucking the stray hairs from between my brows, the hairs growing under my browline, as if ignorant of the fact that this is not their place. Stupid hairs. Squint again at my chin. Whiskers. Those hard hairs, the bristly ones, the hairs that say I'm over forty. Pluck them too.
I open my shirt, check my nipples for stray hairs. Pluck them too. Someone inserts a rogue slide into my mental presentation: Amber's perfect rounded cleavage. I take the razorblade, underline the Sorry.
Trance-like. I idly apply the razor to my hair. I shave a patch around my right ear. It's harder than I imagined. Not much wonder deNiro's mohawk wasn't straight.
I fill the tub with water, hot hot water. Put in a capful of bleach, and a bath bomb one of Tom's cousins had given me two Christmases ago. Remember the overheard kitchen conversation: God, I never know what to get her. I know, right? She's so.... weird. I got bath bombs from Liquidation World. Some for the kid's teachers, some for the lady who does our cleaning, and one for her. What else are you gonna give her? Right?
I put the razorblade in reach, pour a glass of wine. Cheap red, tastes like cardboard and vinegar. Whatever. I slide into the tub. Now? No, not yet. Sip the wine. The wine & hot water are relaxing. Masturbate one last time first. My hand cups my right breast. Imagine a man behind me. Not Tom. Someone with a big dick and a hard need. My eyes close. I knead, pinch the nipple, press my thighs together tightly. I feel the blood pounding in my clit. Soaped, I glide my hand over my belly, down to my thighs, fingers in position, dip between my legs.
I watched Transsiberian last night. Now I imagine sex on a train, in one of those tight bunks. So public. So naughty. I rub around my clit, moaning, feeling everything becoming lubricated. Sip more wine. Imagine for a moment that it's Amber's cunt. That appeals to my humour. What if Amber left Tom for another woman? Yeah, fuck, feel that bitch? Feels good, doesn't it? I moan more, picture her big round titties floating in the water. The man I imagined into being is still behind me. Likes seeing me fingering Amber. His dick is rubbing against my ass. I feel my orgasm bearing down on me, bursting out like sunlight from the clouds. I ride the waves for nearly 30 seconds. Lay still, panting. Eyes closed. Maybe I can drown.
Open my eyes to see a wee pair of paws on the tub side. A little pink nose and two green eyes. A loud MREOWR. Jinx wants to be part of everything. Or maybe she's just hungry. I sigh. Look again at the razorblade.
Travis Binkle should have bought a cat. I wonder if I can find the screenwriter's email address and send him this message. I rise from the tub and wipe the blood from my chest. Go find polysporin. Pour another half-glass of wine. And then wait.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
Homeward
In the light of the half moon the forest had crisp edges. Everything seemed more real, more three dimensional than it had in the flat light of midday.
Helena drew in a quiet breath, let her toes explore the roots under her feet. The thin pliant leather of her forest boots were designed for this, quiet movement. She crept forward, so smooth and silent that a mouse blinked sleepily at her and didn't even twitch his whiskers when she stepped over him.
The silence was key for at least fifty more yards. In the trees around she could hear the small coos and rustles that signalled the filbains were sleeping yet. If one of these spy system birds awoke and began calling, all would be lost. She'd be back at the school, locked away for five more years, wasting time on religious studies while at home, her family fought and were slaughtered.
No more.
Twenty five more yards. The clearing was ahead, and then the wall, and then freedom where she could run like the wind, reclaim her bow and sword, and fly home.
The clearing was the most dangerous part. Here she could not melt into the shadows, and the ground was seeded with concussive devices. She could be an hour getting past and she must not be seen. Must not make a false move.
Before heading to the clearing, she paused to drink from her canteen, eat a piece of lamb jerky and prepare herself.
The clearing. Over the wall. Home.
Helena drew in a quiet breath, let her toes explore the roots under her feet. The thin pliant leather of her forest boots were designed for this, quiet movement. She crept forward, so smooth and silent that a mouse blinked sleepily at her and didn't even twitch his whiskers when she stepped over him.
The silence was key for at least fifty more yards. In the trees around she could hear the small coos and rustles that signalled the filbains were sleeping yet. If one of these spy system birds awoke and began calling, all would be lost. She'd be back at the school, locked away for five more years, wasting time on religious studies while at home, her family fought and were slaughtered.
No more.
Twenty five more yards. The clearing was ahead, and then the wall, and then freedom where she could run like the wind, reclaim her bow and sword, and fly home.
The clearing was the most dangerous part. Here she could not melt into the shadows, and the ground was seeded with concussive devices. She could be an hour getting past and she must not be seen. Must not make a false move.
Before heading to the clearing, she paused to drink from her canteen, eat a piece of lamb jerky and prepare herself.
The clearing. Over the wall. Home.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
One Eye Blind
My eyes do this weird thing sometimes when I wake in the night. One eye won't dilate. Or is it undilate? Whatever, one eye won't adjust to the lack of light. So sometimes when I wake up, one eye is blind and I lay in bed, panicking and listening to every small sound.
Tonight I don't know what woke me, but my heart's a pounding triphammer. I'm not exactly scared, but I'm the opposite of calm. The heater is pinging as the cold shakes it to life. It's early November, so the weather has only just gotten cold enough to warrant turning on the thermostat. Usually I turn it down before bed, but tonight I forgot.
Ping. Creak.
My blind eye won't allow in even the moonlight streaming onto my bed from the crack in the curtains. The moon is nearly full, and my right eye tells me it's almost like daylight, or at least one-hour-after-dawn light. My lazy left eye says, there's nothing there. Go back to sleep.
Tap. T-t-tap.
It sounds like something at the window, making my heart leap alarmingly. Don't be ridiculous. It's just my stupid eye making me jittery. There's nothing there.
I force my breathing to still: plug left nostril, deep breath in right side. Plug both. Hold. Unplug left, exhale. Repeat. Repeat.
Then I deliberately make myself get up. Go to the window. Stop at the thermostat to turn it down. Peek through the curtains. A flutter in the air catches my eye. Looks like a plastic bag but it's black. A bat? I close my lazy eye to focus. Hard to focus. It really looks like cloth, but the air is almost hazy. Seems to be flying away from the window. Blowing. Blowing away from the window. That's no animal... I don't think. I stare at it, fascinated by its undulating movements. It looks like a dance.
I want more than anything to fly out this window.
I have a sudden feeling of utter desolation. I can't fly. Why is that so tragic right now? I couldn't fly this morning, and it didn't occur to me to be heartbroken then. Part of my brain is suspended, watching my emotional centre react to some unnoticed stimuli. I want to cry. The black fluttering object is nearly out of sight. I raise my hand toward it, and the window is cold as a December flagpole.
As I turn to go back to bed, I allow my blind eye to re-open, and miraculously, this time it recovers. Focuses. Zeroes in on a handprint on the window. A small handprint. On the outside of the window.
This really only registers in the distant reaches of my mind as I crawl back into bed, overcome with sleep once more.
Tonight I don't know what woke me, but my heart's a pounding triphammer. I'm not exactly scared, but I'm the opposite of calm. The heater is pinging as the cold shakes it to life. It's early November, so the weather has only just gotten cold enough to warrant turning on the thermostat. Usually I turn it down before bed, but tonight I forgot.
Ping. Creak.
My blind eye won't allow in even the moonlight streaming onto my bed from the crack in the curtains. The moon is nearly full, and my right eye tells me it's almost like daylight, or at least one-hour-after-dawn light. My lazy left eye says, there's nothing there. Go back to sleep.
Tap. T-t-tap.
It sounds like something at the window, making my heart leap alarmingly. Don't be ridiculous. It's just my stupid eye making me jittery. There's nothing there.
I force my breathing to still: plug left nostril, deep breath in right side. Plug both. Hold. Unplug left, exhale. Repeat. Repeat.
Then I deliberately make myself get up. Go to the window. Stop at the thermostat to turn it down. Peek through the curtains. A flutter in the air catches my eye. Looks like a plastic bag but it's black. A bat? I close my lazy eye to focus. Hard to focus. It really looks like cloth, but the air is almost hazy. Seems to be flying away from the window. Blowing. Blowing away from the window. That's no animal... I don't think. I stare at it, fascinated by its undulating movements. It looks like a dance.
I want more than anything to fly out this window.
I have a sudden feeling of utter desolation. I can't fly. Why is that so tragic right now? I couldn't fly this morning, and it didn't occur to me to be heartbroken then. Part of my brain is suspended, watching my emotional centre react to some unnoticed stimuli. I want to cry. The black fluttering object is nearly out of sight. I raise my hand toward it, and the window is cold as a December flagpole.
As I turn to go back to bed, I allow my blind eye to re-open, and miraculously, this time it recovers. Focuses. Zeroes in on a handprint on the window. A small handprint. On the outside of the window.
This really only registers in the distant reaches of my mind as I crawl back into bed, overcome with sleep once more.
Monday, November 5, 2012
Blueberry Hill
It was a bright afternoon. The warm gold of the sun settled on the hills like a wool blanket. Arial plopped down with her bucket next to a particularly full mound of blueberries. One handful for pies... one for the mouth.
She had been on Blueberry Hill for a few hours now, poking along, picking berries, snacking, looking for snakes and mice. The hill was called Warrensfield to everyone else, but Arial just called it Blueberry Hill because that's where the blueberries grew. It was ten minutes from the dead end of her street to be up the hill and over the first hummock so that the town was out of sight.
She loved it here, had felt draw to the hill as soon as her family had moved to Prosper. She was only seven, but the town was small and isolated and in 1977, no one questioned a seven year old roaming the hills alone.
Today her mom had let her watch the end of Scooby Doo, then had handed her the big Crisco pail and sent her to get enough berries for a couple of pies.
She heard a whiffling behind her and lazily reached back. "C'mere Goldie. Good girl. Don't you go scarin' them snakes now. I want to see a snake."
Arial often talked to her dog. There weren't many kids in Prosper, and cartoons had taught her that dogs were great friends, and good at solving mysteries.
"Goldie, let's pretend. That hill there is going to start having trees appear on it. They'll be big walkin', talkin' trees, like on the wizard movie. And there will be naiads. Or are the tree ones dryads?"
She frowned but Goldie didn't answer, so she went on. "Dryads I think. Dryads among the trees, and nymphs. And those goat-feet guys."
She paused and cocked her head to one side.
"Goldie, didjoo hear that? Somebody said my name."
Goldie looked at her quizzically. Arial popped another two handfuls of berries into the bucket and jumped to her feet.
"I DID heared that. I'm gonna go see. C'mon Goldie."
She headed back up the hill, cresting it and going down the far side, out of sight of even the tall water tower. Far down the hill, there was a dark line, near the horizon. There WERE trees.
"I never walked this far before, Goldie, but I think I still hear my name. Do you?"
Goldie barked once.
Arial closed her eyes to concentrate. There were a few lazy flies buzzing around her, and a fat bumblebee whose bum was twitching as he focussed on his flower. Far off in the distance, she again heard, "a r i a l."
As she moved forward she felt as though the heat was making the air shimmer. Through the shimmer, it looked like the distant horizon was twitching. Like the trees from her fantasy were indeed marching.
"'S'funny, Goldie, lookit the trees! I think it's elves calling me!" She forgot that dryads had been her earlier pronouncement, because through the heat shimmers she thought she saw short figures, frolicking on the field, between her and the dark moving line of trees.
Goldie began a low growl.
Arial continued to walk forward, feeling caught in a trance. Goldie caught hold of her tshirt and pulled. Goldie was a mutt, and not a big one, but Arial was a fairly small child. The unexpected resistance caused her to lose her footing and drop the Crisco bucket.
Her head snapped down to see her berries rolling away.
"GOOOOLLLLDDIIIIEEE!! NOOOOO!" The horizon forgotten, she scrambled to collect as many of the berries as she could rescue and then turned and chased the gambolling dog back over the hill.
Ignored, in the distance, a low sound carried on the breeze... "a r i a l..."
She had been on Blueberry Hill for a few hours now, poking along, picking berries, snacking, looking for snakes and mice. The hill was called Warrensfield to everyone else, but Arial just called it Blueberry Hill because that's where the blueberries grew. It was ten minutes from the dead end of her street to be up the hill and over the first hummock so that the town was out of sight.
She loved it here, had felt draw to the hill as soon as her family had moved to Prosper. She was only seven, but the town was small and isolated and in 1977, no one questioned a seven year old roaming the hills alone.
Today her mom had let her watch the end of Scooby Doo, then had handed her the big Crisco pail and sent her to get enough berries for a couple of pies.
She heard a whiffling behind her and lazily reached back. "C'mere Goldie. Good girl. Don't you go scarin' them snakes now. I want to see a snake."
Arial often talked to her dog. There weren't many kids in Prosper, and cartoons had taught her that dogs were great friends, and good at solving mysteries.
"Goldie, let's pretend. That hill there is going to start having trees appear on it. They'll be big walkin', talkin' trees, like on the wizard movie. And there will be naiads. Or are the tree ones dryads?"
She frowned but Goldie didn't answer, so she went on. "Dryads I think. Dryads among the trees, and nymphs. And those goat-feet guys."
She paused and cocked her head to one side.
"Goldie, didjoo hear that? Somebody said my name."
Goldie looked at her quizzically. Arial popped another two handfuls of berries into the bucket and jumped to her feet.
"I DID heared that. I'm gonna go see. C'mon Goldie."
She headed back up the hill, cresting it and going down the far side, out of sight of even the tall water tower. Far down the hill, there was a dark line, near the horizon. There WERE trees.
"I never walked this far before, Goldie, but I think I still hear my name. Do you?"
Goldie barked once.
Arial closed her eyes to concentrate. There were a few lazy flies buzzing around her, and a fat bumblebee whose bum was twitching as he focussed on his flower. Far off in the distance, she again heard, "a r i a l."
As she moved forward she felt as though the heat was making the air shimmer. Through the shimmer, it looked like the distant horizon was twitching. Like the trees from her fantasy were indeed marching.
"'S'funny, Goldie, lookit the trees! I think it's elves calling me!" She forgot that dryads had been her earlier pronouncement, because through the heat shimmers she thought she saw short figures, frolicking on the field, between her and the dark moving line of trees.
Goldie began a low growl.
Arial continued to walk forward, feeling caught in a trance. Goldie caught hold of her tshirt and pulled. Goldie was a mutt, and not a big one, but Arial was a fairly small child. The unexpected resistance caused her to lose her footing and drop the Crisco bucket.
Her head snapped down to see her berries rolling away.
"GOOOOLLLLDDIIIIEEE!! NOOOOO!" The horizon forgotten, she scrambled to collect as many of the berries as she could rescue and then turned and chased the gambolling dog back over the hill.
Ignored, in the distance, a low sound carried on the breeze... "a r i a l..."
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Stay in the Now
"Stay in the now, dear."
Annoyed she had paid a palm-reader (what was she thinking?) only to receive magazine advice, Liz nonetheless found the words resonating.
She had a habit of getting up and spending her first half hour (after stretches, lunges and crunches of course) making to-do lists for the day ahead. This was Saturday, so her lists should also include the upcoming week's menu and a shopping list.
Today she found herself drawn to the balcony. A little brown bird with shiny eyes landed on the railing as she stood outside. Was it a nuthatch? Sparrow? She'd have to look it up. They eyed each other for almost five minutes. Liz was captivated by the bird's quick, intelligent movements, his tidy economical, hops on the rail, and the way his feathers (her feathers?) fluffed out over his feet to warm them.
Warm them. She realized she had grown chilly, and moved inside. The bird paused a moment longer and then flew away.
Wandering to the kitchen, Liz filled the kettle and placed it on the stove, and rummaged in her cupboard for a tea bag. She was a coffee person. It was a rare day when she made tea, usually only when one of her board sub-committees was meeting here.
Lemon Zinger? Cinnamon Toadie? Zen Stretch Green? WHERE did all these teas come from?
She knew, of course, that every few months she would be inspired by some article about a new cleanse or detoxifying diet, and run out and buy a new mystical tea to gather dust in the cupboard.
Ah, finally! King Cole. The kettle whistled and she poured the bubbling water over the teabag, admiring the way the red-brown colour slowly rose like fog off the harbour. She poured in a bit of milk, again admired the swirling pattern. Chemistry in action. Poetry.
The phone rang as she was completing her menu. This morning she had decided to pull out some of her seldom-used recipe books, and try a few new dishes this week. The recipe books were hiding the phone.
"Liz! I knew you'd be up. Betcha already have a spreadsheet open."
Liz eyed her teacup and doodled-upon menu. Doodles!
"Not quite yet.What are YOU doing out of bed, sister?"
Even Mabel's laugh sounded honey-golden. "I am feeling domestic. I'm making a big turkey supper for Jack and his band, I thought I'd see if you might perhaps like to join us."
Habit forced a 'no' to her lips, but she bit it off, glancing at her short 'to-do' list for the day: "Gym. Groceries. Work on budget."
"You know what? Yeah. That'd be fun. Oh, but my car's still in the shop... hm... do the commuter trains run on Saturday? Hold on...," she was already fumbling with her smart phone.
"Don't even bother, Peter's coming and he's right down your street. He can drive you."
***
WHY. Why hadn't she asked Mabel what Peter, the bass player for the AlmondDeadlies, would be driving? She eyed the bike.
"Here's my spare helmet, it should fit okay. You're wearing good boots. You should get a warmer jacket and gloves though. Do you have a thick leather jacket?"
Of course she didn't have a thick leather jacket. She had running jackets and trenchcoats and stylish woolen coats. Sigh. She thumped back upstairs and rooted in her closet, finally finding a sleek leather jacket that was the opposite of thick and sturdy. She pulled on a wool turtleneck and then the jacket, glanced in the mirror to wish the skin she knew and loved farewell, and headed out, to her certain demise.
The ride was no more than forty minutes in total, but the first 15 felt like hours as she hung on to Peter and the bike with arms and knees and the sheer clinging power of terror. The wind rushing past felt like hands pulling her off. Bumps in the road felt like the bike was bucking, trying to throw her off. The stopping and starting and sharp turns made her think she was going to vomit. Finally, they crossed the Winslow bridge out of the city, and trees rose around her. As the countryside got greener, she marginally began to feel more relaxed. Twenty minutes in, she eased back in the seat enough to peek over Peter's shoulder and see the countryside whisking by.
When they crested the next hill and the sun cast its late afternoon red gold eyes onto them, she realized she had never felt more present.
How can you live in the now when you are hurtling forward so fast? And she closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the bike guide her.
Annoyed she had paid a palm-reader (what was she thinking?) only to receive magazine advice, Liz nonetheless found the words resonating.
She had a habit of getting up and spending her first half hour (after stretches, lunges and crunches of course) making to-do lists for the day ahead. This was Saturday, so her lists should also include the upcoming week's menu and a shopping list.
Today she found herself drawn to the balcony. A little brown bird with shiny eyes landed on the railing as she stood outside. Was it a nuthatch? Sparrow? She'd have to look it up. They eyed each other for almost five minutes. Liz was captivated by the bird's quick, intelligent movements, his tidy economical, hops on the rail, and the way his feathers (her feathers?) fluffed out over his feet to warm them.
Warm them. She realized she had grown chilly, and moved inside. The bird paused a moment longer and then flew away.
Wandering to the kitchen, Liz filled the kettle and placed it on the stove, and rummaged in her cupboard for a tea bag. She was a coffee person. It was a rare day when she made tea, usually only when one of her board sub-committees was meeting here.
Lemon Zinger? Cinnamon Toadie? Zen Stretch Green? WHERE did all these teas come from?
She knew, of course, that every few months she would be inspired by some article about a new cleanse or detoxifying diet, and run out and buy a new mystical tea to gather dust in the cupboard.
Ah, finally! King Cole. The kettle whistled and she poured the bubbling water over the teabag, admiring the way the red-brown colour slowly rose like fog off the harbour. She poured in a bit of milk, again admired the swirling pattern. Chemistry in action. Poetry.
The phone rang as she was completing her menu. This morning she had decided to pull out some of her seldom-used recipe books, and try a few new dishes this week. The recipe books were hiding the phone.
"Liz! I knew you'd be up. Betcha already have a spreadsheet open."
Liz eyed her teacup and doodled-upon menu. Doodles!
"Not quite yet.What are YOU doing out of bed, sister?"
Even Mabel's laugh sounded honey-golden. "I am feeling domestic. I'm making a big turkey supper for Jack and his band, I thought I'd see if you might perhaps like to join us."
Habit forced a 'no' to her lips, but she bit it off, glancing at her short 'to-do' list for the day: "Gym. Groceries. Work on budget."
"You know what? Yeah. That'd be fun. Oh, but my car's still in the shop... hm... do the commuter trains run on Saturday? Hold on...," she was already fumbling with her smart phone.
"Don't even bother, Peter's coming and he's right down your street. He can drive you."
***
WHY. Why hadn't she asked Mabel what Peter, the bass player for the AlmondDeadlies, would be driving? She eyed the bike.
"Here's my spare helmet, it should fit okay. You're wearing good boots. You should get a warmer jacket and gloves though. Do you have a thick leather jacket?"
Of course she didn't have a thick leather jacket. She had running jackets and trenchcoats and stylish woolen coats. Sigh. She thumped back upstairs and rooted in her closet, finally finding a sleek leather jacket that was the opposite of thick and sturdy. She pulled on a wool turtleneck and then the jacket, glanced in the mirror to wish the skin she knew and loved farewell, and headed out, to her certain demise.
The ride was no more than forty minutes in total, but the first 15 felt like hours as she hung on to Peter and the bike with arms and knees and the sheer clinging power of terror. The wind rushing past felt like hands pulling her off. Bumps in the road felt like the bike was bucking, trying to throw her off. The stopping and starting and sharp turns made her think she was going to vomit. Finally, they crossed the Winslow bridge out of the city, and trees rose around her. As the countryside got greener, she marginally began to feel more relaxed. Twenty minutes in, she eased back in the seat enough to peek over Peter's shoulder and see the countryside whisking by.
When they crested the next hill and the sun cast its late afternoon red gold eyes onto them, she realized she had never felt more present.
How can you live in the now when you are hurtling forward so fast? And she closed her eyes and let the rhythm of the bike guide her.
Friday, November 2, 2012
The answer is sleeping, buried, under Glace Bay. Of all places.
The cigar protruded out of his thick lips, covered in fine white hair. His teeth clenched it in a Jonah Jamieson smoke-ringed grimace.
Everyone was watching the smoke ring in front of him as the air gathered tension.
Finally, he sighed. "What do you want me to say? Are you breaking my balls here?"
Andre, the de facto leader of the small band of teens stepped up belligerently. "You could explain where the fuck you've been while the world was going to hell, for one thing."
"Look, kid, I to--"
"Don't bullshit me, I got it, you guys all fucking decided to have a short little nap a few thousand years ago, and then when you woke up you weren't sure how to approach us. I got it. So our climate is fuckered, and you KNEW this. And STILL you chose to take a few decades to watch us, and catch up on Simpsons reruns before you decided to bust in. And now--,"
The unicorn spit the cigar out and made as if to interrupt.
"AND NOW," Andre went on, "now you come waltzing out and think everyone's going to bow down and listen."
"I LOST GOOD PEOPLE OUT THERE. Your shithead army just blew up FIVE centaurs. There are only SEVENTEEN in the world! Twelve, now! What the hell is wrong with you humans? We left you a decent planet!"
"Don't you 'you humans' me, asshole! I'm not one of them!"
Darlene stepped forward at the same time as a young dwarf girl did, both holding up their hands and steering their champions away from the heated debate.
"Andre, Horace," she said, "Dorcas and I have been talking while you two have been butting heads. I think we have a solution."
"But," added Dorcas, "Not only are we going to have to work together, you two are going to have to shut up and get out of the way."
The silence spread out into the Glace Bay mining hall. Finally, from the crowd, a man spoke. Darlene thought it was Mr. Jacobs, the pharmacist.
"Can we stop this, girls? Tell us it's not too late."
Everyone was watching the smoke ring in front of him as the air gathered tension.
Finally, he sighed. "What do you want me to say? Are you breaking my balls here?"
Andre, the de facto leader of the small band of teens stepped up belligerently. "You could explain where the fuck you've been while the world was going to hell, for one thing."
"Look, kid, I to--"
"Don't bullshit me, I got it, you guys all fucking decided to have a short little nap a few thousand years ago, and then when you woke up you weren't sure how to approach us. I got it. So our climate is fuckered, and you KNEW this. And STILL you chose to take a few decades to watch us, and catch up on Simpsons reruns before you decided to bust in. And now--,"
The unicorn spit the cigar out and made as if to interrupt.
"AND NOW," Andre went on, "now you come waltzing out and think everyone's going to bow down and listen."
"I LOST GOOD PEOPLE OUT THERE. Your shithead army just blew up FIVE centaurs. There are only SEVENTEEN in the world! Twelve, now! What the hell is wrong with you humans? We left you a decent planet!"
"Don't you 'you humans' me, asshole! I'm not one of them!"
Darlene stepped forward at the same time as a young dwarf girl did, both holding up their hands and steering their champions away from the heated debate.
"Andre, Horace," she said, "Dorcas and I have been talking while you two have been butting heads. I think we have a solution."
"But," added Dorcas, "Not only are we going to have to work together, you two are going to have to shut up and get out of the way."
The silence spread out into the Glace Bay mining hall. Finally, from the crowd, a man spoke. Darlene thought it was Mr. Jacobs, the pharmacist.
"Can we stop this, girls? Tell us it's not too late."
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Ogres need Bifocals
Although she'd spied the ogre, she
didn't rush.
“I said, this prescription is not
correct. The glasses make my eyes blurrier.” She patiently waited
as the counter attendant continued to try to bluster her into
disappearing.
“No. No, I'm not leaving. I want
glasses that correct my vision. I need them ASAP. I have tried these
for three days. There is no improvement.”
The ogre was moving toward the designer frames, browsing casually.
“I want to see Dr. Kimball again. I
understand he has a patient with him. I'll wait... but I want to see
him by four.”
The ogre had gotten much closer, and
Lil was startled to hear it grunting a whiffling behind her. She
turned and caught it glancing at the clock. 3:30.
It caught her eye and gave her a nod
that could have meant, “yo, sistah, I got yer back”, or possibly,
“eff you, twerp, that 4 o'clock slot is mine”, or even
potentially, “my, you look like quite a yummy morsel.”
She sat down in the waiting area and
watched the ogre glare at the service bell. The squirrelly attendant
had disappeared into the office. The ogre tapped the bell once,
waited a beat and then popped the whole thing in its mouth and
roared.
Squirrelly reappeared. “Ms. Lil
Watson? Lil?”
Sigh. “I'm RIGHT HERE.”
“You can go right in.”
Lil headed into the office, avoiding
the ogre, who was now stomping on the Guess frame selection.
Friday, July 27, 2012
You fed me
I hungered, and you fed me.
Your savoury embrace, and I
salivated like at the smell of bbq
I never felt so safe so sated
So full so
Fed.
You did not offer dessert
But eggs and tea and toast and stirfry and the
warm
companionship
hot
coupling
were enough
then.
Then.
This is strange food
melts away
leaves me hungry
Now, after my three course meal, from
over my
cheesecake-laden
fork
I look back with
gratitude.
You fed me.
Your savoury embrace, and I
salivated like at the smell of bbq
I never felt so safe so sated
So full so
Fed.
You did not offer dessert
But eggs and tea and toast and stirfry and the
warm
companionship
hot
coupling
were enough
then.
Then.
This is strange food
melts away
leaves me hungry
Now, after my three course meal, from
over my
cheesecake-laden
fork
I look back with
gratitude.
You fed me.
Flames are not tongues
Flames are not tongues
They do not lick
They do not
wet.
Flames are a virus.
They spread.
They eat.
They take what is and
wreak change.
They are chaos.
They are catalyst.
They do not form
sweet words
And sing of
a love that never dies.
Flames die.
Or, if they are tongues,
They are lying tongues
And when they
Speak
Lick
Taste
Swallow
Sing of endless love,
They only feed their own hollow
survival.
But flames, like other liars,
die.
They do not lick
They do not
wet.
Flames are a virus.
They spread.
They eat.
They take what is and
wreak change.
They are chaos.
They are catalyst.
They do not form
sweet words
And sing of
a love that never dies.
Flames die.
Or, if they are tongues,
They are lying tongues
And when they
Speak
Lick
Taste
Swallow
Sing of endless love,
They only feed their own hollow
survival.
But flames, like other liars,
die.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Roam, Ants.
We can float here, yes, sunny today
At the pool bar, enjoying this grasshopper life
I can curl around your back in the warm night and know
You are there.
But someday those thunder clouds will roll in, and
You have never yet
Offered me an umbrella.
At the pool bar, enjoying this grasshopper life
I can curl around your back in the warm night and know
You are there.
But someday those thunder clouds will roll in, and
You have never yet
Offered me an umbrella.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
africa, from a white girl
very, very preliminary draft of something I'm working on.
continent of spice, and tigers and mystery
what do I have to do with you?
My white ancestors smell of coal, turnips, seasalty fish, we
Are rumrunners, perhaps mountain folk,
Back far enough.
What have I to do with your sun and dark,
Your riches and rape, your depth and warmth and
Resilience?
I honour you, africa.
How did a continent writ over crossways with famine become
Nell-Carter Mother Africa--Mother Jones, Oprah, Maya
All voluptuous round chocolate warm curves and strength and love and
Carrying on, carrying the weight, carrying.
Is this a stereotype television has fed me?
Well, duh.
You are rich riot orange-green-yellow-indigo-brown kente cloth,
Swathes, swaddled on waddling hips, with flashing smiles and turbaned hair,
A statement I cannot make, I, who wear blackbecauseitisslimming, as my people do.My people: those I see every day, most of them with that peculiar peachy pink hue we
call 'flesh', we caucasian-centric colour namers.
You are every shade of coffee and chocolate, and
I am milk.
i have never travelled your roads myself, but have
clutched the aura of strangeness that Mary Jane and Magan were
wrapped in on their return, sniffing it like a
strange perfume, like an infusion that restored breath.
They are richer for knowing you, while I am the child trying to
timidly touch Jesus' hem from the edge of the crowd.
Africa, it is your women who draw me, your ragged old-too-young rape
of warfare survivors, your grandmothers raising villages where a morality-fused
disease has decimated your children, and you,
You carry on. Carrying the weight, carrying.
I have studied your seedsavers, your co-operative
founders, your micro-credit mother groups. I
know that the challenges that could slay me are
breakfast in your world. I am soft. You
are strong.
The pretender child disavows his own mother from
Shame, and gets nearer to the mother he wants, to try
To become someone he's not.
I know who I am. I know my heritage, my worth, its worth.
But still, I wish
You were the aunt who visited every holiday and let me see you
Hair down, relaxed. I wish I had learned some of your spiced wisdom,
To complement mine.
Africa, I know my own community may lack
savannahs, lions, tigers, zebras, deserts and
there is no Sphinx, but
It too is full of your children.
Please help me, continent of ancient knowledge,
continent of origin,
Help me understand how to overcome my
ignorance, my lack of connection, my
inability to know how to what to when to say...
Help me embrace my honesty and meet you on my
doorstep,
Help me understand when I am ready
when I am worthy
what I can do.
What can I do.
Carry on. Carry the weight. Carry
you in my heart.
continent of spice, and tigers and mystery
what do I have to do with you?
My white ancestors smell of coal, turnips, seasalty fish, we
Are rumrunners, perhaps mountain folk,
Back far enough.
What have I to do with your sun and dark,
Your riches and rape, your depth and warmth and
Resilience?
I honour you, africa.
How did a continent writ over crossways with famine become
Nell-Carter Mother Africa--Mother Jones, Oprah, Maya
All voluptuous round chocolate warm curves and strength and love and
Carrying on, carrying the weight, carrying.
Is this a stereotype television has fed me?
Well, duh.
You are rich riot orange-green-yellow-indigo-brown kente cloth,
Swathes, swaddled on waddling hips, with flashing smiles and turbaned hair,
A statement I cannot make, I, who wear blackbecauseitisslimming, as my people do.My people: those I see every day, most of them with that peculiar peachy pink hue we
call 'flesh', we caucasian-centric colour namers.
You are every shade of coffee and chocolate, and
I am milk.
i have never travelled your roads myself, but have
clutched the aura of strangeness that Mary Jane and Magan were
wrapped in on their return, sniffing it like a
strange perfume, like an infusion that restored breath.
They are richer for knowing you, while I am the child trying to
timidly touch Jesus' hem from the edge of the crowd.
Africa, it is your women who draw me, your ragged old-too-young rape
of warfare survivors, your grandmothers raising villages where a morality-fused
disease has decimated your children, and you,
You carry on. Carrying the weight, carrying.
I have studied your seedsavers, your co-operative
founders, your micro-credit mother groups. I
know that the challenges that could slay me are
breakfast in your world. I am soft. You
are strong.
The pretender child disavows his own mother from
Shame, and gets nearer to the mother he wants, to try
To become someone he's not.
I know who I am. I know my heritage, my worth, its worth.
But still, I wish
You were the aunt who visited every holiday and let me see you
Hair down, relaxed. I wish I had learned some of your spiced wisdom,
To complement mine.
Africa, I know my own community may lack
savannahs, lions, tigers, zebras, deserts and
there is no Sphinx, but
It too is full of your children.
Please help me, continent of ancient knowledge,
continent of origin,
Help me understand how to overcome my
ignorance, my lack of connection, my
inability to know how to what to when to say...
Help me embrace my honesty and meet you on my
doorstep,
Help me understand when I am ready
when I am worthy
what I can do.
What can I do.
Carry on. Carry the weight. Carry
you in my heart.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Summer and Love... what else do you write poems about?
Lying in the warm honeyed lazy bee buzzing afternoon
Entangled in gold, the sun and your hair
Combine to entrap me, tie me to this moment.
Chained to wanting to stay here and wanting more
Too drowsy with happiness and complacency to
Really make an effort to leave.
Not that I want to leave, I don't, this
Prison of warmth and velvet suits me just
Fine. I will rest here, and glow
Compete with the golden sun overhead and the
Amber wave of your embrace, tangled in blonde
And blue, blue eyes, and blue tinged mood.
Entangled in gold, the sun and your hair
Combine to entrap me, tie me to this moment.
Chained to wanting to stay here and wanting more
Too drowsy with happiness and complacency to
Really make an effort to leave.
Not that I want to leave, I don't, this
Prison of warmth and velvet suits me just
Fine. I will rest here, and glow
Compete with the golden sun overhead and the
Amber wave of your embrace, tangled in blonde
And blue, blue eyes, and blue tinged mood.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Tumour
This is the dark tumour that lies inside,
Once it takes hold, it never
Dies.
It waits for the days to pile up enough
Working-late, fatigued-and-hormonal days
That it can grip and
Squeeze out
Joy
It takes you to a grey place
Where you seek your hurt cave,
Lie down to lick your wounds
Hide from others' eyes
Because they might see and pity or
Worse, not see that there's anything wrong
And then, it's just better to be alone.
That's what the dark tumour whispers
In your dreams, and in your moments of doubt,
Better to be alone
Easier not to care
Safer not to try.
And even though you know the thoughts are
Not yours, and not right, the hypnotic
Narcotic lethargic draw is such that
You agree.
I wave from my ice floe as it
Drifts away and you look
Very very small.
Once it takes hold, it never
Dies.
It waits for the days to pile up enough
Working-late, fatigued-and-hormonal days
That it can grip and
Squeeze out
Joy
It takes you to a grey place
Where you seek your hurt cave,
Lie down to lick your wounds
Hide from others' eyes
Because they might see and pity or
Worse, not see that there's anything wrong
And then, it's just better to be alone.
That's what the dark tumour whispers
In your dreams, and in your moments of doubt,
Better to be alone
Easier not to care
Safer not to try.
And even though you know the thoughts are
Not yours, and not right, the hypnotic
Narcotic lethargic draw is such that
You agree.
I wave from my ice floe as it
Drifts away and you look
Very very small.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
petit mort
Outside wind howls,
Midnight-restless,
Crow calls, dog barks
Sky dark, speckless,
And I, within, wearied,
Solemn, sore with
Battling up this hill
Want only to
Lay and rest
My head on my
Lover’s chest,
Sweet, warm,
Satin-safe and wood-secure
Held dark and still,
Gathered in though
Worms of cloud
Gather without,
His heart and mine till
Sun peeks out.
Midnight-restless,
Crow calls, dog barks
Sky dark, speckless,
And I, within, wearied,
Solemn, sore with
Battling up this hill
Want only to
Lay and rest
My head on my
Lover’s chest,
Sweet, warm,
Satin-safe and wood-secure
Held dark and still,
Gathered in though
Worms of cloud
Gather without,
His heart and mine till
Sun peeks out.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
free bird
Playing with rhyme schemes. The meter doesn't scan yet.
One obsidian-pearl eye cocked to the sky,
Feral corvid waits to fly,
Whispers quiet memories to forward-nodding daisies
Watches to see if I'll run or cry.
Guardian of thought, in darkness sought
Attention is with crumbs bought
Stay awhile here with me
"Hello," my sole entreaty
Help me face these fears I've fought.
Do not depart -- stay, help me chart
How I allowed this thing to start,
For now with mine,
His love entwines,
And I fear that I will burst apart,
For my love, he is as wild as thee
And surely it will come to be
That this love cannot last
This thought from you is passed--
For boys, like crows, need liberty.
One obsidian-pearl eye cocked to the sky,
Feral corvid waits to fly,
Whispers quiet memories to forward-nodding daisies
Watches to see if I'll run or cry.
Guardian of thought, in darkness sought
Attention is with crumbs bought
Stay awhile here with me
"Hello," my sole entreaty
Help me face these fears I've fought.
Do not depart -- stay, help me chart
How I allowed this thing to start,
For now with mine,
His love entwines,
And I fear that I will burst apart,
For my love, he is as wild as thee
And surely it will come to be
That this love cannot last
This thought from you is passed--
For boys, like crows, need liberty.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Avalon
So, I saw you outside the mall
All cool, smoking in your
Trench coat, long hair
Dark clotted on your cheek.
And I walked by,
Kept walking.
I know we don't speak here,
In the air and the light with the
Day people milling around.
But for a split second I felt your
Mouth biting my neck and my
Pulse quickened, nipples
Stiffened.
I didn't look up.
Neither did you.
All cool, smoking in your
Trench coat, long hair
Dark clotted on your cheek.
And I walked by,
Kept walking.
I know we don't speak here,
In the air and the light with the
Day people milling around.
But for a split second I felt your
Mouth biting my neck and my
Pulse quickened, nipples
Stiffened.
I didn't look up.
Neither did you.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
turn the dial
I ride a web-winged dragon to the
high mountain perch from which you reign
And on clear moonlit nights we tryst by the crystal lake.
Turn the dial
I am the owner of inn to which
Your father brings you the night you are
To become a man, before you ride off to the hunt
Turn the dial
We've always been sitting here
Meditating on this electricity,
Humming the sacred chord and chained with kinetic joy
In a thousand universes we have exploded together
Like supernova suns, found each other like
Guided missiles.
Has fate ever saved us
A happy ending?
high mountain perch from which you reign
And on clear moonlit nights we tryst by the crystal lake.
Turn the dial
I am the owner of inn to which
Your father brings you the night you are
To become a man, before you ride off to the hunt
Turn the dial
We've always been sitting here
Meditating on this electricity,
Humming the sacred chord and chained with kinetic joy
In a thousand universes we have exploded together
Like supernova suns, found each other like
Guided missiles.
Has fate ever saved us
A happy ending?
Monday, March 1, 2010
swot
Inspired by MrWordsWorth's structure and my own disjointed but linked thoughts
i
I swim deep in these waters
And you, the sun
I seek, fly above--
Bidding me rise and risk
Burning.
ii
Through the crackling circuitry this
Heat passes back
And forth, like friction builds and
Must release with a
Snap and a spark that stings
Relief; but then
When flesh might
Meet flesh we are
Suddenly shy.
iii
In this calmness
Serenaded by the slowed
Eddies of my thoughts, stripped of
Wanton desires, needs, anxiety
Melting away like sunscreen in the sea;
Buoyed by only my perception of me
and this place,
There is no you, and all is a smooth
White pearl.
i
I swim deep in these waters
And you, the sun
I seek, fly above--
Bidding me rise and risk
Burning.
ii
Through the crackling circuitry this
Heat passes back
And forth, like friction builds and
Must release with a
Snap and a spark that stings
Relief; but then
When flesh might
Meet flesh we are
Suddenly shy.
iii
In this calmness
Serenaded by the slowed
Eddies of my thoughts, stripped of
Wanton desires, needs, anxiety
Melting away like sunscreen in the sea;
Buoyed by only my perception of me
and this place,
There is no you, and all is a smooth
White pearl.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
passing the marble
A poem I wrote a bit ago, just finally recording it here. "Holding the marble" refers to a story from The Story Girl about the origins of kissing. In this case, I'm thinking of the sensation of holding in words, but passing the sense of them in the kiss.
******************************
The last lingering kiss goodbye,
My palms ache to store the feel of
Muscled back,
Hair on chest,
Smooth curve of buttock.
Your hair is an amber wave
Of sunshine and I turn my face to its warmth.
Our lips touch again, softly once,
Then more insistent, bodies
Obeying their own siren calls
We meld into an
Arc of last longing.
The moments we spend between desire
Staring into each others' eyes are the hardest.
This marble belongs to you, love,
Come let me pass it to you.
We should not speak, lest it
Drop and shatter
Everything.
******************************
The last lingering kiss goodbye,
My palms ache to store the feel of
Muscled back,
Hair on chest,
Smooth curve of buttock.
Your hair is an amber wave
Of sunshine and I turn my face to its warmth.
Our lips touch again, softly once,
Then more insistent, bodies
Obeying their own siren calls
We meld into an
Arc of last longing.
The moments we spend between desire
Staring into each others' eyes are the hardest.
This marble belongs to you, love,
Come let me pass it to you.
We should not speak, lest it
Drop and shatter
Everything.
Monday, February 1, 2010
The flesh is not so weak
Ironic really, how only when
My heart is coiled in agony throes
Only when my lips bleed can I
Kiss my muse's feet with love.
This is not agony, though, this
Is manufactured parallel joy and
Angst, oh hell, yes
Because where would a poetess be
Without angst?
This is the very moment of balancing on the ridgepole
This is walking along the mountain's cliff edge, and
Feeling the exhilaration of gravity's pull.
Let us entwine today, lover,
And grapple with these tender needs
Let me salve your soul and wash your feet and
Take all of you into my mouth
And together we can cry to the dawn that she's
Come too soon, again!
And your heart beats in a thousand pockets, and
Mine on a battered tweed sleeve, but
That is not our worry, my love.
Wrap yourself around me and turn up the bass.
My heart is coiled in agony throes
Only when my lips bleed can I
Kiss my muse's feet with love.
This is not agony, though, this
Is manufactured parallel joy and
Angst, oh hell, yes
Because where would a poetess be
Without angst?
This is the very moment of balancing on the ridgepole
This is walking along the mountain's cliff edge, and
Feeling the exhilaration of gravity's pull.
Let us entwine today, lover,
And grapple with these tender needs
Let me salve your soul and wash your feet and
Take all of you into my mouth
And together we can cry to the dawn that she's
Come too soon, again!
And your heart beats in a thousand pockets, and
Mine on a battered tweed sleeve, but
That is not our worry, my love.
Wrap yourself around me and turn up the bass.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Partitioned
On this side of the screen
I lip read and
Look for signs
I don't expect to see but
Oh, when it looks like your semaphore
Says, 'come to me'...
But then, you were just
Stretching.
And though I could swear that
Is a beckoning it
Could just be a wave.
Your smile is so friendly
I wish I could really
Hear what
You're saying.
I lip read and
Look for signs
I don't expect to see but
Oh, when it looks like your semaphore
Says, 'come to me'...
But then, you were just
Stretching.
And though I could swear that
Is a beckoning it
Could just be a wave.
Your smile is so friendly
I wish I could really
Hear what
You're saying.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
I must circle you
I must circle you, and
You know the reasons why:
You could be a wary rabbit,
And run.
Or a fierce badger and
Lash out.
I must circle you, keep you like the
Sun in my eye.
Keep you centred, focused
In my awareness.
If my eyes drift to the soft edges of
What could be, I might fall.
I must circle you, keep the pressure
Outward and inward equal.
Not fly away with momentum
Not get pulled into your gravity.
Keep you at the centre of my camera's track
In focus, but safely distant.
Like Pink Floyd in Pompeii, or that
Talk Talk video where they mention it.
I can only touch you across this gap.
You know why. You know why.
You know the reasons why:
You could be a wary rabbit,
And run.
Or a fierce badger and
Lash out.
I must circle you, keep you like the
Sun in my eye.
Keep you centred, focused
In my awareness.
If my eyes drift to the soft edges of
What could be, I might fall.
I must circle you, keep the pressure
Outward and inward equal.
Not fly away with momentum
Not get pulled into your gravity.
Keep you at the centre of my camera's track
In focus, but safely distant.
Like Pink Floyd in Pompeii, or that
Talk Talk video where they mention it.
I can only touch you across this gap.
You know why. You know why.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
a kiss and then
in a moment it seems
it all whirls around me
like Alice's house of cards
all the beautiful faces I
love, have loved, will love, could love
a zoetrope around me, spinning
i'm warm, bathed in love,
washed in the beauty of it all
and yet I hunger, want a biteto taste
each apple, to collect
more, scalps of lust and hair and blood
to line my trophy case, and when
I am alone, I will roll in this and
revel.
it all whirls around me
like Alice's house of cards
all the beautiful faces I
love, have loved, will love, could love
a zoetrope around me, spinning
i'm warm, bathed in love,
washed in the beauty of it all
and yet I hunger, want a biteto taste
each apple, to collect
more, scalps of lust and hair and blood
to line my trophy case, and when
I am alone, I will roll in this and
revel.
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