writing

I want my writing to feel like the ocean

a place where people want to go

for soothing sounds and a sense of

familiarity, a shared experience

yet surprising and unpredictable

I want my writing to feel like the wind,

gusts of ideas, meditative lulls

where readers feel warmed and enveloped,

the air knows what they’re thinking

and will carry their voices everywhere

I want my writing to be like the city

engaging, inspiring, with dark alleys

and bright lights, unexpected sights

and noise – layers of difference

and pockets of known quantities

I want my writing to be a witness

to the healing of nature

to shine a beam into

the dark corners of life’s caves,

illuminate surfaces, investigate shadows

I want my writing to be a balm to broken souls

and a celebration of survival

the river

Streaks of colour break up the night,

the river a pristine tabletop.

A single paddle creates an eddy

while mist dances on the surface.

A loon’s plaintive call hangs above

pine sentries lining the shore.

A showcase of sundrops replaces the mist

and the morning’s second act begins.

lemon blur

I watch you dart past,
a lemon blur,
your swimsuit two crisp lines on your small frame,
delight, swaddled in laughter,
ricochets off each pine tree,
hangs in the air

I caught sight of the memory,
a lemon blur,
pulled it down from the sky
with my butterfly net,
swaddled it into
the small of my heart

here I am

here I am, a body of memories:

the feet of a walker, coarse and flattened,

thousands of miles have I roamed.

feet that carried the weight of fluctuations

between body love and body shame.

ankles that were cursedly passed on

thick and boney, yet never failing.

calves that connect to the worst joint of

this body of memories: the knees,

the targets of frustrated students.

too many kicks, too many times,

knees that cannot ever decide

whether or not to give out on the stairs.

here I am, a body of memories,

a painful sciatic nerve sending sharp

reminders to move. no, lie still.

belly of Buddha, plump and rolling,

memories of salty and savoury.

here I am, a body of memories

a heart full of love for decades old babies

who nestled all snug in my womb and

now live contently in the small of my heart.

the neck that says oh, what a wonderful

life you have lived full of sunshine unfettered.

here I am, a body of memories,

a face with stories of laughter and

sunburns and a tree in the woods.

eyes of a father, mom’s cute button nose,

a head of hair that wavers between

mousey and the shining grey of later life.

here I am, a body of memories,

a woman of a certain age.

possibilities

something from the summer I want to remember would be

the mornings at the cottage, each one filled with anticipation,

a sense of possibility, those butterflies I have missed in this

‘unprecedented time’

possibility, anticipatory joy

those beautiful feelings have left the dance floor

they no longer tango through my mind, or

swing by to take me by the hand and spin me

into the future

but on the dock, as I looked up and down the river

I felt hopeful, anxious – the good kind – the kind that

makes small children inhale their food so they can

‘get life going already!’

not me.

I took my bowl of oatmeal, resplendent with

summer berries and sat in the sunshine,

and I inhaled

the possibilities of the day

I KEEP IT BECAUSE

there’s an eagle and a tree
on a card
on my desk
I keep it because
the eagle is strength
free
to say those words out loud
I keep it because
the tree is nature
with deep roots that
ground me
in those moments
I want to escape
from the candor
on the page
I keep it because
it came from a place
of embodied creativity
I want to capture the artist’s
dedication to her craft
bottle it and take a sip
each morning when I sit to write
or during the dark night
when the questions surface
why make the effort?
who hears the whispers in the wind?
I keep it because
it speaks to the loneliness
of putting words into
the hollow

thank you to Firefly Creative Writing for the prompt and Alana Hansen for the beautiful work of art adorning my desk

black cloud, 2020

A couple weeks ago I submitted a poem to The Power Plant Contemporary Art Museum’s Power of the Poets contest. The idea was to write based on an artist’s work. I chose Black Cloud by Carlos Amorales and wrote from the duality of this view of his work and our current state of isolation.

Though not successful I was happy to throw my net for writing a bit wider.

black cloud, 2020

beauty
marked by distress

despondency
tinted by expectation

out there, life
former
altered, wounded, flaccid

in here, swarmed
obscurity
shadows, panic, death

stillness
streaked with approximations

expectation
shaded with suspicion

out there, anticipating
tomorrow
next week, month, year

in here, trembling
survival
dismay, agitation, loss

hush
mixed with intrigue

grief
mingled with reprieve

out, potential

in, subsistence

it’s spring, so

thanks to Firefly Creative Writing for two weeks of bringing me to the page at their morning coffee sessions

 

it’s spring, so

I want to touch nature

I want to walk

on aged pathways

head through fields

earth untrodden

places I’ve never seen

high in the mountains

down in the meadows

it’s spring, so

I want to be

out venturing in

the world

standing below the

cherry trees

in Trinity Bellwoods

walking among the

people of the city

watching the pugs

in their t-shirts

greet one another

at each end of

their perfect

pugness

it’s spring, so

I want to be

taking off

the wooden eye covers

of the little house

in the woods

raking pine needles

I abandoned

in my October rush

to begin a 19-day

bedside vigil

it’s spring, so

I want to be airing

out rooms

wiping down cupboards

to be filled

with staples

I want to fold

fresh linens and

place them in neat piles

on the shelves

fill the wood box

that imperfectly

perfect structure

I made with D.K.

it’s spring, so

I want to pull on

my wetsuit over

my winterized body

take my paddleboard

onto the river

and pretend it’s

July

it’s spring, so

I want to go to

the fruit stand

and buy too many

pots of flowers

that will burn in

the late August sun

I want to walk in

a half-marathon

that torturous

indicator

that age has not

sidelined me yet

it’s spring, so

I want to sit

at a table just

inside the door of

my favourite café

get too hot

when the sun

streams in

I want to

turn my face

in the direction

of children discovering

a trail of ants

I want to hear

wonder and

curiosity

laughter and gossip

it’s spring, so

I want to

see and touch and

feel

all the things

that make me

alive

 

the moments I have witnessed

This morning’s writing session from Firefly Creative Writing began with a reading of Eagle Poem by Joy Harjo. Chris, who led the writing session, read the poem and asked us to find a word, or a phrase, or something else that struck a chord with this and do some free writing.

For me, the line swept our hearts clean with sacred wings stood out and so I went with that.

the moments I have witnessed

the moment of life

I have witnessed

a moment where

life swept our hearts

clean

the journey was complete

for a suspended moment

there was you

your beginnings

no sound

the suspension between

when you were there

and when you were

here

life swept our hearts

clean

your presence central

in the chaos

breathe in

the moment of life

I have witnessed.

 

the moment of community

I have witnessed

a moment where

love swept our hearts

clean

the emptiness was complete

for a suspended moment

there was only two

just a girl

and a boy

no sound

the suspension between

when you were hidden

and when you were

seen

love swept our hearts

clean

your presence embraced

the forest

breathe in

the moment of community

I have witnessed.

 

the moment of death

I have witnessed

a moment where

life swept our hearts

clean

the emptiness was complete

for a suspended moment

there was nothing

no feeling

no sorrow

no sound

the suspension between

when you were here

and when you were

there

death swept our hearts

clean

your presence evaporated

in the silence

breathe in

the moment of death

I have witnessed.

the kind of hugs

There’s the kind of hugs that a toddler gives, the little humans who barrel down the hall at the sound of the front door opening. The hugs that hit you full force, mid-leg; you cannot move or reciprocate but only take in all that day-long, pent-up love, because as quickly as it started the squeezer hug is over and the little human toddles away, satiated.

There’s the kind of hugs that happen at airports, the goodbye ones that you try not to fill with anxiety or sorrow, the ones you try to imprint with every ounce of your love, enough, at least, until ‘next time’. There’s the kind that are ‘hello’, ‘welcome home’, ‘my gosh I have missed you, don’t ever go away again’. There’s the ones where you share the vulnerability of being apart.

There’s the kind of hug that says ‘I do’ even when there’s no piece of paper from City Hall or a church or any witnesses, the kind that binds two hearts forever. There’s the kind that says, ‘I’m sorry, I thought we’d make it, I loved our time together, goodbye.’

There’s the kind of hug that says everything when words fail you. The ones that are offered to try to alleviate unbearable sadness, grief, loss. There’s the kind of hug you give someone, so they know they’re not alone in life, in struggles, in death.

There’s the hugs you squandered when you thought they came in an endless supply. The ones from someone who is now out of reach.

(thank you to Firefly Creative Writing for the morning coffee session prompts this week and Shari and Mike Photograph in Vancouver for the photo of a sibling pre-wedding hug)