Two Days Before Christmas

Two Days Before Christmas

Stores filled with presents to buy
for those who celebrate. For those who do not,
what do you do
when the majority of us sing and drink and eat too much?
Do you even change
your daily routine of stretching the pay check
to fill empty stomachs
and gentle bewildered youngsters who don’t understand
why those kids get new toys
and we don’t? Do you explain what's happening and why we get together
with relatives we cannot
relate to or accept or deal with or do you just pass off to a later
discussion you don’t want to start?
It’s the bubbles we
currently live in that need explanation
before we are gone
with our age old family stories
of mince meat
and figgy pudding and yuletide choral hymns.
A gift of a smile and peace to all
matters, not the religion or faith or suspicions, but serves
to unite one and all.


© Catherine Woods 2017

Miscellaneous Thoughts At Christmas Time

At this time of year, let's review all that has happened.

Are You Now At Peace?

Your brother called me this morning to say you’d passed. Only two days before,
he’d called to say you were in the hospital again. Your body was shutting down;
one organ at a time; no strength to live another moment.
You are my sister of a sort; same father, different mother. I met yours just last year.
She’s also gone.
I feel no sorrow at your passing, only relief
that your suffering is over. I hope you left here content with what you said,
and did, and are now at peace wherever your existence finds its resting place
among the vastness of our universal reality.
I know we’ll meet again.


© Catherine Woods 2017

First Day of Winter

Again the snow is on the ground. The ice covers sidewalks and stairs. I remember back

when all we got was rain this time of year. I miss seeing green. Seasons change forcing us 

to confront our reluctance. Sitting around watching Netflix does not pay the hydro

or the taxes. Comfort is not healthy. Open up that door and walk your secrets and

anxiety outside where the sun is shining and you can open up your senses for renewal. Repay

your maker for the gifts your life has given you. Remember that from today the daylights hours 

are increasing; more light, more hope, more possibilities for you.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Montreal Remembers December 6th

Fourteen 

In starting out their lives, they picked a field
of study to which mostly men enlist. One man did not agree
and shot them dead. Their voices now live on in others;
and though his is not forgotten,
it is stained with
fear and hate.

Montréal, we do remember December 6th.


© Catherine Woods 2017

Feeling underappreciated isn't new

An Appreciation of Old Women

I open my mouth to speak ten words,

but you interrupt with your five more

after walking away in a huff. I resist a ‘call to arms’ 

to give your space, for understanding; you don’t, 

you never have, you never will. You see only those 

your age, your sex; uncomplicated, unqualified; you do not see my side, 

your own mother’s beliefs don’t count, don’t deserve 

pause or possible annotation (stet). You’ve built the wall

of unknown experiences before your eyes and will not

take off those shades.

Won’t you be surprised, at 65, when you read my letters to you, and realize

how right I was? How life could have been so much sweeter if you’d listened to me

when I’d offered my advice? 

I don’t talk just to hear myself, but to pass on the wisdom I have learned

by listening.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Stream of Consciousness

It's like the rain in November. It continues to fall, and doesn't stop .

The Gloaming

Irish ancestors call to me
Rolling hills and first laughter
Smooth pebbles in a well-worn shoe
Breathe in and all you can smell is the ocean
Open your eyes to majestic permanence of green
Hold your heart close for it will break in two
As a siren whispers your name
At sunrise

© Catherine Woods 2017

Uncomfortable

I have not worn the peacock blue cashmere sweater that you bought me for Christmas. I could not tell you at the party because my mother would have caused a scene. And we both know she would put the blame on us instead of letting sleeping dogs lie.

The news was on the television when I came into the family room this morning. Another high profile male newscaster was fired for inappropriate sexual behaviour. You turned toward me and we both shook our heads.

Your mobile phone rang as we walked to the subway station, hand in hand. You rejected the call. I understood. You are not ready to tell her we live together and she is going to be a new grandmother next December.

Exiting the Nordstrom’s, we see our mothers together stopped at a traffic light, staring at us. I am pushing a stroller; you are wearing my peacock blue cashmere sweater.


© Catherine Woods 2017

To a different place and a different topic

When are apologizes really needed or wanted? When are they just empty words for show?

Apology Not Accepted

You were not there. You were wrapped up and insulated
when the white men dragged him away from his home
and his mother. She was crying; all of his family were crying.

You were not there. You were just un petit garçon mignon
in your father’s mind when the old white haired men ,
severely dressed in white and black,
shaved his hair, robbing him of his ancestors.

You were not there. You were just playing tag and
skating on ice-covered ponds with boys from your neighbourhood.
Speaking only English and eating him boiled potatoes and
(shoe leathered) beef, he forgot who he was
as days turned to months, then to years, then to eternity.

You were not there. So why apologize for something
you did not have a hand in? Your words are so empty, like
he is inside
without his protectors
those who came through before him
like the bear, the crow, the eagle, the frog.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Opening Up About the Reality is Front of my Eyes

Reaching the Crossroads; What's the Path Forward

Your faith is not my faith,

Your beliefs are not my beliefs.

You read the Book, I ignore the stories.

We are all live together,

We can all say the words.

Faith is mysterious,

Truth is undeniable,

Passion is sacred,

We are one equally,

without we die out.

No One is Listening

Epochs of history follow us through the ages

wondering how our silence exists. Homelessness shouts out loud 

but is ignored by the masses. A murder of crows sleeps on, but a sleuth

of bears or a herd of elephants are targets for big-game hunters

and the NRA faithful showing their trophies; cubs nor calves

feel pain (so British MPs have decreed). Murder is killing whether humans or puppies,

foxes or terrapins, right whales or puffins; life is gift to be shared with 

all living organism from simple to complex. Hunters are bullies; 

lessons unlearned unleash sorrows for all.

© Catherine Woods 2017

When It's Time to Say Goodbye to a Family Pet

One of the hardest things I've ever done. Luckily I had my family with me.

When It’s Time 

You look so sad. The pain you try to hide from me 

is still apparent in your eyes, in your gait. You walk as if on broken glass

among the ruins of a darkened castle, unannounced.

I feel your shudder as you circle to find comfort

on a friendly lap. I feel ashamed to want you

to continue living on though in great pain. I cannot bring myself to say

Goodbye.

Farewell  my love,

sleep the peaceful sleep of angel choirs (or 

whatever doggies dream of when they close their eyes forever).

I am a coward to keep your warmth with me at night.

I know the time will come when I must

let you go. Still I hold on to you and push off the Decision 

for another day, hoping that you will rebound, and live on

Forever.

By my side,

the bestest buddy that I’ve ever had,

my faithful companion on Sunday morning walks through Cloverdale,

the one I choose to spend every wintery evening with.

You raise your head and pierce my heart with your brown eyes, and then

I know I must let you go. I make the call.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Letting My Thoughts Wander ...

after an unexpected prompt from an interesting source I came up with these today.

Poetry Is …

Poetry is a new dawn on an unsuspecting day,
partially full of bright lights and cherries. Poetry is a
blow out for my birthday and the living dead on sale
though peace is misunderstood. Poetry is infused with
sweetness and temper and organized for the reactive war
destined to reclaim our humanity. Poetry is
you and me and the planet and the galaxy and
the big bang and …
the end.


© Catherine Woods 2017

Poetry Was …

Those words those poets wrote, still stand

against the ages, between then and now. The meter, that they

voiced, held aloft the days of time unscripted. Above all else,

his wisdom brought forth his purpose, and, without his genius,

we could not hope to travel to ancient lands or make mysteries unfold.

Why is the purpose of one letter followed by another yet unclear?

What keeps his meaning clear for you and not for me?

Is all he said forgotten by the passages of days and hours or

are those gems of shade and colour and prose and phrase lost

in a space of ideal reverence unclaimed? Weep no more. Wish

upon a starry, starry night and see truth as beauty and beauty truth.

Inside a vision is a hidden message; 

we are all alone, within ourselves

completed.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Remembrance Day 2017

I've posted these before, but they are appropriate for today.

In Flanders

Fields, mostly green, dotted with red
As far as the eye can see
As far as a wounded man can walk in a day
Think back to days of WWI
Think back to John and his friend Alexis
Search for the patch of land when many lives were lost
Search for the memories they want to forget
Rows of crosses mark their final rest
Rows of soldiers fall, gently through the fields of grass
Hear the shots
Hear the cries
See the pain
See the futility of all this bloodshed
Of all this waste of youth
Of all this waste of generations
Fields, mostly red, remind us of the past
And pass the torch along


© Catherine Woods 2010

Aubade at Vimy

         To commemorate the 100th anniversary of the Battle on April 9, 1917

We storm the ridge at 5:30 am.

Plan and rehearse.

More than 15,000 Canadian infantry, 

four Canadian divisions, 

we attack together for the first time.

Training behind enemy lines, 

we use models to represent the battlefield.

Engineers dug deep tunnels from the rear to the front line.

Many had specialist roles as machine-gunners, 

rifle-men, and grenade-throwers.

Plan and rehearse.

Devastating artillery barrage would isolate enemy trenches.

A moving wall of high explosives and shrapnel would force the Germans 

to stay in their deep dugouts and away from their machine-guns.

Our artillery pounded the enemy positions on the ridge, 

killing and tormenting defenders this past week.

Plan and rehearse.

 

Who of us will get to go home to Saskatchewan farms and Newfoundland fisheries?

We will fight for days, weeks, if necessary.

We will fight as one unit, as one nation called Canada. 

Plan and rehearse.

We storm the ridge at 5:30 am tomorrow.

© Catherine Woods 2017

D Day

A day we must not forget

The beach was long and sandy

The troops were sitting ducks

The sky was filled with clouds

The boats kept coming

The Germans kept shooting

The Allies kept dying

We keep remembering June 6, 1944

© Catherine Woods 2017

Too Many Books, Too Little Time, Too Hard to Question, Too Easy to Forget

I can't be the only person questioning my reasons for being. It's taken me a long, long time to speak out. Even if no one answers me back, I know that I've done my part in opening the door and yelling at the top of my lungs.

38 Years of Forgetting

The Paris sun rose today

on a memory of another morning.

Mama was drinking her favourite coffee,

thick and sweet.

I was savouring my breakfast slowly

delaying the inevitable walk to classes

and bullying by the older and taller boys.

She was humming an old familiar tune,

a lullaby she used to sing to me at bedtime

when I was 5 or 6 and innocent and free.

It was the sun-sky  shades of pink and purple and

orange that drew me back to that morning

the last morning I ever saw Mama alive.

While I was at school, she died while scrubbing dishes.

While I was at school, my innocence was tossed away.

As the sun rose today,

I cry for Mama

and heal a little more.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Saturday Night Thoughts

A mash-up of thoughts on Saturday night.

I close my eyes

Words appear on this page

as if from magic or witchcraft,

but they are neither. It is only my muse

speaking out

loud and strong and clearly

making herself heard. Like a siren, she

draws me into her spell; her on the rock, solid as

diamond, whispering, weaving her words through

my mortality; me flailing about, treading water

unsuccessfully, drowning in visions of

chaos and wonder.  Then I awaken to

books, papers, and abstracts, knowing I’m concrete and

sentient and safe in reality,

until the next time that I close my eyes.

© Catherine Woods 2017

I am not to blame 

You are still here

sleeping in the bed I bought you years ago

watching NetFlix’s movies I play for.

Baking and

pulling weeds:

when will you go? Not that I’m throwing you out,

but I should. I should move

all your things onto the driveway. I should change

the locks. But I can’t.

Maybe I am to blame (a little).

I should have pushed you at 20, at 23, at 25.

I didn’t because I wanted you safe.

I understand now I’ve done you a terrible disservice by

not making you go.

Ok I’m to blame. I’m a terrible mother.

Hanging on when I shouldn’t,

not charging you room and board,

making it much too easy for you to stay.

But no no NO NO NO

I am not to blame,

maybe no one is,

but things have definitely got to change.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Circle 

Leaves,

haphazardly crisp on the city sidewalk,

fortell the fated future

of our lives. Death is inevitable,

change is inevitable,

renewal is inevitable. What today is organic litter

will in six months be fuel for

Spring’s rebirth.

© Catherine Woods 2017

I was born

I was born in Montreal

on a rainy Wednesday. My father was out of town.

I went to 13 elementary schools

in 13 years. My father changed jobs more often

than he took me to Dairy Queen.

I left home to go to university. My father wanted me to become

a doctor; I didn’t. I started

to spill my emotions on the page.

I started to feel like a human being

for the first time in my life.

I was born in Kingston,

alone and afraid and

ready to live

as someone important.

© Catherine Woods 2017

I didn't win and why it does not deter me

I entered another contest and did not win. I wasn't even an honourable mention.

It used to hurt. It doesn't any more. Now it makes me want to write more, to put more of myself out there.

Why I Write

For Snoopy, the author

It was a dark and stormy night.
The words are crisp and clear, but I am afraid
of where they lead and what they do not
say about reality. They show no sense of location or
circumstance. What they offer is vague and open.
Their position in this world is hidden by their
randomness; a cat says more by sauntering
through a doorway.

Suddenly, a shot rang out!
Mistakenly, a life was taken. Thoughtlessly,
my mind wandered into itself. Truthfully,
I say what must be said.

A door slammed.
A car crashed. A bird flew into an airplane’s engine and
the story took a turn for the worst.

The maid screamed.
I opened my eyes to the truth.

Suddenly, a pirate ship appears on the horizon!
Words leave clues to the path to follow,
to the destination of the story, and the moral
the author puts out for our education. To read is
to learn is to gain the answer to our abundance of questions,
even those we do not know we need to ask until,
too late, we call out for attention, and
receive only silence.

Why do I write? To see what words appear next
on this page, and to know
I put them there.

© Catherine Woods 2017

*Certain italicized words are from Charles Schulz, circa 1971.

I close my eyes

Words appear on this page

as if from magic or witchcraft,

but they are neither. It is only my muse 

speaking out 

loud and strong and clearly

making herself heard. Like a siren, she

draws me into her spell; her on the rock, solid as

diamond, whispering, weaving her words through

my mortality; me flailing about, treading water

unsuccessfully, drowning in visions of

chaos and wonder.  Then I awaken to

books, papers, and abstracts, knowing I’m concrete and

sentient and safe in reality,

until the next time that I close my eyes.

© Catherine Woods 2017

The country weeps for a loss expected but not welcomed

I woke to this news and am still can't accept it. We will mourn his passing for a long time.

Our Country Wept, Completely

On a sandy beach in the Kawartha Lakes,
driving down a lonely Prairie road,
as certain coastal cities are slowly sinking,
our country wept.

As the Maple Leafs return to glory,
while we reconcile our ancient prejudices, and
accept our own mortality,
our country wept.

In the Coke Machine Glow
of a movie shot out at the speedway
where fire works its magic spell,
our country wept

for Gord.

© Catherine Woods 2017

A series of thoughts

Confrontation always brings out my muse. For good or bad, it's a statement of what is going on in my head. And it needs to come out.

Listening to my Inner Voice

No one is listening
as I scream
inside my head.
There is a space
opening a door,
ushering me into
a new room,
full of questions,
full of answers;
now to match them up
and leave no
stones unturned,
no worries unanswered.
White is black.
and grey is unexpected.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Unreasonable Blindness 

Blindness of people seeing only their 

reality. A freshly mowed lawn, a warm sunny day, 

children playing in the park.

Not witnessing the real reality of hundreds 

of innocents dying because 

they are black or Muslim 

because hurricanes destroyed their homes 

because someone feels threatened by their mere existence.

Only if and when their reality is affected 

do they notice that somewhere has changed

 in their neighbourhood or their home 

or their own family 

or their own child.

Only then do they scream.

But by then it's too late to fix their reality and

they are lost.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Serious Moonlight

Where do I start the tale?

With old words from before 

Or new words recently put down to paper?

To bare myself for others to read aloud

Or to continue to hide among the masses?

To stop the muse, to shut her out completely?

NO! It is time to shout

To open my mouth and utter phrases, to cast them 

Into the air and onto the page

To speak, perhaps to cry,

To shout and break all windows keeping me inside.

So I begin …

Once upon a time 

A lovely, lonely little child was born to parents

Who didn’t understand and tried to hide her talents in the mundane.

She fell asleep and drifted on for years and years

Except for staccato breaths of creativity

Until she realized that 

Words have power

Ideas have merit

And time passes by without

Happiness

Unless you grab the moon and fly.

© Catherine Woods 2016

An eclipse of another sort

Eclipse

I hide behind you to cover
my shyness. Unless I meet
a kindred spirit, and then,
I blossom as a new rose
in summer’s rain. You hide behind me
to cover insecurities, forgetfulness, and
loneliness. We shade each other from life’s
brightness, rage, and horror; protected,
safe.
© Catherine Woods 2017

A door opens and what's on the other side

Today I found something I wasn't expecting.

A Door 

Today I took a photo of a gate into a cemetery. I walked
through it unaffected, unexpected. Seeing more than headstones,
I continued walking past Chinese, Greek, and Cyrillic characters,
past benches, past cannons, past fountains, past guns. Past soldiers
graves, I spied a tank being cleaned.

Today I walked through a cemetery and thought of my father,
interred in another cemetery 16 kilometers to the west, and
gave him what he deserved,
my forgiveness and my love.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Visiting Yorkville

Yorkville was the home of folk musicians and the crunchy granola crowd in the 60s and 70s. Now it full of trendy expensive clothing stores and youngsters playing Pokemon. But I found my muse there.

I Found My Muse in Yorkville

She was sitting on the corner of Yorkville and Hazelton,
waiting for me to find a geocache nearby,
hoping I’d open my mind to the possibilities of longing,
wishing I’d be here at this moment to witness a miracle.
But I have to be patient (so not a trait I’m really good at),
so I’ll keep waiting for the peace of ideas,
for the calmness of existence,
for the future of many tomorrows
that I will see
  eyes open,
  heart beating,
  welcoming my muse
  to speak through me.


© Catherine Woods 2017

An exercise in removal

1. Take something timeless.
2. Remove bits here and there.
3. Present.

Summer Fragment

From Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare

A summer's day,
more lovely and more darling.  May
summer's all shine often,
every chance changing course.
Eternal summer fade or lose or wander
in eternal time. So breathe or
see lives live life.


© Catherine Woods 2017

One of many thoughts on time

After watching the movie "Arrival", I wrote this.

Time:  Beginning, Middle, End

                          For Michael

I am afraid of time.

It doesn’t stop. It goes on and on

without purpose,

without pleasure,

without passing a clue

to where we might go next.

When time began, we did not exist.

When time ends, we’ll be long since dead.

And in the middle, time takes us

on a journey

where we can follow or we can lead,

but we cannot stop, for to stop is to

leave that which we know

and enter that which we can only imagine,

where time is a robin,

a snail,

a frog,

a snake,

two cuttlefish,

four bison,

a murder of crows,

a school of fish,

the constellation Orion, and

the Milky Way galaxy;

out there beyond the universe,

beyond time.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Ending this day on a welcoming note

Poets Tweet

Poets are young and old. Poets like
mathematics. Poets have parents, husbands
and children. Poets eat oatmeal and peas, not at the same time

© Catherine Woods 2017

No one is listening these days

Watch and Listen

How do you not see the homeless man

sleeping in the diner’s doorway?

How do you not hear of another

indigenous youth suicide?

You hide behind closed doors and

fill your head with empty promises to

donate money or volunteer your time tomorrow.

Instead open your heart and give a hand today

when the need is greatest and the cause is just and

a lonely orphan from across the sea

looks out at you with eyes forlorn and lost.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Let's pause a moment and reflect

In the end, you do matter

For Chester

You felt you could not carry on within the confines of human existence. The door you opened

has shut for all of us. There are no future words of wisdom, no preparations for the worst

that you can pass on now. The best of what’s to come is lost to us, for without your hand

leading us, we’ll walked the endless path alone.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Looking for the answer

Some days I wonder why I need to yell so loud, and then I write.

Let Me Know I am Worthy

I open the door to a brave new world of my choosing

and I open up my mouth to speak. I don’t who care listens, or if I’m ignored,

I just have to say my peace. Silence is killing me slowly, smothering

my own self-worth. The thoughts in my head are exploding, they’re painting themselves

blue and purple, yellow, ebony, asphalt,

and green. Nothing straightforward is easy; the harder the task,

the greater the reward. It’s the prize at the end of the journey,

the pat on the back that I crave. A hug from my mother, so long passed away,

that would get me on through to the end of this day. To stand

on the edge of the White Cliffs of Dover (metaphorically speaking), all I want is a nod,

or a wave, or a gesture acknowledging existence,

letting me know that the words I have written

have not been in vain.

© Catherine Woods 2017

A new discovery: change

Today Changes Everything

For Henry David Thoreau on his birthday

Today came in with a sun rise,
brilliant in its colour, permanent
in its patience, welcoming
in its embrace. A mother’s hug, familiar and warm.

Today ends with a sunset,
closing day’s door with a gentle tap
on time’s door frame, covering our
nakedness of spirit, hiding our childish fears of
the dark. The fading night light cradles us.

Tomorrow comes in with a sun rise,
ever after, evermore, each and every day.
Things do not change; we change.


© Catherine Woods 2017

Remembering a man I didn't really know

A Grandpa Unexplored

                                For Crawford Ross

I see you rocking forth in your favourite

                chair,

flicking the second or third match to light

                your pipe,

laughing at a joke you do not hear, much less

                understand.

I wonder what the years have given you

                (the outhouse

gone, but not forgotten) and feel the widening distance

                between us

is a cancer-causing moat I cannot cross. Your

                fears and tears

withholding every fact, its place uncovered only

                by an old potato spade.

Saucered tea and Shetland ponies keep warm memories

                Retrieved alongside

trains and bacon-fat and crib’ (why did I never

                get to play along with you?)

I miss you even though I never shone your shoes

                or walked the back road past

the family cemetery hand-in-your-hand. You pulled

                away before I knew that

I should get to know you. I’m empty in the loss

                all your ‘cogitating’ was not passed onto me.

Did you ever hear The Call to Dance’? *

© Catherine Woods 1999, 2017

(* The Call to Dance by Leahy © 1996 

Crawford Ross died in 1983.)

Remembering past horrors in the face of new ones

We were so innocent back then.

Confessions of a Youthful American Killer

Your laughter hurts.

I cry but

no one offers comfort.

Outcast in a mass of faces

looking past

tomorrow.

Coats that cover truths

remain imprinted after

words and films

depicting death fade

into joyous springtime

flowers, growing into

weeds unnoticed.

Out of sight to

suns and moons, but not

to bits and bytes,

instructions told all

listening of our demonic

rise to fall;

past caring for our life,

past hoping for redemption,

in place of tears, we

laugh and

shoot and

blow up what

we cannot have.

Acceptance.

© Catherine Woods 1999, 2017

Happy Birthday to my Home

Here's a first pass of my present to Canada. First installment of many.

150 Visions of Canada (Part I)

Haida Gwaii weeps

for Indigenous peoples;  

our Spirit Bear stirs.

Cattle roam through dry

prairie grasslands as dinosaurs

in Drumheller sleep.

Polar bears vanish.

Many suicides prompt tears,

flood Portage and Main.

Skyscrapers ascend

as jays glide to centre field;

maple leaves turn blue.

 Montreal, Quebec:

city ‘Yes’ and ‘no’ sides clash

yet become distinct.

The rock protects but

limits who and how and why

as cod remember.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Standing on the soapbox again

I'm standing on the soapbox again. Been doing it a lot lately.

Feminine Resistance

                     With words from King Lear by William Shakespeare

The weight of this sad time — a migraine sits low in back

on my neck for days on end. Outside conflicts invade thoughts

of weeding and mowing and thinning radishes —

we must obey. Not likely to agree with old white men with racist views or

their wives (unfeminists). Told to keep our mouths shut, we will

speak what we feel, walk with whom we choose, and read ‘1984’ by George Orwell

for the twenty-seventh time this year. We will be not be polite Canadian women,

we will scream and yell

‘I am my own person’

not what we ought to say.

© Catherine Woods 2017

What are we waiting for?

Open Your Eyes and Really See

A new day dawns, but do you really see

the sun as it filters through the canopy of maple leaves?

A new life begins, but do you really feel

her baby-soft skin as she grabs your fingers to hold your heart?

A new path winds its way among the cat-tails and grasses, but do you really hear

the cricket’s chirp in tune or the bullfrog’s invasive baritone?

A new sweet rose fragrance wafts by, but do you detect the underlying mulch decaying,

returning to the soil that which belongs as dust to dust, ashes to ashes?

Open your eyes and really see what the world has to offer you

before it fades from bruised apathy and ragged conflict.

© Catherine Woods 2017

The past repeats itself

In looking back to these words from 1999, I see that little has changed. This is so very sad.

4 Girl Stories (horror and hope)

I

Beneath a colourful boubou,

a mischievous smile breaks through;

fuse tradition with a modem cloth.

Her father has 3 wives and 30 children; against him,

she goes to school and will marry who she chooses.

She questions tribal elders,

not accepting their dubious words, she uncovers truth

and will not be mutilated as have sisters and cousins.

Perhaps she will become a doctor or lawyer

or journalist in Senegal.

II

Kidnapped at 12 by rebel gunmen

while fetching water for her family,

she is molded into pack mules to carry,

sex slaves to service, baby soldiers to kill.

For 5 years she hears only

hatefearviolencepowerrapeshooting

inside and out.

As one of 9 wives to a cruel captain,

she escapes Uganda by running running

running until midnight. Now she sews

and bakes and laughs and

tries to trust again.

III

For generations, the women in her family have been

prostitutes;

descendants of women who earned their living dancing

for Indian princes and kings; their men, solely dependent,

have no skills with which to provide

a loaf of day-old bread.

Her older brother intervenes, protecting her

from the familial path. Now she lives

in a mud house (beside the toilet,

an open field) and earns a living as she crafts

embroidered purses --

3 a day for a dollar.

Someday she will give her daughter the best

with the little she has.

IV

Her effects: a generous smile, an infectious laugh, 3 dresses, 1 pair of slippers;

her diet: bread, rice, lentils;

her home: a thatched roof house of clay and wood with

no running water or electricity.

She raises her younger sister (her mother has TB), cooks

and cleans for a family of 6,

sweeps the floor,

fetches water,

makes tea and breakfast,

harvests rice, potatoes, oil seed.

To be the only girl her age to go to school shows

her determination; as an educated girl,

her dowry will be high; as a social worker,

she will change the lives of other village girls

in Nepal

in health,

in education,

in discrimination

on this paltry earth.

© Catherine Woods 1999, 2017

More thoughts on refugees and immigrants

All thoughts are good but I'm curious.

The Hijab

I see you sitting on the bus, quietly reading,

ignoring those around you who stare and

shake their heads. The scarf that completely covers

the hair I cannot see is peacock blue. My mother’s favourite.

Her favourite dress, in that warm romantic colour, adorns her

in my mind, when I go back to that fateful day,

that Wednesday when she told me she was dying, while I was ironing

tea towels (or was it sheets). It doesn’t matter now.

I look at you with my mother’s grace and wonder

what the headscarf means, and why it is important. She would sit beside you

quietly and let you talk about what you are, and how it give you self-respect,

that peacock-blue upon your head. However, I would directly ask you

when it hurts and when it maims, and

how you hide your fears from your children entering their lives

in this new country you now call home. How do I not fear

those dark, detached eyes, those black as night eyes,

those sad as whining baby eyes? Why do you hide from me?

Do you hide because of guilt or shame? Does the hijab 

make you feel safe somehow? Is a scarf upon my head

not making the same statement? I want to understand why I cannot see your hair

and how your hair deserves protection from my eyes.

I want to understand so I can help you to be free from fear.

© Catherine Woods 2017

We are all refugees today

Without Borders

As a noun or a verb,

a border separates

grass from trees,

water from sand,

Canada from the USA,

life from death,

us from them.

As an obstacle or a meeting place,

a border holds in,

restrains anger,

permeates falsehoods,

relays mistrust,

bring every issue to a head

for a battle that cannot and should not be fought.

Knock down the border between

every man and every woman,

every child and every parent,

every straight and every LGBTQ human being,

every one breathing air upon this earth with skin of

every colour of the rainbow, and

ask why borders exists if we are all equal

upon this planet

we call home.

© Catherine Woods 2017 

June 6, 1944

My mother was praying. My father was fighting. Both were doing their part. They hadn't met.

D Day

A day we must not forget

The beach was long and sandy

The troops were sitting ducks

The sky was filled with clouds

The boats kept coming

The Germans kept shooting

The Allies kept dying

We keep remembering June 6, 1944

© Catherine Woods 2017

Now is the time to open your mouth and say ...

To speak, you need bravery and knowledge and confidence. Or you need to be older without fear.
Before now than never.

To speak out is to learn of yourself

I want to shout the words even though

I’m afraid of what you might say.

I’m tired of hiding behind reason and prosperity.

I want you to know my thoughts, my desires, my wants,

my mistakes, my loves, and my hates. I want to type

in ALL CAPS All over this page,

screaming out truths and lies before

I’m gone. I want not to be afraid of leaving

by giving you all of knowledge,

my 60 years of trivia, junk, spam, worthless letter combination,

presented prose, and unmetered syntax.

I want you to know who I am and to know

who I was, and who I will be. Yes, I still dream.

I want to stand alone on a stage in front of

thousands of people staring at me

while I read my words and think of them

as naked like me.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Letting in run without stopping

Today I want to let it go, the words, the sounds, the instances of youth, the myriad of happenings, and just be. So here it is.

Consequence of Silence

These words took years to arrive— Bhanu Kapil

Let your thoughts go and follow them as they pass by

the house on the corner on their way to the next bus stop.

Keep the words, throw off the enemy sounds, and weave

the instances of youth through your current life,

learning the reasons for mistakes, and possibly

learning along the way how to sleep, and how to listen,

and why the future is not what you want to see but what you want

to erase. Keep out the anger and the hate; bring forth the breathe of spring

the light of day

the edge of night-time observation. Just let the letters and the spaces

fill the page with streams of tears for those who cannot voice their own opinions.

Awake, awake, and scream so loud.

Awake, awake, and break out

of the mould, break out and walk and walk, never stopping, never stopping,

never ending. The cliff-face holds you back, but do you want to be held back from release

when it screams, and you understand

why you are here.

© Catherine Woods 2017

Looking at what we've done

Reflections on Lower Ausable Lake

So perfect, so silent, so still.

It is difficult to perceive

where reality stops and

earthly reflection begins;

gently with

effortless oars stirring eddies

twirl the surface and

refuse us entry.

Does water lap at truth? Which do we seek?

The present or that before the mirror

© Catherine Woods 1999, 2017

Second Beach, Washington

Stone sentries resist the waves;

sea stacks mire off the coast, remains of

sedimentary rock fused to the continent

during a torrid past life.

As the Ice Age and glaciers melted,

rising seas slice off all but the most

stubborn crag.

Nature never forces her magic,

our actions insight and existence wanes.

© Catherine Woods 1999, 2017

Travelling

Sangre de Cristo

                I am glad I shall never be young without wild country to be young in.
                — Alda Leopold

Mustard yellow beckons forth

on the bough to greet this day

that is left for you.

Pines pepper lands lost

by unknown enemies, whose cries

echo in the breeze, binds fragrant hills,

vertically before

life’s youthful limbs.

Horizons blend as

all wilderness retreats

from nature’s sweaty palms.

            Weep,

            weep for me,

dear forests.

© Catherine Woods 2000, 2017

Remembering past summers

Cathedral Grove, Vancouver Island

Holy be those Douglas fir,

uplifting the ivory-cirrus skies;

bury their feet under leaves

left by last year’s autumn waltz;

christen bright buds to awaken

in dreams of sunlight and dew;

fling open spring’s front door.

A stump of a chair,

positioned for her majesty,

glimpses the rays

for a Dendroctonus pseudotsugae

whose mother has flown.

Look up to the canopy of life;

oft-shore breezes bring in

evening warmth, a blanket stolen

from limbs surrounding the heart.

There is a sense of the almighty

among this life before me

and a peace through which all blessings flow,

seeping in and weaving throughout

my emerging soul.

© Catherine Woods 1998, 2017

When she comes, she certainly makes her presence known

She comes, she goes. Lately, she's come more often, and usually when I ask for help.

The Muse Insightful

She holds a door

she sits behind, and in

her time, she turns the knob

and opens up my mind:

to the wonderment of icy snow

upon a whither tree or a statute of a man

walking in daylight to see his girl or,

maybe, to his mother’s home

on a Sunday afternoon in May;

to the sheerness of the air, and

how it covers all the lives

of all the people

on all the world,

without their knowing or caring why;

to the truth inside the eyes

of those we love and those we hate

and those who pass by unannounced

and unafraid, who see no future

in a past worth saving;

to the words upon this page

and the letter combinations that I write,

none out of place, none overused,

each put outside the door

for all to wish upon, as stars.

© Catherine Woods 1999, 2017

Have we broken the earth?

A day after Manchester 2017, I wonder if we have broken our home, have we messed up the earth so much that nothing will fix it but us being gone.

Too Many of Us

The earth is full of humans, old and grey,

getting older by the minute, forced to fit;

little space to breathe among the ruins,

we pray for newly born who’ll save.

This time we pray for peace, this time to purchase

the rights (and not the wrongs) of children,

and everywhere this is less space for turtles,

for polar bears, for buffalos, for you.

It pains to see the water rise, the icebergs melt,

a relentless all-encompassing ache  

so deep it is within the cells of each existence;

have you a fix to this earth’s broken life?

Have you considered what will happen now

or have you given up the chance redemption?

© Catherine Woods 2017

Looking back

Why look back? Familiarity or fear?

Tea Ceremony

Ray and I

forgot the red linen tablecloth;

instead we used a green and blue one

my mother had given us

when we moved in

together. His mother did not know

until, by accident,

his sister mentioned lunch, two weeks before,

and out of the bag it leapt.

She’s come

to tea to check me out

(Ray says not to worry,

but I will, for he is proud

and wants his mother’s blessing even though

he’s broken her most sacred law) to see

if I can hit the mark. Her setting will be higher

than the North Shore Mountains.

If I don’t pass her tests,

life will go on

just as before,

but over time

the tea cup

will be

bro-

ken.

© Catherine Woods 2000, 2017

Another return to the past

I rode the Skytrain every week day back in 2000 and wrote many poems about the trip and who lives nearby.

Plate of Noodles

We cram into the Skytrain,

Ray and I,

to make our way to Stadium-Chinatown

for Sunday dinner at his parent’s place.

and every week I’m served that self-same

plate of noodles, spice too hot.

And Popo demands

I answer certain questions

and detains me; poised as I am to walk the Asian line.

It derails me to enter conversations in a language where

I can’t see the roses bloom,

watch the lightning flash, or

cuddle as I hold my lover’s hand

and walk along the sea wall by the inlet,

oblivious to penetrating biased eyes.

© Catherine Woods 2000, 2017

Let's really go back

So back to 1999 when the world was still a dream, when I still thought changes were possible, when I didn't know much beyond my front door.

On the Road to Galway Bay

Was it your death

laid out so plain before you

that you objected to? Or was it the sword

laced lengthwise with her dark blood,

a message your subconscious put before thine eyes?

Open, but not to see these stone walls; empty

as a shattered heart, betrayed

for a piece of barren field and a lump of gold.

Her face,

(a sweeter rose they’ll never be) though gone,

emits a peaceful glow. You tower over her quick death

like wolves to carcasses after a long

cold winter. Was she so powerful to deserve this sudden end? Was she

so blind in love that she did not see you coming? God

showered her with love, you covered her with blood. Not just

her own, but that of generations yet unborn,

yet despised,

yet released to hold onto a dream,

which you will waken to each night, every night you sleep

until you meet your maker

in long cold shadows

of regret.

© Catherine Woods 1999, 2017

Second new prompt: Let's Go Backwards

Returning to 1998.

Trains to Paddington Station

Yellow soars as I open my eyes for a journey

around the world in my imagination. Many stops cut (short)

due to lack of funds. Blood rushes to the brain as I

stand on my head in a Paddington Station lavatory.

Tickets, who's got tickets? I have, said the blind

conductor, smiling as he strolls away from the platform

breaking into hideous side-splitting laughter

heard from way across the Atlantic. See you

on the other side of hell, chirped the magpie

priest; he doffs his miter with a two-foot blade of

her Majesty's finest Wilkinson.

Perhaps evening prayers are in order; if sent by express post,

they'll make it by Tuesday (only decades late for

redemption) (only half¬way to securing a rite of

atonement) after the half-past four tea-time

surrounding Aunt Lou’s Battenberg cakes left out for the

paper-boy bringing by yesterday's news. Maybe if I

just close my eyes, all the puzzle pieces will fall into

place on the oaken table left to me by

my mother's great uncle on her father's side; a present tied up

with a cherry red bow dripping abject sanity.

© Catherine Woods 1998, 2017

First new prompt: Begin in the middle of things

So I started "I don’t stop to think before I turn and throw a left hook on your right jaw." and went from there.

Beauty begats violence

Blood drip drip drips

on the clean linoleum. The day has

scarcely begun, the rooster crows, and

already the yelling starts. As if it ever ended

yesterday. Hands cover ears, as I shake my head.

No one washed dinner dishes, or maybe those were

the night before. Days blend into days.

I cannot see the sun for the clouds over my eyes,

brought on by the Merlot or Malbec. One red is

much like another after bottle number five.

Empties clink together as I shuffle towards

the trailer’s only door.

Your hand lightly on my shoulder wakes me

like a Pacific wave crashing on Long Beach.

I don’t stop to think before I turn and throw

a left hook on your right jaw.

Specific injuries defined by specific actions

or reactions; you stumble back, falling over

those damn empty bottles, smashing cups,

saucers, glasses, pots,

landing in the bankette seating, both arms draped over

your precious face.

You always were too beautiful, Mother said, you could have been

a cover model on Vanity Fair. But you said,

skin wrinkles with age as beauty fades. Then I said, You

should have been a poet.

© Catherine Woods 2017

The sun is shining and so am I

It’s okay to say you’re okay

I used to think it was selfish to tell yourself you’re okay. No longer. ‘Cause if you can

complement yourself, give yourself a pat on the back, then you will rejoice. You live with you

all day every day. You know your faults and your strengths. You see not where you want to go,

but where you need to go. You know your plans, and when those plans won’t hold water. You know

your joys and your woes, your successes and failures. If you should listen to anyone about the path

to follow, it’s you. But once you know the path, just go.

Don’t second guess, don’t procrastinate, don’t doddle.

Go forth and spread your wings of self-understand. Perhaps others will see them as a comforting hug,

a buddy to call on when the spare goes flat, or your keys go missing, or you get laid off.

Maybe your paths will continue together for a time, and you’ll make new forever friends.

© Catherine Woods 2017

The rain is back ....

...and the muse returns.

Listen Again

You speak and you expect me

to listen. But your words, fall like hailstones,

stinging, hurting my pride. Continuing

on and on, for what seems like days, you

enunciate every damn syllable, until my ears bleed.

You stop, if only to breathe, and I try to speak,

but you do not hear my whispers, and return to

your diatribe on this, that, or the other.

My eyes and ears closed, I search the peace of

a female Chickadee’s song and I listen.

© Catherine Woods 2017

It's Raining ... Again

It's Vancouver and it's raining again. The foliage is appearing and the early flowers are blooming. The garden is ready for planting. It's Spring. I love Spring.

Another Spring in the GVRD

Point Grey, just grey, the pale grey sky sits

heavy and wet,

filled with an atmospheric river of moisture.

Clouds drift down to the Cloverdale meadows

of newly mown grasses and bee-friendly wild flowers.

East Van Magnolias drop petals,

one

by

one.

Cherry blossoms burst forth

to a sea of pink rain drops

littering parked cars

on well-endowed Kitsilano streets.

Abbotsford tulips paint rainbows

up to the Coast Mountains;

the rain stops here.

Bright, unfamiliar sun to burst forth tomorrow,

interjecting joyful surprises

for just one day

in 30 of pale, pale grey.

© Catherine Woods 2017

When is personal truth okay; when is it not

Things are hidden for different reasons. Those reasons change over time. People change, attitudes change, and the initial reasons for hiding things become obsolete.

On Meeting My Father’s First Wife

                                     

It was her 90^th birthday. Her family,

young and old, sat around the table.

I was invited as well. I wasn’t sure why.

Somewhat uncomfortable, I felt the ‘outsider’;

conversing was awkward, the dinner dragged on.

          I learned of her when I was 10,

          learned of her son and learned of her daughters.

          When 60, I learned of her selfless action,

          learned how she changed my life,

          making it right, making me whole.

After eating, she thanked me for coming.

She held tight onto my hand,

not wanting to break hold,

keeping contact longer than I expected,

accepting me into her fold.

          She recently died.

          So the meeting, on her 90^th birthday,

          was the one and only time

          I met my father’s first wife.

© Catherine Woods 2017

What comes next ... more poetry

After spending the last 30 days writing a poem a day, I cannot stop. I will provide a new entry every day (though I may repeat those I especially like).

Hill 145

                On the 100^th anniversary of Vimy Ridge

Oh Mother dearest

I hope you and Father are well and Jacob is helping you plow the fields for planting.

Was there enough snow to fill the creeks and ponds? Is there warmth for seeding?

                I miss you all.

My boots were heavy from the mud, caked on like wet Ontario clay.

My coat was damp, bringing in the cold rather than keeping in the heat.

My ears echoed from the constant barrage of the enemy’s guns. (I’ll be deaf by morning.)

My eyes have seen more death, more ripped-up bodies of fellow soldiers

                Than I ever want to see again.

And yet I must go on. I must fight on

Until we capture Hill 145,

Until their guns are silent,

Until we have won the battle

                Of Vimy Ridge.

© Catherine Woods 2017