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