Put off and lost time

Caught From a Writer’s Festival

The muse is a virus that spreads
from poet to poet
wherever two or more get together
to discuss their latest work,
give advice to newbies,
pat each other on the back,
relive 20-year-old poems
written by their long dead mentor,
expose old wounds,
pass on the torch.

I caught it yesterday on Granville Island.


© Catherine Woods 2018

Inappropriate Time for a Message

I write poetry in my head in the shower
and the thoughts will be gone before
I get the words to the page.
The muse comes when she comes.
I must accept that.


© Catherine Woods 2018

PoC

I don’t see your skin
or its colour
(No, of course I do. It’s not mine.)

I only see your glory
your flame of life
your apex
(I see you where I want to be.)

I listen and hear your voice
glistening
and icy
(I’m afraid I won’t attain your heights. What must I do to get your acceptance?)

If I listen to you, will you hear my story?


© Catherine Woods 2018

The Consequences of Anger

When I'm angry I write to relieve the tension. Here are today's results. They will shock, and that's their purpose.

Red

Okanagan cherries picked in late August

A polyester dress with a white boat collar,

handmade by my mother when I was in high school in the 1960s

Geraniums growing throughout the garden

Garnet earrings I inherited, maybe worn once

Menstrual blood dripping

Bullets uncover life, unseat harmony

Hatred, death, fear

As invasive as blackberries and wild parsnip

Striking out, reliving sorrow, last gasps of

a life  unfulfilled. No mercy, no pride, no respect.

© Catherine Woods 2018

Why am I Angry? 

Yes, I am angry.

It’s been building slowly

over years

over a lifetime of years,

a whole life of ignorance

(mostly mine)

of how the world works

and how to get what I need

and how to know what I need

and how to see clearly

what needs to be done

next door,

down the street,

across town,

in the nation’s capital,

in every corner of the globe.

Why am I angry?

Because you are not listening to me,

because you keep talking shit,

because you hit back when people ignore you,

because you lie when you don’t get your way,

because you mock and bully when we tell you you’re wrong.

We will not stop speaking out,

marching on government high courts,

standing on the country’s cornerstones,

protecting the disadvantaged, the homeless, the abducted children,

showing you, we are not our mothers and grandmothers,

we will not shut up our voices.

Yes, I am angry

and I am silent no more.

© Catherine Woods 2018

Procrastination is bad

It's been almost a month since I posted anything! I need to push myself to do this at once a week.

How It Ends

How it ends
depends on where you are
and who you are
and why the sky is blue.
I’ll hold your hand as we walk
toward the sunset of our life,
remembering the days we laughed,
the hours we cried,
the minutes we believed would never come,
the lives passed onto through genetic material,
each cell committed to a predefined course,
set down ages and eons ago when
the big bang went boom.

And every nucleus of every atom of every molecule
of every being alive within this moment
passes back to the first moment
where it all began.

And so it begins again …


© Catherine Woods 2018

Wake Up and Smell the Cedar

Today is Wednesday. The week is half gone and I’ve done nothing. The last date I see upon the page is from last week. I’m lazy, lazy, lazy. My head is filled with words and thoughts that do not make it to the masses. I want to cry out “All is not lost”, but no one will know if I do not open my mouth. I am afraid to speak in case you beat me down, crush me underfoot, laugh and walk away. So, I keep inside all the wonders I have seen in Squamish and Pender Island. I hold the tall majestic boreal cedars hidden from official government workers and suited business men who cash to throw about on trinkets that litter their monster homes on West Vancouver’s decreasing mountain paradises. What will be left for your grandchildren if you pave it all for Jaguars and Lamborghinis? I rest my case.


© Catherine Woods 2018

Inspiration comes in many forms

I went out purposely to arouse the muse. She didn't disappoint me.

At the Mic

Yes, I am afraid.
My voice will crack.
The words I speak
will sound as foreign
as the announcements on a train
in Bangkok or Taiwan

Yes, I am afraid.
My voice will crack
as I utter truths
and falsehoods held as truths,
within my mind;
clear it is in their own
not so clear out of this room.

Yes, I am afraid.
My voice will crack,
but I will force the words
out of my mouth
and onto this page
until I see the story
bloom as a rose in my garden,
taking over its allotted space,
choking out the weeds
of discontentment,
freeing the echoes of that
something that wrinkles
the lines of my life.

Yes, I am afraid.
My voice will crack.
It is me
naked on the page,
for all to see.


© Catherine Woods 2018

Blue

Thanks to Cristy

The deepest oceans, the darkest seas
Your haunting eyes staring at bridesmaids
The blouse you wore last Thursday
Berries bought by the roadside
Aunt Amy’s house on McKinnon Street
The sky on the day I met you
A feeling after watching Forest Gump
The colour of the sheets on the bed where you passed away
A dog, a flower, a kind of chair
Raspberry popsicles bought on a whim in 1994
The handkerchief I found in the bottom drawer
The suitcase where I packed all your clothes
 Crescent Beach in April when the tide is high
and I’ve forgiven you for leaving me alone


© Catherine Woods 2018

A prompt to write - a sign for all of us

For  the last few weeks, J-35 has been carrying her dead calf around the Salish Sea, displaying her grief and her love.

16 Days of Grief

         In honour of J-35

You gave her life and

then she died.

You held her up

for all to see,

to see your pain,

to know you cared,

to show that grief is not limited

to human beings

watching young children shot at their school

through no fault of their own

or young soldiers slaughtered on far-away fields,

fighting in an elusive war

thousands of miles away.

Your grief is as plain as the nose of my face.

Your grief is as true as the love I feel for my daughters who live.

Your grief is an open wound to the world who’s forgotten

that grief is a necessary aspect of life and

to ignore it is

to ignore breathing.

© Catherine Woods 2018

A Poetry Reading - Different this time

I went to a poetry reading at the beginning of May at FOLD in Brampton, Ontario. I wasn't impressed; I felt out of place; I felt old.

I went to a poetry reading a few weeks ago at the Vancouver Public Library. I was impressed; I felt challenged; I felt like I belonged.

Within a room of poets at VPL

Chairs with red seats
Persons of all shapes, sizes, colours
Talking
Discussing
Gazing at their smartphones
Waiting
Remembering
Keeping their spirits close
Holding their words inside
Still waiting
Then listening to poets
Speaking
Whispering
Laughing at real life
Vocalizing anguish
Recalling abuse and terror
Reliving horror upon horror upon        loss
Uttering words that mean so much
To them
To us
To everybody
To the infinite point of existence
Out there


© Catherine Woods 2018

Permission to write this all down - Open the door

It's been more than a month since I added to this. Yes, I procrastinated. But I'm back.

The door

A life
is a path
to follow,
a door
is a barrier
to continuance.
When I see,
I understand.
When I hear,
I open my heart.

Another door

I am at odds with life I cannot see before me.

It is not concrete, it is not black and white,

all is gray and hidden from my direct view.

The door is solid.

The future is inevitable.

My death is coming, I cannot stop my end.

The last door

Open the last door and see

the possibilities abound

and free thoughts and fears,

fly off unaccompanied,

to peace.

An encounter on the subway

It was unexpected and brief and she'll never know it happened, but it did.

A Note for Charlotte

You sat next to me on the Yonge subway going northbound,
gabbing with a fellow student about classes and friends
and the future that seemed beyond understanding
right now. Excuse me for interrupting, but I just have to say
these words to you now as I’m reminded of my own experience
of that age and that time in my life. You won’t want to listen
to some oldie right now, but you will later, so I’ll pass on
this wisdom of my years.

Don’t rush through life blinded by gadgets and so-called
‘best buds’ who don’t have your best interests at heart.
You have time to see the whole world and make new friends.
Play that sonata, cry through that aria, embrace that minor chord.
Don’t waste your life and take that first scary step when you need to.
Don’t wait until conditions are right, ‘cause they’ll never be anywhere close.

Talk to someone who you trust about your dreams, your fears, and
your path as you see it. Your sisters are here to help you
expand, enfold, and explore.


© Catherine Woods 2018

Late May Results from Early May

Leave the Comfort Zone

Leave what is familiar
Go somewhere unknown, feel unsure and uneasy
Amazing how poor my life experience has been, it was all so quiet there
No hard times or military with guns walking the streets
Majority are fair, white except in cities where pockets of south Asian, Blacks, Chinese, Koreans
become Canadian, where “life is huge” said the writer,
“It’s good to be small” be defined by who you are,
not what you are

I am still finding me, even at my age
Not my mother or my father, but me
Not a doctor or a lawyer
Not stressed out or overloaded
The one who sews the of seeds of knowledge,
provides a shoulder to cry on, and
kicks you out the door when you’ve overstayed
in the comfort zone.


© Catherine Woods 2018

Listening to Poetry After a Beer

With instructions from Lamoi

Fuzzy head

Fuzzy sights

A clear sense of unreality

A wobbly sense of the actual size of the room

Photos on the walls 

reflect locations and people

from all around this planet

Words spoken by whitehead, asgari, 

reflect youth unexplored yet exploring their spaces permitted

from around their consciousness

A baby from Brampton

spoken word artists (not my cup of tea)

An arch from Afghanistan

Arabic -> transected -> not by anyone

A door in Johannesburg

Ramblings from inside the mind of a younger male/female/lesbian/bi/gay/transgendered/queer entity

Camera -> paper

Lens -> pencil

Write what is you. Read what is not.

Which can be said to be more real at framing an instant in time?

Such diversity of spirit

Such ethnicity of humanity

Dancing and singing and

Speaking words out loud

           be a better version of ourselves

           feel the better you

Isn’t it all a performance?

Isn’t it as perfect as poetry or photographs?

Isn’t it a moment to remember forever and ever?

Did the beer change my impression of the event?

We’ll never know.

© Catherine Woods 2018

Mother's Day 2018 - Five Years Back

I wrote this 5 years ago. It still applies. It will always apply.

Daughter’s Forgiveness

               On Mother’s Day 2013

So many wish their mothers well
Make them breakfast
Wash their cars
Paint their toenails
Wish them a happy, special day
Phone them long distance
Bring them coffee and Danish in bed
Do their laundry
Wash the dishes
Brew a cuppa tea
Fluff their pillows
Buy them a chrysanthemum.

But you’re not alive
So I can’t do the niceties
Or say kind words
Or hug
Or kiss
Only cry.

I miss you, Mom.

So on this Mother’s Day,
I’ll give you the only gift I can
My forgiveness
Of the things you didn’t say or do.
I love you.
I LOVE YOU.


© May 11, 2013

It's May but it's still okay to write poetry

I know it's May, but I can still write and post.

Notes on a Trip Downtown on the Subway in Toronto

busy rush hour morning
incessant voice speaking station names
past the heavy rush as no one standing
whirling through tunnels
train tracks clippity-clap, clippity-clap
one baby cries out
Doors will open on the right
Please stand clear of the doors
phones keep people looking inwards
trains stop in the middle of

nowhere, part of the way to somewhere
further than I wanted to go
back to 1982
when I was alone and lonely
I gave up trying to find someone
and then he appeared; and is still here
we still ride the subway into the past,
onto the future clippity-clap, clippity-clap

© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 30 of Poetry Month 2018

Wise Words

I cannot make you take the job you do not want.
I cannot make you eat your peas and carrots.
I cannot make you listen to my words,
But I will keep on trying
To set you on your way,
To give you the best chance,
To prepare you for the life you lead
When I have gone away.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 29 of Poetry Month 2018

Set Free the Mind's Eye

On the road to nowhere, I find
walls on either side and
no light at the end of tunnel
to freedom. Part of a day left open
feels like an escape,
but can I trust reality? Is that a door or a mirage
in my anxious mind? Oh, just open the door and
accept what’s not safe or
not comfortable. Eat the apple,
talk to the snake, and
run through the sun’s beauteous rays.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 28 of Poetry Month 2018

David’s Jig

The fiddler’s fingers pluck the strings
They pull the bow across the notes that tug
A piccolo pips, a tap dancer’s step in time, a drummer’s beat
The Irish jig fills my body and I am transported back
Where my ancestors ploughed the fields, planted potatoes,
And left the land when the famine came
They crossed the Atlantic, some died just as they got to this shore
Some farmed again over here, potatoes still
Never to see their homeland again
Trying to find comfort in the fiddler’s lament and dancer’s step
Along with David’s jig
The fiddler’s fingers pluck the strings
They pull the bow across the notes that tug
A piccolo pips, a tap dancer’s step in time, a drummer’s beat

© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 27 of Poetry Month 2018

Welcome Spring

In May I watch as flowers leave their beds
to share a song of spring from deep within.
Their hearts burst forth to raise our eyes above
and voices deep within the bowels sing.
Their colours bleed into our sight restrained
and push through winter’s ugly residue.
Their perfume fills the air with Flora’s breath
and leads us to a dance beginning life.
In May I blossom as the flowers bud
and together we both welcome Flora’s song.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 26 of Poetry Month 2018

I find I am at peace

I find that I am lost within this day and, finding myself at a loss, find everything
For, if I find myself, I find all parts of me and I am whole again
And as I am whole, and everything is me, I am at peace with loss
The peace I find within this day, this peace is everything; there is no loss at all



© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 25 of Poetry Month 2018

Christopher Robert Matthew Got a Present

There was a house up on a hill in a big city. The house was old,
but it was home to a mommy, a daddy,
and a boy named Christopher Robert Matthew.
Chris was 8 and he could read, and he wanted a dog for his birthday. The hill was steep,
but it was fun in the winter when there was snow and Chris wanted a sled for his birthday.
The city was loud, but Grandma Barnes liked to visit family and friends,
bring surprises in her big suitcase, and Chris wanted a bike for his birthday.

When Chris woke up on his birthday, his mommy and daddy were gone, and
Grandma made his breakfast. And then she made his lunch. And no one came by with presents.
But at 5 o’clock, the front door opened, and in walked, a mommy, a daddy,
and a white basket covered a blanket.

So, Chris didn’t get a dog, a sled, or a bike for his birthday. He got a baby sister, and
he thought that was just fine.



© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 24 of Poetry Month 2018

A gift can be anything. What some people see as life continuing on, others see as a gift. After yesterday in Toronto, everything is now a gift to me. Here is mine to you.

You Gave to Me a Life 

You were my mother, gave birth to me
when all alone. You kept me warm and
fed me inspiration to succeed. You didn’t know
you set me on my chosen path, you kept me
isolated. I thank you for your choices,
not all right, not all fair, not all accepted.

You were my friend, though secrets always were
between us. You never pressed. You didn’t want
to know my path to hell as you would call it. You thought
my path was yours to mold. I had to make mistakes
to understand my future, forgive my past. I see you now,
long passed, as someone I would like to ask tough questions of;
now I would press for answers. (I wish I had back then.)

© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 22 and 23 of Poetry Month 2018

Pantoum of the Future

The day’s begun with promise and
with joy. All sunlight breaks through
windows of ice and glaciers
showing off the majestic Rockies.

With joy, all sunlight breaks through
misery and painful memories,
showing off the majestic Rockies.
Our days begins anew.

Misery and painful memories,
thought hidden from reality, breaks forth.
Our days begin anew
and work begins again to heal.

Thought hidden from reality, breaks forth
the power of precious few
and work begin again to heal.
This day will see the end of sorrow.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

To Hold the Jar

The blacksmith forged a woman, desired by all
Given in marriage, gifted with a jar; contents unknown
released by curiosity, all evils are released
And we still pay the price for weaknesses 
of those cannot just leave our selves alone


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 21 of Poetry Month 2018

Dissociative 

Your name floats to the surface inside my head
whenever I hear “in The Air Tonight”. Your coat
became a blanket for my soul, a reader’s digest
of a boat trip through Asia where the tropical
gardens hid atrocities. Your words spoke loudly;
showed me how I lived on the outer edges of
present day reality. Your helpful split cut me
in pieces that I could not band back together
for years. You forced me to listen with my ears
and feel with a heart, confused and childlike.

© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 20 of Poetry Month 2018

Happy Anniversary

It would make no sense to call you when you are right downstairs
sitting in the den, doing the taxes (hopefully).
But speaking to you at a distance is always somewhat easier;

when you are there, I find I cannot say the words that I so need to say,
partially because they will hit you like a ton of bricks (and I don’t want to hurt your feelings),
partially because even after all these years, I still don’t think you know me.

There are still things about you that surprise me; why not, people change
even when they don’t think they have. I know I have.
I’ve become more cautious; I speak my mind now when I used to keep my mouth shut.

Today is a day like any other and yet it’s not. Not for me and not for you.
For on this day in 1985, we said I do. And then we did, and we still do
sometimes.



© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 19 of Poetry Month 2018

First Laundry

New jeans bleed blue when washed. White socks don’t stay that way
when washed with other colours. Wool sweaters shrink if dried with towels
in 50-cent dryer load. I learned so much that first time I did my own laundry.
Away from home and responsible for myself, I thought I knew the ways of the world;
I knew nothing at all. My mother spoiled me each and every day. She made my breakfast,
lunch, and dinner from birth to age 19. I thought I knew the score; I sure did not.
I struggled those few months away at school two hours from my home. She struggled too.
The only child walked out the door, and spread her wings, and crashed and burned.
Then I stood up, and dusted myself off, and ploughed ahead
as everyone as us will do when we leave home
to feed ourselves
and do the weekly laundry.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 18 of Poetry Month 2018

Who am I?

What do you see
when you look at me?
Am I a lonely penguin
on the icy shore of Antarctica’s western edge,
protecting the one chick delivered
in the brightest day of summer?
Am I a mute swan
stately and serene,
adrift by day along those lazy streams of life
as long as the mighty Fraser?
Am I a coastal otter,
sleek and sly and
playful as the environment erodes
to push a fast extinction?
Am I a right whale
searching for a safer harbour and
protection for the youngest of the pod,
but knowing that the end of days is near?

No, I’m only a female of the human species,
questioning the reasons things happen as they do
and how can help stop it.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 17 of Poetry Month 2018

Bequeath Life’s Wisdom Before Life’s End

Within the minutes of this day,
bring forth the dew of one forgotten morning,
glorious in its dawn,
mellow in its tune, and
add parts of you and me without remorse.
Stir well with spoons
made of all our treasured wishes,
lost in the sacred fabric of our youth.
Sift in a teaspoon of respect,
lay out to rise as
time weaves into all those moments
that we forgot but should remember.
Give us the full-blown wisdom of old age
when we could use it better.

© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 16 of Poetry Month 2018

I wasn't sure sure what to call this. One possibility was Abortion. That seemed too harsh.

I lived; She didn’t

“Come to church”, my mother says politely.
I shake my head. She frowns, “Why not? You haven’t
left the house in days. You should get out, talk to people
your own age.” Well, that has done it! She’s brought it up
again. I wish that she would just keep her mouth …
“No! No! No! No!”, I yell, and then I rant for the fifteenth time today
“I do not need to talk to people my own age. I do not need you
hovering over me, making cups of tea and sandwiches,
massaging my stiff neck, hugging me when you think
I need another hug from you. I do not need your constant waiting
on me (hand and foot), your constant reminder
that I’ve been through something awful, your constant nagging
that I need to talk to God. That He will help through the pain and
set me straight. That I just need to open up my heart and soul …”
Then I collapse into a nearby chair and start balling once again.
And you pick up your purse and head on out the door, keys clicking,
heels knocking, tsking as you do when I don’t submit to your will
and follow my own path towards self-forgiveness and tomorrow.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 15 of Poetry Month 2018

Be reflective, he said. Okay, I said.

The mirror cracked

I see myself
without the layers.
Extending past the edges, I am not pretty.
I am not pure, but purity is so circumspect these days.
Were prophets always perfect in their thoughts and words and deeds?
Was there no vice through which even the most holy man (or woman) spilt a lie?
So how you hold me up to reflect perfection if perfection is not attainable within our time?
Was there no vice through which even the most holy man (or woman) built a lie?
Were prophets always perfect in their thoughts and wards and deeds?
I am not pure, but purity is so retrospect these days.
Extending past the edges, I am so gritty.
Without the layers,
I see myself.

© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 14 of Poetry Month 2018

A Lake and Me

The lake is still reflective of surrounding beauty,
reflective as it shows a forest grown,
as children grow beside it to their future.
A future that marks a path of time and space,
a time where every day is new,
a space where our eyes weep unforgiven, and
I see with open eyes those expected promises reside.
Open to the possibilities beyond the door and window;
it is the door I seek to find,
and I know when it is there right before me.
If it is closed, my hand will turn the knob
and we will see the lake together, if in its glory still.

© 2018 Catherine Woods

Day 13 of Poetry Month 2018

Your music leads me to my ancient home
      for Loreena

You

wore wine

 I wore green.

 Incandescent

sky, mint-blue grasses

joined; one inspiration,

one chalice. You lured me through

a portal to your history.

Senses overwhelmed with mandolin

and harp. Moons crescent by standing

stones; spirits gather, relieved,

I am returned. Concrete

shadows have gone soft.

No mists on the

rolling hills,

remain

still.

© Catherine Woods 1998, 2018
 

Day 12 of Poetry Month 2018

The muse is in her element today.

A Gift Given, Another Gift Received

Starting with a line from Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins

I asked them to take a poem
one they had never read before
and write out, in long hand, to get the rhythm
and to evoke their muse. They stared back at me,
uncomfortable and unhappy in the way a child is,
when asked to say thank you for a gift they do not
like or want. They grumbled as they took out pencils
to the task unwelcome, but they did as I requested.

And then they grew amazed, as time went on, at what they found
upon the papers set before them; not a miracle, but presents
unexpected nonetheless. And after the set time was spent,
a class of mostly smiling faces spread before me. Many periods
of discussion will surely now ensue, and I would see a
newfound book of poets every day at noon for weeks to come.

© Catherine Woods 2018

11th day of Poetry Month

What You Want and What I Need are Two Different Things

1.
What is change?
Required disruption.
Not what was before.
Upsetting.
Change is coming
and I cannot sleep.
I cannot stop it,
nor do I want to,
but neither am I happy.
It’s so confusing.
You say, ‘Change helps us grow’.
You say, ‘Change makes us better’.
I want to accept the change,
but it means I’m not in control
and I need control.
So, I try to accept the need for change.
I will make statements & decisions, perform actions & tasks
that will seem illogical
but this is how I cope—
with change.

2.
I need there to be a plan,
for what will happen in the future.
So, I know what’s going to happen,
where I am going,
where you are going.
You may have plans, but I don’t know them so that makes me
ANXIOUS.
I don’t need the whole plan,
I just need to know that there is 1.
I just need to know you’re ready for change,
‘Cause the only thing that’s constant in this world is
change.

So People, can we talk?


© Catherine Woods 2018

10th day of Poetry Month 2018

I do not follow rules imposed by others very well these days.

Forcing a square peg into a round hole

I am not green
I am not blue
I am not happy with these shoes

I cannot sing
I cannot dance
I will give up, not do this prance

I will not utter please and thank you
I will not make this poem true

You cannot make drive a car
You cannot send me to star

I will not follow your directions
But rather search for intersections

Anagrams are not my friend
My rhyme and rhythm do not blend

I’ll set sail on my own path
Not worried to incur your wrath



© 2018 Catherine Woods

9th day of Poetry Month 2018

Religiously Free

     For Anna

My cathedral is an open meadow;
Its roof is the crisp blue sky, its floor holds
Wild grasses, overgrown and baked by an August sun.
My clergy are grasshoppers and ants,
With cicada choirboys covering the silence
With everlasting joy.
My hymn is my own life,
Starting out quiet and slow,
Building gradually
Until I reach nirvana.
My god is my god,
Not your god,
Not your God.
My god cannot be shared,
For she is in me.


© January 14, 2012

8th day of Poetry Month

Missed two days! OMG

Well here's 8th poem with 6th and 7th afterwards.

Hail to the Broncos

       Dedicated to the hockey players and coaches of the Humboldt Broncos, who died or were injured in an accident on Friday, April 6, 2018

Your team was blessed with awesome talent
as you were in the playoffs again this year.
All hair dyed blond together,
all brothers passing pucks, now
all of us are weeping loudly at your loss.
Your moms and dads cry also for the games
they will not see, the graduations
they will not attend, the grandchildren’s lives
they will not witness. You may be gone,
but never forgotten by the country, because
you played our game, the hockey on frozen ponds.
The town will continue forward, for to admit defeat would not occur anyone
in Saskatchewan’s fair city at the crossroads of Highways 20 and 5.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Return to Beauty 

Slowly, courageously spent, the girl
regains her former grace; rebirth itself
brings its own reward. Not long ago she saw the world
as a young maid in a long blue gown; then circumstances
cast out her beauty as age reflects another’s jealousy as
mirrors do for those who cannot take perfection’s fail.
A kindness from within is fairest of them all; and beauty’s truth
is but a question for those unanswered:
Where do you go when you need time to think about the future?


© 2018 Catherine Woods

A Visit

As I sit cross-legged on the Moon, I see
the big blue marble, less like a solid ball 
(from eons past), more like an orange now,
overripe and caked in mold. An self-infected orb
with life unchecked, the change since my last visit staggers me,
and now I fear the lessons were not learned, and bullies rule
throughout all realms. But as an optimist, I will attend,
but from afar, and hope that those who also see the future
worth fighting for will carry on until all black is white and
all differences are gone.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

5th day of Poetry Month

The Gloaming

The day runs down like children down a hill 
among the greening meadows. Irish ancestors call to me
through mighty stands of Hawthorne; luscious laughter
brought on by ancient stories told as
smooth pebbles in a well-worn shoe.
Carlow wishes all a pleasant sleep until the morrow.
Close your eyes to the majestic permanence of Kelly green
to dream of family spectors brought down by unrequited love.
Hold close my heart, or it will break in pieces
as sirens whisper pleas in coming darkness,
bewitched at twilight by the blood within.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

4th day of Poetry Month 2018

We are all just vessels

Words
that I fear
must be spoken aloud,
written down for all to see.
I am old
I will die
All of us will die
someday
unexpectedly.

The time will come for all of us to sleep forever.

And we mustn’t fight this change

as we fight other changes 

like divorce or layoffs or restorations.

We must accept this reality

as we accept a new Starbucks tea latte 

or a new Netflix film

in a nonchalant manner

as we toss out a tea bag.

We’re all going to leave this reality.

It’s inevitable. 

It’s black and white like a chess set.

It’s red as blood, green as grass, blue as the sky.

We’re all going to die

But it is not the end, it’s just the 

beginning of another journey

in a different place to go to

where change is change

and death is only part of the journey there.

© 2018 Catherine Woods 

3rd day of Poetry Month 2018

Today's prompt is 'Against'. I'm against so many things these days, so I picked something that critical and necessary.

Against Bias

I see you standing in the line-up at the bus shelter,
hiding behind the construction workers
chatting about their high-rise job. I see you
keeping quiet, trying to blend in, reading your Qur’an,
its’ blessed text, its’ words of wisdom, your life’s daily ritual.
But if I see you, so will the others, so will
the anti-Muslim voices, who wish no strangers
in their midst, in their subdivisions, in their malls.
Then a confrontation cracks
the silence of waiting and some giant yells at you,
and you step back
right into me. Then I yell back,
causing a scene, asking his friends to pick sides,
bringing our reality to a line-up at a bus shelter.

I have your back, friend. Welcome home.


© Catherine Woods 2018
 

2nd day of Poetry Month 2018

Sometimes things happen and you just have to comment immediately. Months later you are still pleased with what you said. That's a great feeling.

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 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 feeding 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

1st day of Poetry Month 2018

Cathedral Grove, Vancouver Island

Holy be those Douglas fir,
uplifting the ivory-cirrus skies;
their feet buried 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 strong 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 2018

Shocked but not shocked

An online article (at https://www.vancouverisawesome.com/2018/03/29/breastfeeding-hockey-player-canada/) prompted me to write this short piece.

Breastfeeding in Public

A hockey player feels the wrath of the uninitiated;
Men and woman alike complain.
For shame that you should treat a mother’s touch
with such anger and abuse.
Grow up and see as all as human beings,
not as sexual objects of the greedy or
sacrifices of the religious right.
It’s 2018 and it’s time for you to change.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Fruit of my labours after attending Room 2018 workshops

Prompts are so useful when the muse isn't visiting.

Objects

After Fanny Howe’s Out There

Manitoba is a street in East Van
Ontario is a street in East Van
Quebec is a street in East Van

A province is a province is a province

One seagull
Two seagulls
Four seagulls dive-bomb laneway garbage bins

Iron gates block you out of everything 

Iron gates hold you into the reality that is East Van

A palm tree

A bamboo

Separated by a road, a store, eternity, all time

A photographer takes many photos

Of two young women in front of a green door

Two jars of pickled beets on the sidewalk

capture the attention

of passersby (namely me)

reminding us of grannies and

smelly kitchens in 1973

© Catherine Woods 2018

The Feather

Along the beach

the water laps,

stones litter,

a single feather (crow, I think)

lies

gracefully,

a diamond among

particles of yellow sand,

a dream among

nightmares inching round,

a sweetness among

the salty coastal waters

of the Salish Sea.

A caw retains its seriousness,

permits a secret,

bring forth my attention

to this place,

quiet,

still,

almost death-like,

nearly sleeping,

solitary

in its oneness,

black

in its colour,

calling me and others,

but only I hear its song,

the others are deaf

to its caw.

Maybe the ancestors 

left it here,

a bridge to past injustices,

a bridge to hope intuitive,

a calm before the storm.

© Catherine Woods 2018

We're doing a really bad job ....

Caretakers

We are the caretakers, and bad ones at that. We’re lazy and apathetic,
leaving dog poop on other people lawns and using plastic grocery bags.
We can’t even take good care of our own bodies that are filled with toxins
and cancers and parts that are even biological. We’ve become stupid with time
instead of learning to all live in harmony. We’re killing our home and each other, and
we don’t seem to want to fix the problem. Whoever left us here to take care of this utopia
is going to be very angry when they get back and see what we did.

We were very bad caretakers. We didn’t learn a thing.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

 

A different perspective: That's what I offer you

I’m a White Woman and I Want to be Heard Too

I am so tired of hearing that every woman of colour is not being heard.
Well I hear you. And I’m sorry you’re depressed, but stop complaining and
do something about it. You want to yell at me to get moving too, yes, go ahead.
I admit I’ve been sitting on my butt for too long. I admit I’ve been ignoring you.
I did not see your issues as my issues.  I did not see past the skin to the person underneath,
the person who’s tired of fighting and praying, and being forgotten. I now see
you as the treasure you are and I want to join with you . Let’s get together and win.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

Drifting Perspective

Where do I begin 

to grab your attention? With blood and knives 

or sunlight, warmth, and fresh grasses

knee-deep in summertime splendour. With your sister’s

2-year old or grandpa’s cigar Os drifting off

across the homestead veranda. Breathe in the lilacs’ sweet perfume.

Perceive the gentleness of bumble bees buzzing by.

Are you with me here and now, standing out in full sun of June or

hiding from the world’s ridiculousness undercover? Be brave

and open your mouth, craft those words and speak your peace; be brave

and plan out your future. Don’t let the giants throw you over the falls.

Bear your soul and join hands with all of us who foresee a future that is not

the one we wanted. Stand in front of that Tiananmen tank! March down Pennsylvania Avenue 

to make the world that place where you’d want your children to live in! 

Show humanity that humanity’s worth saving!  

© 2018 Catherine Woods

It's time

Too many people are sitting around and not saying anything. Not doing their part, not opening their mouths, and letting their issues be known.

Well it's time to speak up.

Man, You’re Not Listening

You offer me soft tissues and pink razors.
You open the door in front of me and stand
when I enter the room. You hide the ugliness and
filth from my eyes, but you won’t
give me a break or
equal pay for equal work, or
my right to protect my own body.

I want to be considered a welcome partner in this world, but
you don’t see my choices or reasons as mine to make or
mine to give. You just want all of the power. You just want
all of the glory. You just want a world full of men just like you.

Well, sorry bud, it don’t work that way.



© 2018 Catherine Woods

Another letter to my mother about the world today

Quick Letter to Mom

I wrote a letter to you in March 2012.
You’d been gone for six years then.
Now six years later, in 2018, I’m writing again.
You are never far from my thoughts,
though sometimes I wish you were.
You wouldn’t like the world now;
too many conflicts, not enough listening,
too little praying, everyone out for themselves.
Togetherness has been lost in a world
of smartphones and online porn.
Probably best you can’t see my tattoo.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

I Missed My Mother's Birthday

I Missed Your Birthday

January 16th came and went without pause.
You aren’t here, so I forgot your birthday.
So close to Christmas, presents were usually unsurprising
or undesired frivilousness. Chocolate was not an option
in the later years; you’d lost whatever ‘sweet tooth’ you had.
I’m not sure when you lost your desire to live. You seemed
so happy after Father’s difficult passing on. You struck out on you own:
bought a condo, a new car, and travelled. Then it was gone too soon,
losing your grip on happiness. I think you were lonely as all your friends
had left this earth or lived thousands of miles away. You went when you
couldn’t hold on any longer; what you were holding on for, I will never know.
Maybe you wanted to tell me ‘your secret’. I wish you had.
Then I could give you the best birthday present ever,
my forgiveness and my love forever.


© 2018 Catherine Woods

New Year, New Path, Same Determination

Past Todays

Today opens with promise and a brightness free born
Today will end with a wolf moon and cold like dark chocolate
In between may the hours envelop all reality with a permanence of purpose
And a late mother’s warmest hug.


© 2018 Catherine Woods