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