The line aren't that blurred

Hidden Lines

How is it that I see you standing in line at the checkout
but you don’t see me? Am I covered by the invisible cloak called racism
or an underused one called sexism? Are you blind to those
who don’t look like you? Then you’re in a line by yourself.

Open your eyes and see what’s standing beside you, in line
for a coffee, a passport, a car loan. We breathe as you do. And yes
we bleed. We welcome our neighbours to join us for prayers or
watch the league championship on a big screen TV.

Are you afraid of what we appear to be, not from your home town,
coloured from a new box of crayons, created by merging the lines
of humanity that started when we left the trees to cross the vast landscape
in front of us? Or are you just unhappy to be ‘woke’ on this fine day?


© June 2019

Happy Father's Day Dad

The Perfectionist

My father helped me write a poem once; well
maybe I should say that he wrote the poem and
I transcribed it on a piece of foolscap paper.

The assignment was to write about some bears,
every other line had to rhyme; each stanza had to have
four lines; there had to be four stanzas. I was in Grade 4.

My father was a perfectionist, so the poem
had to be just so, just like every poem he had read
when he was young in a British public school.

I don’t remember what the teacher said about my work,
or the mark I got. My only clear memory of it all was
that father didn’t want to let me fail, at anything.

I wonder what he’d think of what I’ve written now.
He’d probably try to fix it.


© June 2019

Still writing, still growing, still open

Mentorship

She said write about what you know
I said I know nothing, that’s why I’m taking this course
That’s why I’m putting myself out there
That’s why I’m attending this mic-nite
That’s why my knees are knocking, and my palms are sweating

She said to start simple and just write, don’t edit
I said but my spelling’s atrocious and rhyming just isn’t my thing
Structure just isn’t my thing
Interaction just isn’t my thing
Spilling my guts and revealing my slip-ups just isn’t my thing

“She is a birch, a hazel”, she quoted this poet I’d never heard of
and waited for me to reply. I shook my head, said “no idea”, to which
she whispered, faint and remote, “a straight slender young rowan”
as she turned, walking away. I stood there in awe, I stood there expecting
a rush of excitement, I stood there at a loss for how to continue

to think I could write poetry. When I tried to leave, completely dejected,
the woman in the ratty pullover and tattered jeans at the back of the room
stopped me. “Don’t go. Don’t give her the idea that she’s broken you.
Don’t give up so fast”. I shook my head with a “Maybe she’s right. Maybe
I’m out of my league”. To which she replied, “She was once just like you.

Unsure and afraid of making mistakes. She persevered. She strived. She worked
her butt off. She made the words blossom, the lines flow, the poems express
the pictures she saw in her head. I should know for I am her mother, and she has
made me so proud. Sit here, next to me. She’ll stop by after she’s ripped
into the rest of them. She’ll talk and you’ll listen and learn. You’ll grow”.


© June 2019

Limericks

Hadn't realized I haven't posted lately. Here's a few.

Hippie Dippy

I tie-dyed a T shirt today
Rinsed out with cold water, okay
Made it blue and green
No white to be seen
The seventies look’s here to stay


© June 2019

D-Day 1944

Over the ocean and years ago,
a battle was fought, rescue was slow.
Many friends (they were lost)
did not know the cost
of the sacrifice made to stop foe.


© June 2019

Kicked Out

The sun is awash with mystery
The moon shows fully its history
Pluto no more
Stays with the core
The residual planets aren’t sisterly


© June 2019