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