For shame. I've forgotten to post.

Just realized I haven't posted since last May. I'll try to be better in future.

Dust to Dust

Someone let a fly inside the house

instead of inviting death

in sorrow, perhaps it was a lonely gasp before,

(folded three times)

that morning has returned.

The deepest oceans, darkest seas

from the fingers that still type using only three at a time. If only

a perfect circle getting closer,

a vast expanse of empty-

less mom-and-pop corner stores,

unconvincingly

today. What have I done?

Arrive filled with anxiety

just to see you, to say hello,

to say goodbye and

and I praise.  

Old cushions to be tossed next week

among the willow branches,

they will not witness. You may be gone,

the closing of your story.

© May 2021

Glosas at Teatime

I’ve missed my chance to invite you to afternoon tea

at the Empress Hotel on Government Street,

where the service is exquisite and the cups and plates

washed by hand, a sign of another time 

when the world was isolated and people easily hidden.

Being originally from England, you would appreciate

the place settings with live flowers and linen tablecloths,

the regal portrait of the Queen centrally hung among the starkness

of white walls and blonde chairs, spaced apart to give the effect

of a private conservatory with rolling-green countryside views.

We might have spoken of your travels across this country as well

as Mexico, where you lived while your husband was Ambassador 

or of the years when you took up visual art and let the poet

sleep or dream as images revealed themselves upon the canvas.

But you returned to Oak Bay to gather words together, yours and others,

to create an example of poetic form that I wish that I could craft

as you did in Holograms. I am so jealous I could cry.

© June & August 2021

Prince Edward Island

grains of rusty sand, flecks off the Teapot, sparkle loudly

upon Thunder Cove beach, many red-rock Inushuks 

saluting the Gulf of St Lawrence, fields of iron-rich soil 

full of potatoes for shipment off island,

by truck now there’s a two-lane bridge across the Strait 

Canada’s smallest province welcomes 

more than one million tourists (to eat lobster and 

visit Anne of Green Gables’ farmhouse)

© October 2019 & August 2021

Mother's Day - Looking Back

 I wrote this poem last year. Every year on Mother's Day I think about my Mother even though she's gone. She was my best friend and I miss her dearly.

Oh, Hello Mother 

For Mother’s Day 2020

It’s good you are not here

for you would worry. You’d call me 
every day
to ask me how I am and
if the girls were fine and
if grocery store was busy and
what was out of stock. You’d call me
every day
to make sure I was eating well and ask
when was Garry was coming home again and
if I’d seen the news about the prices going up and
what we had for dinner. You’d call me
every day
to tell me what movie you’d watched and
who you’d played cribbage with and 
how you enjoyed the visit to the gardens to 
see the tulips and rhododendrons in bloom. You’d call me
every day
because you’re bored, 
because you’re anxious,
because it’s all too much for you to handle.
It’s good you are not here to worry.

© May 2020

Being Brave Enough To Put Yourself Out There

 Imperfection–The Me I Love The Most

The words I wrote before are gone, copied to another file

for later times, for cloudy days. I start again to craft 

an image on this page, to present my thoughts as I go forward, 

to begin anew as if to reveal the book of everything I’ve done,

to shock reality within to come without a barrier, to flush

my wounds in private rooms inside my head. Alone I cry not,

but yell into the darkness, desire that you wrestle me into 

a caring warm embrace. Then I’ll begin again to heal.

© May 2021

Clematis in May

Spindly vines weave through the trellis,

year after year, taking over, erupting in

delicate buds of pink and white, that after sun

become a pride of petals, rotating as the light

scoots across the sky from east to west. Flowers

still pink and white emit joy until slivers of green

peak out, grow to leaves and hide the latticework

until autumn breaks forth and the cycle begins again.

© May 2021

NaPoWriMo 2021 is over

 

Shades of Blue

                Thanks to Cristy Watson for the workshop

 

The deepest oceans, darkest seas

Your expressive eyes staring at bridesmaids

The last shirt you wore to the office

Those berries we bought by the roadside

Aunt Amy’s house trim on McKinnon Street

The sky on that day I met you, alone

A feeling after watching Forest Gump

The colour of the sheets on the bed where you told me

A dog, a flower, and a kind of chair in Allan Gardens

Raspberry popsicles bought on a whim

Your handkerchief found in the bottom drawer

The suitcase where I packed all your clothes

Crescent Beach in April when the tide is high

My heart until I forgive you for leaving me alone

 

© August 2018 & April 2021

Ode to Uncle Betty’s Diner

 

So called American fare on a famous Canadian street,

patio dining for Sunday brunch before the crowds.

 

Always eggs benedict, smothered with hollandaise,

so involved in conversation, I ate much too fast.

 

Dawdled over a second cup in the bright summer sun.

Not sure when we’ll both get here again: I live out west,

Jane back home to Ottawa. Not even a photo to remember.

 

© April 2021

The Essence of BC

 

Wolf Deer Coyote

Bear Raven Frog

Beaver Orca Seal

 

Ridge Mountain Valley

Erratic Drumlin Valley

Island Desert Plains

 

River Creek Stream

Bay Inlet Hot-springs

Lake Ocean Narrows

 

Redwood Douglas-fir Spruce

Birch Hawthorn Arbutus

Cedar Jackpine Hemlock

 

Capital Cities Towns

Villages Communities Localities

Reserves Landings Crossroads

 

© April 2021

About the Middle of NaPoWriMo

 Almost April 15th, so I thought I'd post a few recent poems.

Canada

North to the arctic circle onto a vast expanse of empty
East to the fiddle, lobster, Barrett’s Privateers
South to a ribbon of population stripping the nation bare
West to sea wolves, spirit bears, the raven, the orca 

© April 2021

Limitations

Like a person,

boundaries are visible though easily hidden,

permeable as a rain drop,

rigid like carrot cake until you attack it with a fork,

soft as snow but easily disturbed,

showing age harshly.

If only a vacuum preserved life

instead of inviting death.

Like boundaries,

people are invisible like glass,

a paradox of openings you can see through at 3pm,

yet the rain will wash away reflections to break free

into a river of limitations by 10.

© April 2021

Ucluelet

Black rock—white foam
Yellow sun—turquoise ocean 
Rough bark—soft mosses
Gentle breezes—gale-force winds
Stoney bench at low tide—crashing swells at high
Acres of untouched cedars—encroaching new modern architecture 

Stolen ancestral lands—pricey satirical splendour
Forgotten First Nations—millionaire American customers
Sitka spruce at 96 m, 600 years old—cell phone tower at 60 m, 2 years old
Arrive filled with anxiety—leave bathed in tranquility

© April 2021

International Women's Day 2021

 

Why Only For Just One Day

                In Honour of International Women’s Day 2021 and for my Mother

 For you Mother, I will stand and fight for meaningful jobs. I will write to the Mayor, who I did not vote for, and tell him how I feel about his position on Indigenous land acknowledgement. I will write to the Premier, who I did vote for, and tell how I feel on his position on pipelines and dam projects and how he he’s been a bad dad for not considering his children’s future and what his position will leave for his grandchildren’s livelihood. I will write to the Prime Minister and talk about how his memory is faulty and ours is not, and that he promised us a proportional representative government, then went back on his word and did what his friends wanted. I will buy local fruits and vegetables from women-run groceries and baked goods from small business in my neighbourhood. I will read women’s stories and pass on women’s ideas on this day and every day onwards. Because it seems that I need to ‘raise my game’ so that all other women will also. For you Mother, I will write down these words as you did not feel you could voice your opinion yourself. For you Mother, I will continue to write my words and yours tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that and ...

 

© March 2021

A new year, new behaviours

 In Future

For Helen

Now that I have your attention

(in a chair, hands bound, mouth gagged)

I can discuss the way forward

(not really a discussion, more of a lecture)

In future, you will stop what you’re doing when I speak to you 

(and sit quietly)

You will not interrupt, you will not look at your phone 

(which I have hidden in the library on the first floor)

When I have finished talking, you will be allowed to ask one question

(maybe two)(it really depends on my mood)

After my answer, I will depart, leaving you to contemplate your existence

(of course, I will be back at some point to untie you)( it really depends on my mood)

Firstly, dirty dishes, washing-up, and running the dishwasher

© January 2021 

November Poems

Chopin at 4 am

Echoes of a nocturne rise above the keys,

arias remit requited love but are not lost forever.

I sing, though out of tune, not out of time

I sing to reach you far away beyond the mortal coil, 

beyond the edges of reality, just past

tomorrow, where I sit lazily and wait for 

progress. I realize that touch is voices magnified,

forgotten waiting for the train, its whistle wakes the dead,

chords announce last memories of you, of me

together merely sitting, my hands clasped, watching for

the striking of the eighty-eight, your fingers stretching out

to stir emotions cast long ago, begin again the Prelude 

to reflect the perfection of a raindrop.

© November 2020

April in Paris

No spoken words between us, only the echo of tones, 

vibrations for another afternoon, quietly approaching 

each moment as if dampened by time, seeing only 

the black and white reflected as we sit together 

watching an unknown bird soaring across the avenue, 

as thermals lift our spirits to the next passage, 

building to a sudden crescendo, reaching beyond.

It is only Steinway’s voice we hear as you strike each key,

as you lift each passage from the sheet with care, 

following the master’s instructions without hesitation, 

until you reach the final half-note chord. Never in silence,

Ballade No. 4 colours each occurrence of regret, each lunch

along the Seine, each stroll past the Pyramide du Louvre

where the glass reflects every particle but our love.

© November 2020

Evening 

As clear as a melody in air, I step across

the stream, conscious of regret 

but hopeful that your love repairs all

injury that came before our fated union

in the night where all the blackness,

hidden by the hour, cuts deep. 

Every note—quarter, half or whole—within the nocturne 

blends and binds the skin of resolution so any open wounds

will fade as the keys you play support and strengthen 

that which I now believe myself to be. Completely yours. 

© November 2020

In the middle of so many events

 Trapped Everywhere

Back again out west after only 6 weeks,

he has escaped the red zone of gym closures,

groups of only family members,

no trick-or-treating for the youngsters,

only take-out from restaurants again.

Mandatory masks here, there, and everywhere inside.

Headline: Ontario—There’s a run on regular flu shots, up 500% over last year

He flew back home yesterday morning, but 

our numbers are rising as well (official word at 3pm).

Do we say he’s now trapped here? Until January at least

when he flies east again to pack up belongings, 

sell his car to a friend instead of shipping it back 

(pays for the move and other incidentals, like food).

 Headline: BC has recorded its 3 HIGHEST COVID-19 case days ever

© November 2020

SAD

There is no way to grip 

to push hard, to reach 

past boundaries of forgotten

issues and emotions;

black is absence,

black is untrue.

It is dark and I see no things

with which to grab, no pivot point

to claim an anchor for this body,

this consciousness,

black is hell,

black is a deep dark hole exposed.

Sunlight pulls me out of

nightmares, future crises;

yellow sun, bright with hope and

laughter, singing Hallelujah as K.D.

brought us out of troubled times,

voices blended to lift us all out onto

a golden path to joyfulness.

© October 2020

Untitled

Sorrow is a small grey bird that flits and swoops about 

the meadow that is quickly disappearing from our land.

Fury is a large cat that is endangered and dangerous,

feminine and feline, regal and ruddy, gaunt and haughty.

Time is that furry mammal that downs the majestic birch 

to build a home for her ever-increasing colony of kits.

Happiness is a cetacean that carries her dead calf for 17 days 

in mourning and then give birth a year later to a healthy male.

© October 2020

 Beyond Repair

Tossing her manuscript into the air,

the poet kneels upon the ground and weeps,

expecting perfect words to flow,

to mask her white hair, grey eyes, sorrow;

acceptance that she wished for

became invisible in the sun,

the loss of face reflected in

his words, not hers, quoted throughout time. 

His words, not hers, quoted throughout time

reflected in the loss of face,

became invisible in the son’s

acceptance that she wished for,

to mask her white hair, grey eyes, sorrow;

expecting perfect words to flow,

the poet kneels upon the ground and weeps,

tossing her manuscript into the air.

© October 2020

The Written Word

For William, Billy, and Jericho whose words transported me

a red wheelbarrow full of sweet, cold plums

Where to begin to weave a tale with scenery and characters,

a noble city herein, an everlasting love with passion there

among the ruins of wars fought by men who fail to contemplate

a truce, a blending of the branches, two families with power and monies,

bold and criminal. A pattern repeated throughout the centuries, 

a collection of the thoughts, words, and deeds of heroes, set forth with

an addictive tune, to infiltrate, to permeate, to sway the people to a side.

tied to a chair with rope, the poetry exists

Daily massacres replace a lasting peace far down the road, a boy or girl

question who regains control and who designs the battlements and

why we follow fools who wear pajamas. Should we not reclaim our sanity,

rise-up and ask forgiveness of our mother earth before the planet crumbles, 

cracks open by the increasing greediness, those that only care about 

themselves (secretly saying no one else deserve to live). How lonely they’ll be 

when the rest of us are dead and buried.

a burgundy car sits amid bullet points in the worst winter

© October 2020

Today's Readings

 Again today, I was able to read my words for others and it was wonderful.

Ambleside Fog

after photograph by Jason Cyr 11/02

Under eerie darkened skies

she creeps

spinning her web of sweet deception

alone; she sees 

the dawn of each new day’s reward.

The blades of grass left short by diminished daylight,

left undisturbed by all but 

fairy wings that flutter through as

whimsical lyrics, visible to only artists, paramours, and thieves.

Her arias sweep away their misty past acquaintances,

and eye the stormy air ahead. She waits (as cats lives everlasting)

to dream and feel refreshed as warmth returns 

her to her fabled resting place.

Among the clouds, she drifts for yet another chance

to live, to venture forth, to know her own existence.

© 2002 & March 2020

Beneath the Porch Light, Marlene

Leaning against the front porch post,

dragging on a cigarette like Marlene,

you ignore the cancer eating away 

at your lungs, but I cannot. I want to 

slap you, shake you, yell at you to stop, 

but you have not. In denial, your bad habits

run your life, ruin my memories of

my favourite uncle, who introduced me to

Caesar salad and diesel cars before 

they were cool. Who you lived with, 

what you were did not matter to me, 

I loved you just the same. Three years ago,

I left a note at your final resting place, 

shaded by stands of birch and aspen.

A chickadee choir sang matins.

© September 2020

Immorality

From ‘Still I Rise’ by Maya Angelou 

The simple truth is I want the easy way out. You 

say there is no easy way to anywhere, but may

I disagree.  I feel compelled to write

the truth upon this page; don’t expect me 

to be kind. So glad I live so far from hell, down-

town east side in the city of Vancouver, in 

the country I will always call my home. History

will show I tried to milk my station fully, with 

the best of my abilities to shape the world, your 

world, without the lies -- crass and bitter --

to injure those less fortunate than me, those twisted 

by the privileged few who hold the monies and spew the lies.

The simple truth is I am afraid to die. You 

say we all die, every person on this planet, but may 

I clarify. Whereupon this rocky road we bravely trod 

with thoughtfulness besides, yes you and me, 

and while we play within the rules in 

everything that carries weight, the 

pressure to be the top, the very 

top, to leave the world better than just dirt

under the shoes of the underprivileged. But 

in the far-forgotten centuries beyond, I hope we still

become space explorers like 

we once were and transform us past star’s dust

remembering who we loved last and I'll 

expect on some remote earth, its moon will even rise.

© August 2020

Rereading Old Poems , Finding Gems

I'm rereading old poems to find lines. Why you ask? I recently heard about a new poem called the 'Duplex' developed by Jericho Brown, and I'm trying my hand at it as an exercise in writing in a form. Not something I usually do. In rereading I've found a few great poems that I'm putting out here.

Being Stardust Again

Thanks to Katie Mack

It is any night and you are stardust.

Yes, you are made of stars. Yes, you.

All the carbon, oxygen, and nitrogen that is in you, 

that was all made in stars; atoms that a star forged inside itself 

or at the moment of its unimaginably violent death, are in you.

Most of your atoms were forged in the Big Bang itself. And you 

are the ashes of the Big Bang. At every imaginable level, you are 

a creation of the Universe, vast and beautiful.

So if we start as ashes of the Big Bang, it only seems right 

that we also end as ashes; to become that which we were. 

To think most are missing out on all this wonder; that is so

their loss.

© Catherine Woods 2018 & 2020

Our Country Wept, Fully, Completely

For Gord

On a sandy beach in the Kawartha Lakes,

driving down a lonely Prairie road,

as certain coastal cities are slowly sinking,

our country wept.

As the Maple Leafs return to glory,

while we reconcile our ancient prejudices, and

accept our own mortality,

our country wept.

In the Coke Machine Glow

of a movie shot out at the speedway

where fire works its magic spell,

our country wept.

© Catherine Woods 2017

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

Late August 2020

 Day, Dark As Night

Today there is no dawn 

for skies are black as night,

with sheets of tattered rain

blurring views of gardens

oversaturated with ennui.

Reflected in the mirror-sky 

greyness fills in with nimbostrati.

a cup of tea to wet the whistle

drowns the spirit, pushes any thoughts

of sunlight out to sea.

Better to close the blinds than

dwell upon another hour of this downpour.

The ever-increasing blackness of sky-clouds

recede to purest raindrops, now full of hope.

Perhaps the sun will reveal itself tomorrow.

© August 2020

Decisions, Decisions

It came before we’d headed out the door

with blankets, buckets, and a beach umbrella, 

covered with pansies and butterflies (it was

your mother’s, not mine). So we sit on the porch

waiting it out, listening to the power of water,

tap tap tapping on the metal roof, gushing through 

the eaves and out the downspout, flooding 

the paths and lawn. Within minutes, the road gutter 

is filled to the top of the curb. Suddenly it’s sunny again, 

and we’re off, forgetting the sandwiches, cheese, and 

pitted cherries on the kitchen counter.

© August 2020

Sober Thought

    In response to Mary’s Expectations

There is no path within the forward passage of our time where wallowing presents a pretty picture. In the back garden, I sit alone with thoughts of hummingbird and finch. Regret utters sadness, and I will cry after reading poetry tossed out to share. I am not mad with the world as it teeters on the wall, its cracks like webs extending. The notebook and pencil by my side, I wait for chickadees to bathe and call all others in to lunchtime rituals. They clear my thoughts and bring my worries to the paper, where they do less harm. In spaces such as these where sunlight casts a shadow on the sundial, I remember words composed by those who minister to souls in crisis, and tears drip down upon my folded hands. Across the lane, the voices of the neighbour’s children interrupt the downward spiral of my discontentment with people’s lack of intellect. And then the sun breaks through the clouds to cast its light upon me and I find my fears are now replaced with glistening cobwebs and seed pods floating in the breeze. 

treading the path to 
daylight, past standing stones that
cast shadows over 
eclipsing moons, stars ask for
the answer: are we alone?  

© August 2020

Last Day of July - Words I've Written Therein

Uncles and Aunts

The story is old and the house is long gone

but the image remains, its message quite strong

As family grows, disputes are expected

those who are flexible they are respected

The black sheep of family is not who you think

though many could qualify, brought to the brink

The last one survives, a favourite to all

He lived his life peacefully, forgave, did not fall

for the stories, he learned compromise, grew 

and accepted those who had miscued

Each of the nine had their place in life’s story

I hope I can forgive as well and follow his glory.

© July 2020

A Whole New World

Four weeks motoring around England and Wales

No real plan of what to see or where to stay

Lunch always served before 2pm, dinner after 7

Saw many words with new meaning and spelling

Many voices spoke an English past grasping

So many more faces, so few open green spaces

Dark dingy buildings, dripping dull veg 

No cathedral in Colchester (despite Father’s memory)

Everyone was on the wrong side of the road

It was all an adventure for 16-year old miss

If only I’d had a sibling to share it all with

© July 2020

America Today

Will 

lies

turn to

fact when some 

people believe? Are

we all destined to fail this time?

This time we all fail, destined to

believe people are

some fact when

two turn.

Lies

will.

© July 2020

Missing in 2020 

Cleaning up Jericho Beach on a Saturday morning with friends

A fresh warm muffin with a latté at the Wood ‘N’ Frog

Hot buttered popcorn during a screening of the latest Bond flick

Joining 3000 geocachers at the Trade-X in Abbotsford

2pm Wednesday Book Club at Fleetwood Library

Riding the Red Rocket or Line 2 to Islington, west of downtown 

The next stop is Davisville, Davisville Station

A leisurely drive along the north shore of Lake Ontario to Napanee

Standing at the base of the CN Tower as an elevator goes up 342m

Tea for two after a stroll down the newly restored White Rock Pier

Yoga with Kimberley at 7:40pm on Thursday. Namaste

© July 2020

Prompt - Light

I See the Light

Thanks to Billy Collins

At first, this page is bare,
no happy thoughts to draw or sketch and
all I feel is loneliness and sorrow,
there seems no point to keep the engine running.
So, I set my eyes upon the light within the pages
of his words and I am free,
free to wander along hills of Nova Scotia
or rocky shores beside Cape Cod, where I can see
the brightness of the swirling waters,
the readiness of tides that never cease,
the clear and present steadiness of time returning,
always keeping me in mind when it decides to
capture my attention with a word or two.
How words can paint a picture with their touch,
express emotions with a sound or
flying above the ground with texture in between,
then I am off on an excursion through the valleys green
and flowers lavender, until I reach the whitest cliffs
where I will stop and breathe,
just breathe the life within me full of light
and melancholy, but it is rightly mine.



© June 2020

Nearing the end of June

Beholding at the Sunrise from the Top of Haleakalā

Set your alarm for 3am to catch the bus; hang on as
the road up is narrow and bumpy.

Wear a warm coat and mitts; it’s cold at 3000 meters.
(Don’t be that fool in shorts.)

Listen as the elder shouts at the sky in Hawaiian,
welcoming the new day and wishing us all good fortune.

Remember to bring a charger for your phone
as you’ll be capturing hundreds of photos.

Shadows creep slowly over the ocean and climb
Haleakalā as the crowd, speechless, sighs.

From the golden orb breaking the horizon until
the long shadow of the volcano grows over the valley,

we welcome this day as if witnessed for the first time and
it just gets better and warmer and more perfect.


© June 2020

Four Ways of Looking at the Totem Pole at the Royal BC Museum

The Thunderbird, it is said, takes human form by opening
his head up like a mask and taking his feathers off as if a blanket.

Self-contained and strong-willed in nature, the grizzly bear
holds copper to show off his wealth. He gets by with few friends.

The beaver teaches us to be persistent and to use what’s around us,
to value each team member and work towards harmony.

Dzunukwa, with red pursed lips, wants to steal the children to eat
so keep them safe and far away. When she appears, the show is over.


© June 2020

Another selection of thoughts

Long Beach, Vancouver Island

On the ancestoral lands of the Tla-o-qui-aht First Nations

After the long drive across the island
through Cathedral Grove, turn north
at the Pacific Rim National Park Reserve sign,
and drive about 15 kilometers on a passable road,
past groups of tsunami placards along Highway 4
to arrive at the open sandy Long Beach.
As the sun slides over the Clayoquot Plateau,
an almost empty broad shore invites outsiders
to behold perfection along with surfers heading out
to be swept back in by the heavy autumn waves
of the mighty Pacific. In another month,
every swell will be filled by daredevils
from all over, though maybe this year
there won’t be as many or they’ll try to
keep apart, or just sit on the beached driftwood
that have rested on the beach for decades, to become
hypothesized with those returning waves,
inching closer and closer to Purple Shore crabs
running the beach trail for food or
protection by Incinerator Rock’s crevices.
As sunset colours the clouds red indigo blue
to the west, the howl of the sea wolves
tells you it is time to go inside.
his-shuk-nish-tas-waak*


© June 2020

*everything is one

Glenn Gould Sitting on a Bench

Eighty
eight keys,
no hint at a bench in Hogtown
only a recluse with a wool
beret

© June 2020

Your Death Hit Me Hard

though somewhat delayed. Four years later, my insomnia started.
My doctor prescribed sleeping pills, but I stopped after six months,
because I got addicted and afraid. Finally, I went to psychiatrist,
who got me to breathe and relax and I learned that I cannot change
everything. Now I do yoga every day and walk and geocache (it’s a long story).
I wish you were here so I could tell you that I forgive you for not telling me and
I’ll love you always. Your no-longer-obedient but ever-braver daughter.

© June 2020

Words that need to be said

Forty-Five 

It’s change that scares you
so you lass out
and call the National Guard

It’s a world your parents
wouldn’t know
that makes you shake

and yell, and stomp
your feet like a 2-year old
who’s been told you can’t.

It’s a fear of failing,
looking stupid, having
people laugh at you

that drives you to erupt
and bully those who
only want to breathe.


© June 2020

A remembrance of Vancouver Island

Long Beach, Vancouver Island

On the ancestoral lands of the Tla-o-qui-aht First Nations

After the long drive across the island
through Cathedral Grove, turn north
at the Pacific Rim National Park Reserve sign,
and drive about 15 kilometers on a passable road,
past groups of tsunami placards along Highway 4
to arrive at the open sandy Long Beach.
As the sun slides over the Clayoquot Plateau,
an almost empty broad shore invites outsiders
to behold perfection along with surfers heading out
to be swept back in by the heavy autumn waves
of the mighty Pacific. In another month,
every swell will be filled by daredevils
from all over, though maybe this year
there won’t be as many or they’ll try to
keep apart, or just sit on the beached driftwood
that have rested on the beach for decades, to become
hypothesized with those returning waves,
inching closer and closer to Purple Shore crabs
running the beach trail for food or
protection by Incinerator Rock’s crevices.
As sunset colours the clouds red indigo blue
to the west, the howl of the sea wolves
tells you it is time to go inside.
his-shuk-nish-tas-waak


© June 2020

Sunday afternoon thoughts

Hung Out To Dry

Upon the clothesline
hang the whispers
of tomorrow’s hope,
the bedsheets from
the bed half-empty
interspersed with
graphic Ts and memories
of last August when we
walked the trails through
Prince Edward Island, and
fears that the world has
changed too much and
what we now take off
the line was not ours
to beginning with.



© May 2020