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