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