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