Put off and lost time

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

Inappropriate Time for a Message

I write poetry in my head in the shower
and the thoughts will be gone before
I get the words to the page.
The muse comes when she comes.
I must accept that.


© Catherine Woods 2018

PoC

I don’t see your skin
or its colour
(No, of course I do. It’s not mine.)

I only see your glory
your flame of life
your apex
(I see you where I want to be.)

I listen and hear your voice
glistening
and icy
(I’m afraid I won’t attain your heights. What must I do to get your acceptance?)

If I listen to you, will you hear my story?


© Catherine Woods 2018

The Consequences of Anger

When I'm angry I write to relieve the tension. Here are today's results. They will shock, and that's their purpose.

Red

Okanagan cherries picked in late August

A polyester dress with a white boat collar,

handmade by my mother when I was in high school in the 1960s

Geraniums growing throughout the garden

Garnet earrings I inherited, maybe worn once

Menstrual blood dripping

Bullets uncover life, unseat harmony

Hatred, death, fear

As invasive as blackberries and wild parsnip

Striking out, reliving sorrow, last gasps of

a life  unfulfilled. No mercy, no pride, no respect.

© Catherine Woods 2018

Why am I Angry? 

Yes, I am angry.

It’s been building slowly

over years

over a lifetime of years,

a whole life of ignorance

(mostly mine)

of how the world works

and how to get what I need

and how to know what I need

and how to see clearly

what needs to be done

next door,

down the street,

across town,

in the nation’s capital,

in every corner of the globe.

Why am I angry?

Because you are not listening to me,

because you keep talking shit,

because you hit back when people ignore you,

because you lie when you don’t get your way,

because you mock and bully when we tell you you’re wrong.

We will not stop speaking out,

marching on government high courts,

standing on the country’s cornerstones,

protecting the disadvantaged, the homeless, the abducted children,

showing you, we are not our mothers and grandmothers,

we will not shut up our voices.

Yes, I am angry

and I am silent no more.

© Catherine Woods 2018

Procrastination is bad

It's been almost a month since I posted anything! I need to push myself to do this at once a week.

How It Ends

How it ends
depends on where you are
and who you are
and why the sky is blue.
I’ll hold your hand as we walk
toward the sunset of our life,
remembering the days we laughed,
the hours we cried,
the minutes we believed would never come,
the lives passed onto through genetic material,
each cell committed to a predefined course,
set down ages and eons ago when
the big bang went boom.

And every nucleus of every atom of every molecule
of every being alive within this moment
passes back to the first moment
where it all began.

And so it begins again …


© Catherine Woods 2018

Wake Up and Smell the Cedar

Today is Wednesday. The week is half gone and I’ve done nothing. The last date I see upon the page is from last week. I’m lazy, lazy, lazy. My head is filled with words and thoughts that do not make it to the masses. I want to cry out “All is not lost”, but no one will know if I do not open my mouth. I am afraid to speak in case you beat me down, crush me underfoot, laugh and walk away. So, I keep inside all the wonders I have seen in Squamish and Pender Island. I hold the tall majestic boreal cedars hidden from official government workers and suited business men who cash to throw about on trinkets that litter their monster homes on West Vancouver’s decreasing mountain paradises. What will be left for your grandchildren if you pave it all for Jaguars and Lamborghinis? I rest my case.


© Catherine Woods 2018

Inspiration comes in many forms

I went out purposely to arouse the muse. She didn't disappoint me.

At the Mic

Yes, I am afraid.
My voice will crack.
The words I speak
will sound as foreign
as the announcements on a train
in Bangkok or Taiwan

Yes, I am afraid.
My voice will crack
as I utter truths
and falsehoods held as truths,
within my mind;
clear it is in their own
not so clear out of this room.

Yes, I am afraid.
My voice will crack,
but I will force the words
out of my mouth
and onto this page
until I see the story
bloom as a rose in my garden,
taking over its allotted space,
choking out the weeds
of discontentment,
freeing the echoes of that
something that wrinkles
the lines of my life.

Yes, I am afraid.
My voice will crack.
It is me
naked on the page,
for all to see.


© Catherine Woods 2018

Blue

Thanks to Cristy

The deepest oceans, the darkest seas
Your haunting eyes staring at bridesmaids
The blouse you wore last Thursday
Berries bought by the roadside
Aunt Amy’s house on McKinnon Street
The sky on the day I met you
A feeling after watching Forest Gump
The colour of the sheets on the bed where you passed away
A dog, a flower, a kind of chair
Raspberry popsicles bought on a whim in 1994
The handkerchief I found in the bottom drawer
The suitcase where I packed all your clothes
 Crescent Beach in April when the tide is high
and I’ve forgiven you for leaving me alone


© Catherine Woods 2018

A prompt to write - a sign for all of us

For  the last few weeks, J-35 has been carrying her dead calf around the Salish Sea, displaying her grief and her love.

16 Days of Grief

         In honour of J-35

You gave her life and

then she died.

You held her up

for all to see,

to see your pain,

to know you cared,

to show that grief is not limited

to human beings

watching young children shot at their school

through no fault of their own

or young soldiers slaughtered on far-away fields,

fighting in an elusive war

thousands of miles away.

Your grief is as plain as the nose of my face.

Your grief is as true as the love I feel for my daughters who live.

Your grief is an open wound to the world who’s forgotten

that grief is a necessary aspect of life and

to ignore it is

to ignore breathing.

© Catherine Woods 2018

A Poetry Reading - Different this time

I went to a poetry reading at the beginning of May at FOLD in Brampton, Ontario. I wasn't impressed; I felt out of place; I felt old.

I went to a poetry reading a few weeks ago at the Vancouver Public Library. I was impressed; I felt challenged; I felt like I belonged.

Within a room of poets at VPL

Chairs with red seats
Persons of all shapes, sizes, colours
Talking
Discussing
Gazing at their smartphones
Waiting
Remembering
Keeping their spirits close
Holding their words inside
Still waiting
Then listening to poets
Speaking
Whispering
Laughing at real life
Vocalizing anguish
Recalling abuse and terror
Reliving horror upon horror upon        loss
Uttering words that mean so much
To them
To us
To everybody
To the infinite point of existence
Out there


© Catherine Woods 2018

Permission to write this all down - Open the door

It's been more than a month since I added to this. Yes, I procrastinated. But I'm back.

The door

A life
is a path
to follow,
a door
is a barrier
to continuance.
When I see,
I understand.
When I hear,
I open my heart.

Another door

I am at odds with life I cannot see before me.

It is not concrete, it is not black and white,

all is gray and hidden from my direct view.

The door is solid.

The future is inevitable.

My death is coming, I cannot stop my end.

The last door

Open the last door and see

the possibilities abound

and free thoughts and fears,

fly off unaccompanied,

to peace.