Been busy writing

I just thought I'd look to see when I last posted anything. Last October? Wow. So here's a few.

Monarch Tavern

dingy stairwell up
book launch party
everybody knew somebody
except me
left
their loss


© February 2020

Something Borrowed Something Blue

You wore your Mother’s organza wedding dress

I wore the grey suit we picked up at the mall.

Your mother did your nails with new clear polish,

you did mine when the others had gone to bed.

My mother lent you the long string of pearls 

her mother gave her when I was born.

The maid of honour picked bluebells from the parish meadow

we held them as we walked down the aisle together.

The service was blend of faiths, led by your brother who implied

his attendance would legitimize our union in some eyes. We did not care.

© February 2020

Departure at 6

I’m walking out the door. It’s 6 o’clock in the morning.

I left a note for you upon the table in the kitchen,

the one you sit at every morning when you listen

to the news and complain about how the world

is going all to hell. The chicken is defrosting in the sink.

I’m climbing on the bus. It’s just passed 6:19am.

Your alarm would have gone off 4 minutes ago, but

I won’t be there to ‘hit the snooze bar’ so you’ll be

wide awake and yelling out my name so loud

the neighbour’s dog will bark, their baby might start crying.

I’m sitting on the train that is about to leave for Montreal. 

Who knows if I’ll get off before I reach the border of Quebec

and travel south to New York City and visit Papa Claude.

You’ve texted me eight times since 7:23am. Last one was in ALL CAPS

Across from Pennsylvania Station, I’m sipping a caramel macchiato 

while I decide whether to use all your American cash to pay 

for a ticket to Hamilton at the Richard Rogers Theatre on Broadway.

It’ll be a very good seat, right down in the orchestra. Thanks so much.

© January 2020

École Polytechnique 1989

For the 14 women who lost their lives for being women

Thirty years has passed. Their names, their gender, their dreams 

are not forgotten. Flags fly at half-mast, prayers are said, moments

of silence observed throughout the country. His name, unfortunately, 

is also remembered along with his acts of separation and of murder.

We have come so far from that December 6th, and yet not far enough.

© December 2019

It's been awhile

Posting again after a long break. Sorry for my laziness.

P.E.I.

a grain of sand (flecks off the Teapot)
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
Canada’s smallest province welcomes 
more than one million tourists (mostly to 
eat lobster and visit Anne of Green Gables’ farmhouse)


© October 2019

When We Meet

unlike winter stars crisp clear cold connecting you and me
we are not joined though occupying the same space and time
no matter who we are and where we end up. I cannot hear
your thoughts, am blind to your actions as we lose
precious time arguing for no good reason. what have you
gained? Only sorrow.


© October 2019

Abashed Collecting

One ticket from a cruise along the Seine
Two decorated wooden shoes, filled with soil, used for tulips
Three coasters showing scenes of London in 1872
Four used tickets for the ferry from Jersey to Guernsey and back
Five postcards of Constable’s landscapes from the National Gallery
Six matchbooks from Munich restaurants (never used)
Seven menu cards for dinner aboard a river cruise up the Rhine
Eight decorative European teaspoons inherited from my mother
Nine pebbles taken (don’t tell anyone) from the shores of the Gulf of St. Lawrence
Ten graphic T-shirts so worn out I can’t tell where they’re from anymore

© October 2019

Sorry I've Been Busy

N. A. Chaos

The intersection of Yonge and Bloor at 5pm on a Thursday
in July, 2 hours before the Blue Jays play New York Yankees.
Pedestrians scramble north-east to south-west on red lights
every which way. All cars are stopped. A bead of sweat,
two honking horns, three skyline billboards,
four sidewalk preachers, five Starbucks franchises,
six, seven, eight, nine, … 2.8 million mouths to feed



© July 2019

Another Month, Another Location

Prairie Winsome 

Drive across Saskatchewan where the horizon
never changes, never rises, never falls. Fields of canola
as far as the eyes can see, uninterrupted by time,
parched for rain. A collection of tombstones cast
shadows, remind me of ancestors who travelled far
from the potato fields of Ireland. Soil baked, cracked dry
by the constant sun. One maple sits alone, its neighbour
down the dusty road 50 kilometers away.

© July 2019

The line aren't that blurred

Hidden Lines

How is it that I see you standing in line at the checkout
but you don’t see me? Am I covered by the invisible cloak called racism
or an underused one called sexism? Are you blind to those
who don’t look like you? Then you’re in a line by yourself.

Open your eyes and see what’s standing beside you, in line
for a coffee, a passport, a car loan. We breathe as you do. And yes
we bleed. We welcome our neighbours to join us for prayers or
watch the league championship on a big screen TV.

Are you afraid of what we appear to be, not from your home town,
coloured from a new box of crayons, created by merging the lines
of humanity that started when we left the trees to cross the vast landscape
in front of us? Or are you just unhappy to be ‘woke’ on this fine day?


© June 2019

Happy Father's Day Dad

The Perfectionist

My father helped me write a poem once; well
maybe I should say that he wrote the poem and
I transcribed it on a piece of foolscap paper.

The assignment was to write about some bears,
every other line had to rhyme; each stanza had to have
four lines; there had to be four stanzas. I was in Grade 4.

My father was a perfectionist, so the poem
had to be just so, just like every poem he had read
when he was young in a British public school.

I don’t remember what the teacher said about my work,
or the mark I got. My only clear memory of it all was
that father didn’t want to let me fail, at anything.

I wonder what he’d think of what I’ve written now.
He’d probably try to fix it.


© June 2019

Still writing, still growing, still open

Mentorship

She said write about what you know
I said I know nothing, that’s why I’m taking this course
That’s why I’m putting myself out there
That’s why I’m attending this mic-nite
That’s why my knees are knocking, and my palms are sweating

She said to start simple and just write, don’t edit
I said but my spelling’s atrocious and rhyming just isn’t my thing
Structure just isn’t my thing
Interaction just isn’t my thing
Spilling my guts and revealing my slip-ups just isn’t my thing

“She is a birch, a hazel”, she quoted this poet I’d never heard of
and waited for me to reply. I shook my head, said “no idea”, to which
she whispered, faint and remote, “a straight slender young rowan”
as she turned, walking away. I stood there in awe, I stood there expecting
a rush of excitement, I stood there at a loss for how to continue

to think I could write poetry. When I tried to leave, completely dejected,
the woman in the ratty pullover and tattered jeans at the back of the room
stopped me. “Don’t go. Don’t give her the idea that she’s broken you.
Don’t give up so fast”. I shook my head with a “Maybe she’s right. Maybe
I’m out of my league”. To which she replied, “She was once just like you.

Unsure and afraid of making mistakes. She persevered. She strived. She worked
her butt off. She made the words blossom, the lines flow, the poems express
the pictures she saw in her head. I should know for I am her mother, and she has
made me so proud. Sit here, next to me. She’ll stop by after she’s ripped
into the rest of them. She’ll talk and you’ll listen and learn. You’ll grow”.


© June 2019