Sunday afternoon thoughts

Hung Out To Dry

Upon the clothesline
hang the whispers
of tomorrow’s hope,
the bedsheets from
the bed half-empty
interspersed with
graphic Ts and memories
of last August when we
walked the trails through
Prince Edward Island, and
fears that the world has
changed too much and
what we now take off
the line was not ours
to beginning with.



© May 2020

Mother's Day 2020

As always I think of my mother who passed away in 2006. And I wrote this for her.

Oh, Hello Mother 

For Mother’s Day 2020

It’s good you are not here
for you would worry. You’d call me
every day
to ask me how I am and
if the girls were fine and
if grocery store was busy and
what was out of stock. You’d call me
every day
to make sure I was eating well and ask
when was Garry was coming home again and
if I’d seen the news about the prices going up and
what we had for dinner. You’d call me
every day
to tell me what movie you’d watched and
who you’d played cribbage with and
how you enjoyed the visit to the gardens to
see the tulips and rhododendrons in bloom. You’d call me
every day
because you’re bored,
because you’re anxious,
because it’s all too much for you to handle.
It’s good you are not here to worry.


© May 2020

Every day writing is over but missed

April is over, but still the need to write every day is there. Like an addiction to slot machines or sleeping pills, but a much healthier desire. So is today's deposit.

The Peacock Blue Cashmere Sweater

that you bought me for Christmas still lies in the drawer where I put it on the 28th of December. I should have told you when I opened the beautifully wrapped gift from Sax Fifth Avenue that I find cashmere itchy, but I couldn’t, not with Mother there beaming with joy that all her family had flown to Vancouver this year. She would have made me feel guilty like she always does. I opened the drawer just this morning to get something warm to wear while I walk along the seawall with Uncle Bob and his dog Archie and saw it there grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat. Then I knew I had to write you and tell you the truth. We could never keep secrets from each other, could we? No, I don’t want to exchange or return it, because the colour reminds me of that painting we saw at the National Gallery when I visited you last August. Remember we sat on the room bench for hours and just stared at Christopher Pratt’s Newfoundland landscapes. Was that why you bought me such an expensive cashmere sweater? Then I’ll just drape it over my shoulders when I get cold and think back to that warm, sunny day we walked to Byward Market for tea and cakes and we talked about hopes and dreams, and reality.

© April 2020

NaPoWriMo #23

Childhood Uncovered

Lost in the years of my childhood:
memories of laughing and singing,
going on picnics, trips to the beach,
searching for treasures along forgotten trails.
These are not there for me.

Lost in the years of my childhood:
a home full of children and puppies,
loud birthday parties with clowns,
sleepovers with smores and late movies.
These were not there for me.

Found in the years of my childhood:
no school friends but new teachers,
movers and packing up again and again,
being the new kid every year ad nauseum.
These were always there for me.

Slow Burn

Outside in the middle of a corn field at midnight,
a 10-year-old girl imagines travelling towards
a supermassive black hole buried deep
in the constellation Sagittarius, and wonders
if she can arrive home yesterday in time for pie.

Is it Monday yet?

Today’s a day like any other 

The sun come up, its rays goes further

There is no pattern to adopt

It’s almost as if our time is stopped

                                                                 

Another list of things-to-do 

It never seems to change, boo hoo

Discovery of other places dropped

It’s almost as if our time is stopped

                                                                

Days blend like colours badly spread

Plans are cancelled months ahead

Trips to the grocery become unclocked

It’s almost as if our time is stopped

All poems © April 2020

It's NaPoWriMo again

April 1st

Someday in the Future

A smile

Many tears

Shouts of joy

A mad dash through Baggage Pickup where I shouldn’t go

A big-bear hug as I breath in your scent

Hands caressing your face 

A delicate kiss ‘cause I remember where I am

Another tight squeeze

Both hands held firmly until suitcases arrive

My eyes on you constantly on our walk to the car

A moment of calm before we get on the highway 

So glad you made it back home

© April 2020

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