24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Beginning the year
with all of her peers
Little did she know
About all of the fears
They lurked in time,
A few months down the road.
Her parents plucked her up,
Transplanted her in places unknown.
Gone were her friends,
Her favorite places too.
Gone were all of the things
That she knew to do.
She grieved.
She mourned.
She longed for the day
That she would be unborn.
“The hearts metanoia on the other hand, turns without regret, turns not so much away as towards” – Scott Cairns
When I was two years old my parents bought a red brick building
I will return even after I have left
to finish emptying out the enduring things
Shelves hold the dust of grade six, seven, twelve, all of university,
my early work years and my first return to gain strength,
and my swift return in lockdown,
“I can’t seem to escape this place!”
I will return even after I have left
Helping with boxes of books, glass, history
Until we stand in the emptiness and the glowing floors
Piles of dust and detritus
Keys never identified for all the French doors
someone will have a broom and miss the moment
The end of endless returning
I will return even after I have left,
I know what hurts here, at least
Turn you can never come home again
Into this place is no longer home
Yield to what I cannot know
Turn towards three months in the east
Go
When I was thirty they sold it.
“The Wait” Poem #1
Zig, Zag.
Zig, zag.
Zig. Zag.
Through the line
I zig zag
All the way up to the front.
Waiting
Just like everyone else
Finally . . .
I’ve arrived.
The wait is over.
Hypnic Jerks
quiet afternoon
the big white cat
begins to twitch
birth
of a baby blue whale
nomadic dreams
heat wave
even rats
have reverie
soon
to be a grandfather
muse music
The world is turned on its side and
visible through a single cracked eyelid
perspiration coats the arms, the legs
upper lip
The culprit who stirred you is
the little man who turns on your brain and waits for it to start
warming up
He looked at his clocked and yelled
“Oh, Dear!”
Sounding the alarms you rustled
and see that it’s 6:50
Oh Dear indeed
Hollow chest
Gasping for breath you
claw for your laptop
and write the first poem of the day
all the while cursing your thin willpower
Heart bulges and balloons
trying to free itself through any openings in the body
Perhaps it’s my throat,
the papercut on my index finger
My ears.
Last night howling in my head
like the twist of a knife –
The unsure awkwardness
The tequila soda ramblings
The dancing, sweating, eyes wide open
To the ifs, buts, whys that never end.
But it does, it will.
It all will one day.
So let’s meet again tonight under the stars lest it be our last.
I live in a place that’s quiet, yet outspoken.
I dwell in a space that is a moment unspoken.
It’s a time chosen.
Where the mortgage is paid and
the taxes are free.
Where I seldomly get visitors,
which is fine with me.
I’ll take the cracks in its surface
and appreciate their beauty.
This has been my home.
Where I don’t choose him or them.
Where I chose me.
It’s when I’m alone
and oftentimes at peace.
WELCOMING WOODS
(based on my painting, Welcoming Woods)
The forest beckons me today
to come and wander and weave
my way through paths of sun-speckled, twisted roots
and sheltering boughs
A raven’s shrill call invites me
Deeper,
deeper into his
sacred space
Feathered residents
wary of my presence
cry out
hoots and twitters
coos and shrieks –
Are you friend or foe?
I settle on the stump
of an ancient oak
its rings of life still solid, strong
I close my eyes
Whispering boughs rustle overhead
A gentle breeze kisses my cheek
I inhale
The scent of rich moist earth
and fresh pine fills my senses
My heart rate slows
to the forest’s rhythm
I am one with the life around me
And so it begins or so it ends
Clarity, confusion, chaos
All, on your World View, depends
Your World view depends on all you’ve seen,
What you’ve read, and where you’ve been
Are your roots dug deep in words or planted in
The chaos of sin?
Perhaps your roots yanked up just as fresh growth could begin
–Just as life’s understanding desired to expand,
Perhaps your World view moved no further
Than the three-hundred-sixty degrees to be seen from your
Native soil and the exact spot you where were born
Perhaps wanderlust took you far and wide
Allowing you to cast preconceived, and elder taught ideals aside
Wiring so different for creatives and strategists causing divides,
Healing requires putting opinions aside
Your truth is yours to own, and mine is my own,
The foundation, for which, will one day be known
And the consequences individually we own.
Ralph maintained a humongous
Heap out back.
Not crap. Useful items.
Chaotic to every eye but his.
He could put his finger on
Anything you’d need,
Including an old galvanized trough.
Five-year-old me,
Dropped a glass marble
Into that trough.
It landed with a tink,
Rolled along the bottom,
Randomly,
Making a feeble hollow rumble,
Then stopped.
No one heard but me,
And I quickly lost interest,
Leaving to investigate
Other crannies
Of Ralph’s impressive pile.