not your second hand news story

i went to bed with you in my mind.

every day for a year.

i went to your house, to find it empty of you

your neighbours welcomed me in

they fed me chicken and green beans.

i sat in the living room, near the window, in a chair that sat looking to your room. i watched the shadows, faded on the blinds

they gave me tea

the night grew blue.

warm lights surround you, your hair curls against the pillow and i see a reflection on your eyes,

tonight i dance with those figures from the tv.

as green as envy, glowing in my arms.

cutouts of happy kids in the clouds.

in blood

it is hard to lose someone,

to lose someone you've never met,

but knew, and loved and felt close to

for tyler, my cousin

i felt you like a brother and to know of your death,

i am at a loss

we all are.

i know your spirit

i know you

and with your memory we will flourish 

for your kids,

stand together

remember who he was, 

what he meant to you

live in his example

stand by your mother

support her in her decisions and know she needs you, as you need her.

we've never met, but i know you.

to my cousins, my aunt, my uncle. 

my heart is for you. in love and support.

the beauty beyond this life is one of which we have no comprehension,

tyler is now aware of it.

we cherish and grow in his memory.

a mother's song.

lord, give me a child

for lord i am a child

of a mother, who is strong

so lord give me a child

who is strong,

i'v waited for so long

for i am strong, i am given a child, who is strong

for this child, i am a mother

who is strong

and will be for so long.

a mother.

(love to my sister)

the eye aches under the sagging willow.

tears run down the dangling bullwhips

why does this willow weep?

tied to the limbs, hanging like a noose.

she sways over the headstone of ritual, simple and slain.

why does she weep?

why don't we?

all the same. ferry ride, june 13th.

a lot of the same actors on the boat.

the same threesome as the last ride.

the captain in the kitchen and the sailor

with his classic cars,

button up shirt.

the cross legged word searcher

the breast pocket, over filled.

surfers in sweatpants and the woman

with those pursed lips, 

walking in circles with her chest high,

dark sunglasses.

the same actors on the boat, 

all with their roles so perfectly cast,

their dialogue practiced and casual.

making my ride all the more real,

giving me reason to stare, 

they're acting out how i feel.

bullshitters sitting on the edge of someones last thread of compassion,

the whistle steams and the lies are swatted like flies from the air.

like drawn curtains a red face shows that the play has ended.

the vultures starve for death.

out of the cupboards

comes the fleeting feet of crickets zipping toward the fields

crackling wings claim the harvest, too early.

comes lust blowing through the window

the creaking bed, silent as the abandoned.

comes sore feet and crooked backs

comes bad posture and golden bed pans

comes grey hair and creased skin

some purse their lips, thin white hairs curled around the corners.

some dance, slow and smiling the cold in their bones giving back to the recklessness in youth.

comes wisdom

comes beauty

comes death

comes love, everlasting.

.

near the floorboards.

her clothes hung off of her like a silk scarf draped over a grand piano

the room wreaked with damp light and mice scurried behind the walls

her shoes sat by the door, two leather saddles, sore from the trail.

i put my hat on the chair and took the pot of coffee from the table

poured her a cup and she lit a cigarette,

her cheeks casting shadows over sunken eyes,

her nose sharp and bright.

she sat in her nest, red breast bare above the thatch, and sang hard long notes, which came from somewhere she had forgotten. id lay beside her, dirt from the cuff of my pants rolled to her sheets and we placed shadows on the wall which danced as sacred and innocent as children in their dreams.

fear, the excitement of scared open hearts.

somewhere outside the sun rose and trees grew taller.

for my family

to the ones who raised me,

to the ones with you and the ones you raise,

to the one who raised us and the one who passed away.

for my family,

for you have loved me in a way that no one else could or could understand

though i try, often, maybe not hard enough.

you have put me in a light and i am aware of the warmth

i want you to know of my gratitude 

though i keep my distance

i have a light for each of you.

we are strong in our way,

and my soul is of you. 

mid may

you wanted to treat me well.

but thought you couldn't

you couldn't because 

you didn't want to

but you did.

and i return to this part of her body

i return to her legs

i return to her breast

and with my head heavy and so full of love and hope

i lay my wet cheeks on her heart beat and i weep for her memory.

her arms holding on so tight, for so long, wishing she could let go.

she hurts now more than we ever could,

and its so warm and the sun has given us that red skin,

the kind that makes you burn up at night and sweat all the colour out

the sheets are torn and smell of the garden.

thursday 8:30 am. red deer/today 9:30 am sylvan lake

now dave sits on the couch, his legs splayed and his arms crossed

eyes squinting, high nose, and his tail curls around his left foot

the lake is frozen here but ducks find little ponds in the ice to paddle around on

my left ear squeaks as i yawn and the coffee is strong.

then, it was on the main street, dust swirling as electric cars zoomed past

waiting for eggs and thinking about coffee, with the taste still on my tongue

you put on your coat and zipped off to work, they depend on it

i wore the blanket for a while

my skin happily irritated by the wooly bristles, scratching my bare shoulders

but i was already gone, and your hair was slow like feathers in the morning sun.

waitin

here is to doing.

in the city

in the city people dance every night, just at different frequencies.

in the city its loud.

in the city i can eat breakfast at 1 am, or 4 am, or 3 pm.

i can do that at home too.

my neighbours have chickens.

they dance when the sun comes up

as the cock whistles.

a flat and historic day

a drab urge to write again, about the kitchen table. i guess, to get this over with sooner leaves space for other topics. i put my self to bed, fell to sleep with a book on my chest, a story unfolding, nearer yet to an end. waking to the splatter of rain on the deck, my window cracked left the house chilled, under the covers, dark and warm i hide. what a mess, the world unravels as the radio travels to distant despairs. some hope flickers in my chest and i find myself in pants and a sweater. water is on and the i boil eggs. coffee of course, then i sit, at the kitchen table, its legs slightly splayed from poor workmanship and its panels bend from elbows, bent. an assorted tray of important simplicities are strewn about the surface. forgotten sketches, burned candles, pencils and pens, gadgets, binoculars and crumbs. dead cameras and dusty lenses with no image to reflect. but i reflect, and through the window an ever changing scene gives me a space to draw new thoughts and revisit old ones. i have so much in so little, and with that i seem to lose just as much. my memory fails when i most want it and throbs when its least wanted. i gave up the world and now i am missing it. how to catch up? or why? i put myself here, at the kitchen table, with its chairs,  all but one, unfilled.  funny how we gaze at the sun only when its setting.

out of habit

i'll stop here

i'll turn around

i'll change my plans

i'll take you there

i'll find new trails

i'll get home

i'll find old trails

i'll finish my work

i'll fail

i'll succeed

i'll be happy

i'll be sad

i'll take care of myself

and sleep well

and wake up early

and eat well

and eat poorly

i'll drink wine

and amber too

and read a lot

and write a few

i'll walk

i'll run

away

toward

and stumble and break into a thousand pieces

i'll drift, thats my favorite.

and wash up on shore, smooth and worn

then i'll fly.

out of habit.

to poc.

the oldest of my siblings

her name is poc.

aka pocern

aka christel

aka daughter

aka sister

also she is known as, mom.

she is my friend, my dear and wonderful friend.

sunday.

i'm tired.

it's really been long.

i am just so tired.

goodnight.

the interior of an old room

the old bed with its sheets and blankets crumpled

warmed by your body

smells sweet and blue

burned candles

purple rings in empty glasses

the walls hum

reverberating waves of heat

floors creak from dancing feet

the side table scattered with half read books

half burned match books

summers clothes stacked and leaning

wanting to be worn

pictures of you hanging on the walls

that look in your eyes stained in my memory.

oh kaye.

the red breasted robins, scampering through the softening soil

chilled rains pass through and the clouds often break with lasting moments of warmth

the forest becomes alive with sound as last years chicks ring in new life of their own in song

the sun sets longer and later casting old shadows with light in new colours

toads and tree frogs ripple throaty verse deep into the night

days break with a fresh nose

grasses and moss push through toes of bare feet

fiddle heads curl out and small buds kiss the warming air.

this is the new season

of rebirth and rejuvenation

this the season that welcomed you into the world

the sun so comfortable on your cheeks, as they rise.

stretch your arms

close your eyes and stretch your neck

the earth knows of you, loves you and knows your love.

open your eyes

give this beautiful vision a reflection of the joy that the seasons past had only a glimpse of

shine with the sun and glow with the moon

feel what you are, and that is, loved, today and always.

grow.

the house finch

not to be confused with the house sparrow

not to be confused with the purple finch

not to be confused with the glaucous gull

not to be confused with the glaucous macaw

not to be confused with the northern parrot

not to be confused at all

its just a beautiful little bird

spring. part won.

trembling into the night

one heart beating among millions.

sprouting in season

sunlight devours fear.

spring has come.