the fiddler plays piano near a street sign, "permit parking only"
cats chase spiders over the blankets.
a street car named retire.
and i'm still eating corn meal.
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