In comparison

Beaufort range, Vancouver Island, Canada

In my hometown,
on the west coast,
the mountains are big
and the people small –
in comparison. Continue reading

Advertisements

The tropics of Canada

IMG_20171026_180149

I never tire of a peachy sueded dawn,
the nap of clouds brushed back
to reveal the start of another
blue day.  I never tire of a light jacket
and bare legs in these the dregs
of summer.

I never tire of bean stalks crawling
up their twine canes, scarlet blooms
still blooming even though the bees
are long gone and the harvest past.

I never tire of begonias and impatiens
persistence beyond the autumn moon,
their flower heads spotlights among
ankle deep maple leaves jostling
in the unseasonably warm breeze.

Anorexic trees, limbs naked now,
remind me something is amiss
and sandals in the front hall
confirm this as do the mittens still
waiting for cold hands and the
down settled unfluffed in winter
parkas in the closet.

Outside the lilies revive and the
Rideau River flows unfrozen into the
ocean that rises in rebellion with
the blood of Arctic glaciers spilled
on our shores.

But I never tire of a peachy dawn
on my tropical island in the north.

IMG_20171028_093357 (1)

Performance appraisal 2017

christmascookies

Will work for cookies.

 

Pat stamps fast tracks –
tap tap taps.
Baas assays Pat’s annals,
yack yack yacks,
alarms Pat. Nay ‘scape.
Can’t sass. Facts am facts.

Pat drafts a brash plan,
charts tasks, basks –
ha ha ha – all’s grand and
all that. At last, Baas marks
Pat A1 – nay spat – pays scant.
Alas, tax man grabs all back.

Blue becomes you

Sun glides over snow, checks the pulse of earth, cracks open the ribs of this black morning, revives light. Colour rises, rosy – respires.

Dawn yawns, inhales grey, exhales pink. Later, when the day dons blue we force ourselves out. For the dog. Why else venture into frozen lung territory where breath pinches nostrils, a sign not all pink is benign.

We creep across the snow crust, wish it were pie crust  we could eat instead of feeling eaten. Snow bites our feet. Where did my toes go?

We unpin icicles from the roof, chew blue, become the hue because this is what we do in winter – respire*.

___________

*I’m tinkering with the word respire which means to breathe, but also has an older definition meaning “to recover hope, courage, or strength after a time of difficulty.” I like the idea that winter is a period of recovery, not just something awful to be endured and gotten through. And of course every dawn is just that – hope for a better day.  

Here’s a musical take on blue for you, something mellow to sip your coffee by. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z4PKzz81m5c – Chet Baker – Almost Blue

 

bluebecomesyou-1

Milkweed husks

 

 

 

 

 

Silence and abandonment

Dear Ilya,

I read your poem “Town Watches Them Take Alfonso” this morning as I cradled a cup of coffee, caffeine infusing my bloodstream. My heart rate rose with each sip. Its bitter mouthwash browned my teeth, a consequence I live with because I like the ritual.

Some people practice morning writing but I start the day with a poem that is delivered to me from Poets.org which is how I found you. Afterwards, I sometimes write a poem inspired by lines read or sometimes I free-write based on the resulting brew in my head. Occasionally I read the daily poem aloud in the car as my husband drives me to work tunneling through the darkest winter months with high beams of beautiful words.  Continue reading

Things about snow

Footprints show.
Also blood.

Knows no law,
no diminishing
returns.

Snow
is a commie country,
knows the value
of a single
flake
but only works
in the collective.

Snow cannot
express itself
without a mass
of friends.

Too, there are
no atheists
in igloos.

Still it falls
and despite
it all, the
choral conductor
organizes
the blizzard
of assembled
singers, brightens
the bottomless
dark,
composing
songs
on the fly.

creektree_2016-12-11

Sawmill Creek