Monthly Archives: July 2017

Water runs freely and creates deep,

crystal clear pools.

Great spruce trees and pines stretch to the sky

and grow lush and green.

Stop…and listen.

Listen to the water as it trickles over the stones;

Listen to the roars of distant waterfalls as they make

their presence known.

Stop…and smell.

Smell the subtle yet familiar scents of

the great Red Cedars, the Sitka Spruces, the Western Hemlocks,

and the Douglas-firs.

Stop and feel.

Feel Mother Earth’s embrace;

let the warmth of the sun invite you,

let the headiness of all the scents entice you,

let the waters give you a sense of calm,

let the trees take you back home.

Stop…and just be.

Escape from the concrete jungle

if only for a moment.

Escape from the maddening crowd,

if only for a while,

and just be. 

The William’s House

Built April 27^th, 1911
Lot A, Block 17
Corner of 7^{th and} Stephens

Old house smells diluted by fresh latex paint…
We paint the ominous dark brown wood a cheerful white
Ms. Williams promptly turns over in her grave

My family encroaches the space and the years unravel
Two children
Elementary and high school angst
Guitar lessons, rock bands, soccer, field hockey, beach volleyball and yoga

Sleep-overs with tween girls hiding balloons under their nighties, pretending to be “teen moms”
15-year-old boys vomiting in every crevice after emptying our liquor cabinet
Embarrassing midnight calls to parents
Mopping up projectile vomit

Endless renovations
Good-bye disco floor, welcome guitar hero
Epic!
Gardening, weeding, cleaning, painting
One day, a ragdoll kitten appears on the front stoop
Around her neck is a tiny heart shaped collar with the inscription “Will you marry me?”
Wedding preparations ensue with a dress that no longer fits
Running, running, running along the seawall, in the rain and heat until “I do”

A last appeal, “Is a dog is a divorceable offense?”
Ummm, “no”.
A baby briard, moves in and turns my life right-side-up
Interminable potty training, gallons of “Nature’s Miracle”
A heart of gold

Life in progress,
Beloved students infuse daily laughter, mountains of prep, marking, and concern
Calling 911, there happen to be 4 teenage girls smoking drugs in the lane…
Oh hey, two of them I know by name
Dial their VP while the cop chases them around the block
Teaching, sleepless nights, germ pools, report cards, conferences and burn-out

Summers off,
Africa, France, Scotland, Mount Baker, the Okanagan,
Daily beach strolls, UBC, Big Brother, and Netflix binges

More, holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, milestones, graduations
A Maine Coon or 2 or 3 move in over the years…
Empty nest syndrome as children leave for university
Tragedies, existential crisis, grieving for family
Writing, healing,
Renewed hope and vigour,
Community, university,
Poetry

2722
The ebb and flow of personal folklore

Pull. Press. Hold and clutch.
She begins to make a fuss
Waking up from a sleep
of meandering dreams
Where she follows the cliffs
and curves of an island. Instead,
She begins to settle for what comes next
No twists no turns not even a little risk.
Just a straight road to a stall
Where she is forced to sit.
She craves the company of the pavement
The intimacy of a lean
Forced hugs that knock you off your feet
Loud whispers and soft screams
To complement inconstant speeds.
Adventures that turn into memories
She rides out this back and forth routine
Hoping for a detour
through uncertainty.

Community Center

Angelo’s yellow jacket lies neatly folded

In the worn, wooden cubby

A single banana lies resting on top

A familiar sight for 15 years

Same jacket, different banana

My places have steadily been demolished

These last 15 years

Victims to economy and bulldozers

Washed away by my own personal tsunami

Homes, schools

People

Everything is different

Except the welcoming arms of the automatic doors

As I enter my community centre

I stuff my bag into the neighbouring cubby

And smile at the familiar jacket

I tug my muggy gloves on and give them a sniff, wince

I become part of the collective musk.

I enter the labyrinth

My metal, blue vinyl-pewed church

And become numbed by the thump, thump, thump of

Trodding on the treadmill

Running rapidly to nowhere

Rebooting my frantic mind with movement and music

I trundle around,

Engaging in the rhythmic movement

Pushing and pulling and lifting

Creating microscopic tears in my muscles

Preparing my body to repair

Preparing for the real weights

Friends approach and smile

Many with the measured steps of deceptively delicate insects

As they make their way around the labyrinth

Supported by walkers, chairs, canes,

Human hands

Waging wars

Collectively delusional in our quest to gain control

Over body, mind and time

We walk the wheel

In our suburban sanctuary of incremental miracles

Nobody leaps out of their chairs or tosses their crutches

Yelling hallelujah

I lie on the blue plastic mat

Contemplate the fluorescent lights, suspended and swaying ever so slightly

Watch the silent ballet around me

Slightly out of synch with the soft intonations of Joni Mitchell in my ears

As I gather my bag from my cubby

I notice that the yellow jacket and banana are gone

I emerge from my

Community chrysalis

Hobbling but hopeful,

Knowing that I will be back

Old is the rocks building the stairs

climbed by the rusty men who ate birdfish on Fridays,

is the sharp shelf pushed out of the waves over waves and waves.

Long lost is the ship bringing northmen to the shore to crush.

Crush what?

Heavy is the mass over waves and waves

teetering up old stone stairs

to the hiding place,

the spacious place

prepared for them who wait,

who run to the highest to wait.

To wait for what?

The crush or glory,

not rescue.

Rescue is teetering down old stone stairs over waves and waves,

is hooked back into the whole.

The heavy mass is left sharp to the birdfish safe on Fridays,

from the rusty men who came to leave

but left in the end.

You were nothing more than a concrete barrier,
With some rooms, windows, and walls,
A shapeless structure,
With fault after fault,
And a future that had dissolved.

Yet within your rooms lived my memories,
In which I learned to crawl, walk, and speak,
In which, I learned to read, and to write,
In which I inspired to teach.

Your walls had marks,
From when I would fall,
And indications of how I grew tall,
A front yard in which I would play ball,
But you were nothing more than some rooms, windows, and walls.

Because those names we wrote on your walls,
Those indications of how we grew tall,
Were nothing but mere memories, from when we were small,
Because you were nothing more than some rooms, windows, and walls.

But as we grew older,
And the Winters seemed colder,
Your walls could not bear,
A bedroom that we had to share,
Because as adults we did not care,
That in order to get rid of you we would have to tare,
Because you were nothing more than some rooms, windows, and walls.

With some new laminate, hardwood floors, and a fresh coat of paint,
You were sold,
In the blink of an eye,
With nothing more left to say, other than bye,
Not that anyone else had cared that I had cried,
Because for me you were more than just some rooms, windows, and wall.

Ghost Story

Come back to me, exciting daily first delights,

Come back to me, sweet faith of never being alone.

Come back to me, carefree nights,

Come back to me, the obliviousness of the unknown.

Come back to me, rebirth of seasons,

Leave me, memories deflated by treason.

Leave me, shivers when I walk,

Leave me, metal flowers blooming on my tongue.

Leave me, muted rank of my talk,

Leave me, empty heart and your desire to be young.

charcoal night
hues of red
the voices meet
on Memorial Road
droplets of rainwater
cling, on jet-black
strands of wind-blown hair
synchronizing, tweeting
voices like a foghorn,
travel through autumn air
walking stance in poetic mode
voices break, flow on Memorial Road
silent benches,
damp maples,
prepare to shut their eyes
CONNECT eye to eye
but STRUGGLE to say good-bye
crisscossed pathways
met, halfway
HOLD
the current of this moment
like a ballpoint pen
between tip and thumb
electric free-spirits
attached, yet apart
Memorialize bodies
Unmemorialized souls
on Memorial Road.

I nearly don’t remember you at all but

Here was the place

My first time, yours too

Things you lose: your patience your temper your heart your mind your car keys

Lose your way lose ground lose an advantage lose control

Did we lose our innocence? It’s a silly thought

We were tough smart kids before, tough smart kids after

Although maybe a little bit softer

I was softer, after

And anyway, technically nothing was lost that night

It was just an intimate physical clinical experiment gone slightly awry

All over my thigh, and

I nearly don’t remember you at all

Or that night either, except for the pin-wheeling stars

Straight-backed trees a stern wall of witnesses behind

Warm wet wooden planks under my shoulder blades

Cool slapping water, and murky water smells

Conscious that I smelled like the deep-fat fryer I slaved over every day that summer

But you?

I nearly don’t remember you at all

You were skinny and blond and you talked about rugby and bored me to death

You said you hated my town. I hated my town too

You tasted like beer and tobacco, which was exciting

I was pretty sure you were sophisticated

I thought you were cute, but I can’t remember your face as well as I can remember

the spirals of the stars,

the straightness of the trees

When you’re young you’ve got nothing to lose,

when you’re not, you’ve got everything to lose

Somewhere in the world right now, like me, you’re not young

Are you fat? Prosperous, happy, divorced, bereaved?

Burdened by stresses we couldn’t imagine

when we were young together on a night

so fat with the future it felt like Too Much?

Ready to live it all, have it all,

innocent before and after, in the way tough smart kids are innocent,

we didn’t know the risk, that everything we live and have can be lost.

I don’t think about that night often, or really ever,

And I nearly don’t remember you at all

but that being said, I’m thinking about it now

and although your form is dim

your name carelessly lost like car keys,

I would just like to say that I am thinking of you with enough tenderness

for the skinny boy you were

the man you may have become

and the losses you may have suffered along the way

that I can almost say, at long last

although I nearly don’t remember you at all,

I kind of love you

Walk slow on the path as if you’re treading water.

Swaying your arms front to side

Treading the air

The tips of your fingers brushing the edge of bushes.

Floating down the path

You pass the train tracks.

Listening to the leaves

crashing against the current of the wind

You breathe in the sea salt

And sink into the layers of mud.