Teaching Poetry

The pleasant blessed pastures of Wessex of the South West,

Of the poetic rolling wet and green of Thomas Hardy’s nest,

Seeded poetry in my heart,

waiting to blossom at last,

for it was there in the old Wessex capital

that I had buried my longing heart

longing to return to me undyingly

just as I yearn to return to Sherborne

to fill the void in me and be reborn.

What stories could they tell

If stones could speak?

What fables could they testify

If fields could talk?

Such history that the Saxon abbey could reveal

Of secrets and intrigues and life and death,

Such tales that South Cadbury could convey,

Of Camelot and Arthur and Guinevere and Merlin.

Such myths and legends the South West boasts

Of Stonehenge and Avebury and Glastonbury and Cerne Abbas

and the mysterious moors of wild and windy Devon.

Sherborne speaks to me like no other place does

Dorset calls out to me like no other place does

“Come home” ring the bells at Sherborne

Live in exile no more, retake your place.

Such overwhelming yearning to return

Drives me insane and imminent collapse

Everyday, every hour, every minute, every second.

And indeed cloudy days and foggy days

Fill me with life and energy and optimism and hope

And likewise rainy days and wintry nights

Remind me of hearth and home I used to relish

On England’s pleasant pastures and rolling green.

To live in exile is severe suffering and punishment

I accept this retribution for an unjust past life

That I must have lived in my previous reincarnation

But then a famous son of Liverpool once sang

“It’s not always going to be this grey”

“All Things Must Pass”

And  I must go home.

Back there, up the stairs and down the hall
Lies a portal to anywhere
You want to go.
Where insignificant human 029395
Has reincarnated into a thousand different lives.

Hacker, athlete, vengeful god, and explorer
Of both space and time,
I have saved more lives
And cost more
Than anyone in this current reality.

I have righted more wrongs
And inspired more songs
Than Beowolf or Warf combined.

This inconspicuous lego-brick
Of pre-WW2 housing,
Quiet lives on repeat,
Orderly, silent, and neat,
Hides within it epic shit
Worthy of a bardic recording
And your best bit of green.

(restricted by the limits of tablet technology, this poem was recorded by voice and I was unable to upload the audio to the blog.  Just picture the dulcet tones of my chipmunk voice skittering through these lines.)

These Quiet Ajummas

conversation
was best waged
over
bromine bubbles
and water jets
that struck the loose skin
of those loud ajummas

those forward leaning ajummas
draped hot chiton
on distant children
shouting academic strengths
as if
they understood
the inner guts of a school system
they had never grown up
in
reciting hyperbolic heroics
for the esteemed canon
of a recreation centre’s
hot tub

but these quiet ajummas
who sat back
against the walls
toes tracing shy circles
in the sediment deep below
would hear delivered stories
of their own kin
and wonder
how shallow
their knowledge
was of their own children
before retreating
water dripping
from loosened joints
to wash away
the chemicals of a hot tub
conversation in the nearby shower

Abbotsford Recreation Centre
2499 McMillan Rd, Abbotsford, BC V2S 7S5

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.