Ear to the Ground

2009-10-31T14:48:00.000-07:00

Timeless (written at age 17)

All time stood still
and I
on top of the world
stood breathless
waiting, waiting
for the sword that
would pierce
my heart
and kill my soul
and yet, I gloried
in that moment.
ecstasy was mine.
I touched the grass
I sang to the wind
but it heard me not
then time went on
I plunged
and took my soul
into the depths
of nothingness

Brain Drain

2009-10-30T21:45:00.000-07:00

We were out for lunch, just he and I
and he prattled non-stop
about the brain.

He went into copious detail.
he was knowledgeable, and I admired
the fact that he could remember it all.
I had little choice but to listen
and I was hungry so I ate my lunch,
nodding as he talked.

I thought if I pretended to listen
he would soon run out of brain words
but two refills of coffee
and a dessert later, he was still
talking about the cranium, neurons,
medulla and cerebellum.
I was getting brain freeze

from the ice-cream.

I interrupted to ask him if he
would even notice if I got up
and turned cartwheels in the aisle
would he, would he even notice?

He stopped talking, looked at me

and resumed.

I got up, turned a cartwheel

and left.

The envelope came

2009-10-30T21:35:00.000-07:00

from Child and Family Services.
I opened it. evils swarmed out
and exposed wounds.
a gun shot, a wife sounded
and pillowed her husband’s head.
an ambulance mourned its way
to the hospital.

a father kicked and a baby
sprawled on cold tile floors.
a building burned, a bridge
collapsed. a husband hated
and the angry blood ran down
his wife’s face. she straggled
her five assorted children
to a neighbour’s house
for salvation.

a family’s unbreakable world
shattered, and embers died
in the wood stove.
From the radio soothed
jesus loves me this I know,
while beer bottles staggered
and toppled in a drunken heap
on the floor.

I closed the envelope.
wounds healed,
hope survived, and thrived
amoung the evils.

The Visitor

2009-10-30T21:32:00.000-07:00

The staccato sound jarred my thoughts
and I sat rigid in my chair,
a dream perhaps. it came again
abrupt and intruding.

My heart knocked. I opened the door
then drove it back and met
the ample bulge of your resistance
so I let you in.

You looked younger in wavy-black
cascading hair with drizzled grey.
The pain you bore was not now visible
on your face.

My fears vanished and we talked
as two familial friends,
though your head still lay
upon its stony pillow.

Heartbeat

2009-10-30T21:26:00.000-07:00

Leaves decay and fall,
nature mourns.
The earth is renewed,
nature rejoices.
Rich aromas rise from the earth
and encircle me.
The smell of decay has faded
and life’s sweet fragrance wraps
around me and draws me to it
giving me stability, comfort and warmth.
I can no longer mourn for those things
that pass away.

The laughter of children fills the air.
I hear the drumbeats
of their lives in the distance. I hear
the murmur of my ancestor’s voices
from the rich soil beneath my feet
They speak words of humility.
They urge me to walk with soft steps
and encourage me to find the good
in all things. They rebuke thoughts of
hate and greed.

“Return good for evil” I hear them say.
“Be kind to your enemies.
Take from Mother Earth only that
which you need. Learn from those of us
who walked before you,
teach and nurture those who walk beside you
and prepare the way for those who
will walk the earth after you. Reflect on
the important things in life
and disregard evil.”

So, I urge you to bend your ear
to the ground
and listen to the distant sounds
of horses’ hooves
pounding the free lands
and the wild shouts
of the buffalo hunts.
Bend your ear once more to hear
the deafening silence of a land touched
by destruction and devastation.
Lay your hand upon your breast
and walk in rhythm to the beat of
your own heart.

Three Boys at Play

2009-10-30T21:16:00.000-07:00

I wait in my car, and espy three boys at play
in their paved and treeless fenced world
beyond this parking lot, power pedaling
their toy cars out of sight and back
to my delight, to park in parallel lines,
unaware of their own comic antics
and even more, of how near they emulate
and duplicate the grown-ups
they will one sudden morning be.
And I, without intent, break covenant
with quietude of thought
and laugh out loud. Their play stops
three faces turn toward the sound
and press against the chain-linked fence
that fuses our two worlds in this moment.
I wave at them, start the car
and drive away. Three boys scuttle off
jump into three parallel-parked cars,
and revive their simulated play.

My Hair is Brown

2009-10-30T21:06:00.000-07:00

Others argue my hair is black
but I know it was born and raised
the colour of brown earth
because roots don’t lie.
I can dye it every rainbow colour
but underneath I know it looks like
dark roast coffee and the warm
rich drizzle of velvety
chocolate decadence
on a biscotti biscuit.
and in the sun the red
shines through.
Oh, the red shines through
like a dessert explosion
of cherries jubilee
and smooth dark chocolate.
but what does it matter in the end
to argue, for the colours
of winter and wisdom will win.

2009-10-30T21:02:00.000-07:00

The Storm

(written at 14)

The grey-black clouds
form in the sky
an invisible wind
draws them nigh.
the trees
like thousands of
clapping hands
shelter the wildlife
from barren lands
the rain falls gently
on the fields
to help the growth
of what they yield
the sun shines brightly
after the rain
and everything’s calm
and peaceful again.

Poetry of my youth

2009-10-30T20:49:00.000-07:00

View from a bus

I passed by fields
that stopped each time awhile
perhaps to drink from slough or pond,
to scold at wire fences placed by man,
or yet to wend their way
through clumps of trees
providing shade from heat of day
The pavement, mocking
raced along beside.

Biographical Note

2009-10-30T14:47:00.000-07:00

Born a Prairie Girl in Peace River, Alberta, I now reside in Abbotsford, British Columbia.
I started writing poetry at the age of 12. My first poem “Christopher Columbus” was published in Grade 7 in our school newspaper.

I pursued other passions in life but have come full circle, back to my first love, that of writing. That is where I find my voice.

When I write, I am breathing. Up until now, I have been holding my breath.

I Can't Write a Poem

2009-10-29T21:28:00.000-07:00

I'm stumped
I can't write a poem
the word's don't flow
and I don't know
what to write about
I can't write a poem

The words
stick to my tongue
like a fly
to a flyswatter
all squished
and when I
scrape them loose
they fall
dead to the ground
I can't write a poem

My poems
are like my plants
they get sick
from too much
or too little water
they wither up
and die, like worms
on a hot
summer sidewalk

I can't write a poem.

An invitation

2009-10-29T21:08:00.000-07:00

I invite anyone who will listen, to put your ear to the ground, hear and observe those things around you that most take for granted: the sights, sounds, tastes and textures of your world.

I invite you into my world of written thoughts and perspectives of ordinary people, things and situations that become extraordinary by the imagination.