Tag Archives: poetry

A Wannabe Village Person

Taking a window of opportunity with milder weather today I collected up some stuff my son requested from home for his new place and took an early evening drive into town. I’m a wonderful mother, I know.

Big puddles and millions of potholes slowed my journey down considerably. His neighbourhood is a wonderfully quirky part of town with many charming points and places. The narrow and snow slushed filled streets riddled with cracks and gullies somewhat detract from it’s appeal at the moment.

Several people were out walking their dogs but just as many were carrying them over the rushing puddles collecting at the intersections. Oddly enough it seemed like the right thing to do, however my son’s seventy pound bulldog pup will not likely get this treatment. ( By the way, she was THRILLED to see me and made her face go all smiley rather than the usual bulldog pouty look.)

The inky black night soon settled in by the time I was on my way back home and what with the snow piles and potholes I  eased my car through the narrow street lit up here and there with little restaurants, galleries and shops still open. A giant evergreen, mid village is still lit with white Christmas lights. The place has a special hum about it at any time but on this inky dark, wet and slushy night it looked welcoming, interesting and good place to be.

When the snow finally melts and the slush drains away I think my son will see me in the artsy village neighbourhood more often. He need not worry about me pestering him too much though. I’ll be finding myself at one of the galleries or poetry gatherings. I’ll be the one maybe reciting a lament to slush and potholes, not wearing a beret.

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Don’t Worry Season

Under the split maple in the front yard

still

 covered with banks of snow the clump of snowdrop flowers

imagines

blasts of wind in the icy rain because I know

they will be

there

Squirrels and rabbits have found the piles of torn stale bread left on the barrel as a gesture of interspecies celebration of longer days

Morning pages, journals and small spurts of action signifying a continual quest for simplicity and reduction of baggage

Telephone messages

Supplemented renewal but in due time

Snowdrops still

under

the snow

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Winter Makes Me Rant

Trying this post again but not in prose because it froze

Stream of consciousness it is and here’s the biz…

literary program eliminates books day by day

gets me so irritated what can I say?

so the experts debate, relate, egos inflate

premise of show is to find the right book so all Canadians can take a good look

at a book that could change Canada…

c’mon eh?

there’s an end of world kind of tale, an intersexed story,an immigrant fable and two books about indigenous people, as far as I know

I haven’t read these books but heard about them from the show

Day by day, a book is eliminated, gets me frustrated

Timed discussions and debate to get one book off the slate

How can this event be a good thing to inspire the mosaic collection of people that is Canada to run out together and buy the same book and read it so the country changes for the good?

Point taken, televised unfortunately and misunderstood.

Sorry.

 

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Pickup Lines

An older man behind the lunch counter

dismissed initially as a possible seatmate

tiny table in the winter indoor sun

preferable

low key conversation way back

in the market’s deli

discretely held

yet holding my interest

older woman unloading

some comments to a younger person

considerations given

and the gist of it I think

of the audible part….. was about

money

can relate

moving on,  finished, paper napkin and coffee cup

shopping needs doing now that the older senior shoppers have gone home and cleared out of the parking lot and now safer to go out there and not have my nice car whacked by a zooming zoomer

after all is said and done

taking a different approach

to turn in dirty tray to deli workers and proceed

an older man, wearing his coat and winter felt cap

sitting straight and tall at the lunch counter writing intently, noticed now

one glance to see his neatness scribed there, a journal maybe

something he does every day

another peek but useless for telling

anymore

most likely he will be there again and I may say hello and comment

about the day and smile or nod at another older writer

like myself

the comments made by the old woman at the back of the lunch counter

something

about money and frustrating people

another

story

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Home Truths

Boots on for walk on crusty ice through wind tunnelled city

Theatre day

Frozen car, windshield wipers frozen, trunk won’t work

Friend with me and we go as best as we can

Still making up mind about the play

Should have liked it more and maybe I will like it more when I make up my mind to like it

difficult

pain

killers for ache

so unable to relax

completely there

At home relief, collapse and boots still on for support and warmth

No need really

just home

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Sweet Home, Sweet Home

freezing rain

huge pot of chili made with fridge clear out ingredients

batch of butterscotch and chocolate chip cookies

sleeping on and off through the afternoon

roads bad

so dog stays

yet another night

five containers of chili made with onions, tomatoes, zuchinni, mushrooms, celery, carrots, three kind of beans and two kinds of meat now frozen

one batch of cookies but half of the batch left too long in oven and other half perfect

message sent from new neighbourhood coffee shop wifi because son can’t find phone charger in his muddle of unpacked boxes

all ok, found heat control in basement apartment

yesterday, there, my feet froze waiting for him

he’s close and his neighbourhood coffee shop is just one lovely thing

there

an organic and arty little enclave in an old part of the city

going down the village street

besides the neighbourhood coffee shop

an art gallery with meeting places for artists, writers, performers

a library with meeting rooms for readers, writers

poetry in the air there

tiny bakery with funny little signs

plant and flower store

used books for sale in an old house

the tavern looks old time blues and rock and roll

the pub a little more upscale maybe

something for everyone but I like the blues

vintage shops , retro things, records, books, clothes, antiques

quilt making shop giving classes

good old landmark hardware store

fancy coffee place with delicate desserts

a spa or two

historical , quaint, lovely places

even a real grocery store

all just along his village street

where his basement apartment is warming up

Is there any wonder why he stayed in town and left the dog

yet another night with mom

Afterall, it’s freezing rain.

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Something At the Door

Last year, no winter really, so no way to write

anything decent with feeling and meaning.

Creativity joints seized, worried just enough to seek nutrition and rare light.

Some scattering of emotion, distracted.

Winter is roaring again and nothing human walks by.

Half hoping to hear a frozen beat at the door

last hope crashing

yet still expecting renewal.

Support needed, a reminder,

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While Hiding

Dragging furniture to find the spaces to fill

up again

with the assorted Christmas decorations and accumulated fall touches

too early

to discard

turning on an assortment of dim lights for the remote corners but putting the small tree of green , red and gold front and center

to show off

its brightness while hiding

the large cardboard box it came in back in the unused area of the house relegated to shed

and

sitting down in the enveloping velour

now pulled front and center

awkwardly taking up the centre

realizing that the old brown provincial covered in a knit needs to go somewhere because there is too much and through the collection of pots brought in from the storm and winds there walks an ancient

in belted coat and plastic hat with a steady enough step

just as the iron grey sky squints the last of the day

inspiring some sensibility to try and regain the lost strength and ignore the numbness

and

even to smile

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Scaled Down

Days seemingly start to drift by very quickly this time of year. My lack of real work schedule makes my night owl sessions of reading, writing and watching late night costume dramas blend the hours of the day rather out of sync with the lives around me. My writing style is also different as evidenced by my last couple of poetry type excerpts. Relatives and friends are voicing some concern about my well being. Reassured that I am only being creative they seem to be relieved. There is a certain decorum to be kept in my writing voice, apparently. My new online readers seemed to enjoy my little spurt of eccentricity though so it may spurt again from time to time.

I’ve taken the following approach. Lay low and write. This keeps me off of committees and sometimes free of other responsibilities. Journaling about stream of consciousness helps. Reflecting through writing explains a goal process that is underway. Notes scribbled and assembled may sort themselves into an outline of sorts. Posting a blog or two from time to time is somehow a release and also a connection. I can feel the comfort of a returning thing, this writing voice, doing it’s scales and breathing exercises, finding it’s pitch once more.

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Night Movements

Immediately upon arriving I grab whatever has been left out handy to eat and drink as much as I can. Looking around, lights are on in every room but only the soft glowing ones in the silk leaves get my attention. There are no rules right now because she is happy to see us and wants to know about new buildings, beds, Kate and the elevator as well as the stairs. The attack that happened wasn’t my fault but made my eye twitch. I was grabbed by the neck anyway but she was my defender having seen the first strike against me. Once more, watching at the big window for night movements and listening to housekeeping duties, sleeping rough. Finally, our own time together and I can lean on her or move away whenever I like. The threat of attack remains down the hall perched in wicker and wool. She seems to prefer me but my stay is only overnight. Understanding is difficult and we leave again when the night is dark and the lights outside are turned on brightly to help us say goodbye.

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