13. Collision

I remove the slender instrument

from its elegant box
so glossy, so white
so flagrantly expensive
I feel its weight and sense its power

as I cradle it in my hands

 

I'm excited at first by its magic

as it transforms my scrawls into tidy text 

excited by the endless choices 

font size, thickness, color, brightness

I play and play until I feel a frown coming 

something is missing from these perfect markings

something is missing from this gleaming glass

it turns out I need the imperfections

I need the messy letters

I need my barely legible scrawl 

to think straight, just to think straight 

and so I slink back to the store

return the frivolous instrument

and pick up a boring ballpoint

Much more appreciative now 

of all the left-handed smudges 

that spill upon my dreams. 

10. One Big Photo Mess

cross-legged on the floor

sorting and sifting

through long days and short decades

of love and dreams

and babies and travel

old tattered photos

divide my mind and heart

as I toss or keep the blurred smile

as I toss or to keep the sharp frown

cross-legged on the floor

the tidiness of digital shines through 

much better to reminisce in bits and bytes

where no one has to deal.

9. A Higher Perspective

Going back in time tonight

to my old life

to the one from the seventies

where I hung out at night

with Carl S. Berg and spliffs

and old tunes and a typewriter.

I used to think

they all worked together

to make me creative

forty years later

I figured out

they just worked together

to get me stoned. 

8. After Work

 — after work

I swap my corporate suit

for 

cotton jeans and an XL hoody

I slip off the pumps

and slip on

sensuous, bare feet

I trade in my keyboard 

for 

pistachio nuts and chilled Chardonnay

I close down the spreadsheet

and open up

a big, fat newspaper

I push aside the ergonomic chair

and sink in 

to my overstuffed second-hand couch 

sweetest of all

I rip off my goddamn bra

and

exhale, free at last

— after work

7. East side

discordant sounds on the east side

disenchanted folk on the downslide

a thin lady stops to examine the street

is she in, is she out, is she part of the scene

darkness is coming; she wonders what to do

taxis are screeching, she stays aside a few

in the park, on their turf, sipping red wine tonight

in the park, toking up just to jazz up the night

The thin lady hears the ping from her phone 

a text from her momma, she ain’t so alone

the thin lady grabs a ten o-clock bus

now there ain't no choice, there ain't no fuss

Back home, she tucks in her momma and babe

then she’s restless, she’s anxious, too wired to stay 

she looks out the window; there's nothin' to do

she stubs out a smoke and lights one anew

discordant sounds on the east side

disenchanted folk on the downslide. 

6. City Camping

The din of the traffic keeps humming and heaving

as I pitch my tent and try urban camping
horns blare loudly stomped on by sirens
cars whiz by driven by titans
incessant, demanding, aggressive, unbending
where does it start, when is it ending

I close my eyes and cup my ears

but the brakes keep screeching, the tires keep skidding

this is my night
there’ll be no real sleeping

this is my plight
I’ve got to stop thinking

I lie in my tent but flee in my mind

dying to escape —

the cold air above me, the gravel below me.

The only smart choice

is to run

run away

far away

to the other end of the bridge

to Stanley Park

where sounds are harmonious

tall cedars are glorious.

And, so I go hurriedly to fleeting dreams

where at last

eyelids close, breathing slows

In my bough of soft moss

my canopy of frost

All tucked in

nothing left to disturb
nothing left at all

but exquisite sleep.

My boyfriend and I were visiting West Vancouver one spring. Rather than spend money on a hotel, we decided to be clever, and bring a tent along. We used the internet to find a campground. When our GPS led us to the campsite, we discovered it was located directly under the north end of the Lion’s Gate Bridge, right beside a major mall. We realized the traffic would be non-stop but decided to stick it out, as it was ‘just one night.’ Lying in the tent, listening to endless noise made me crave what lay on the other side of the bridge — the ever peaceful, ever pristine Stanley Park.

5. The Dark Place

The dark place

is not distant in the black night

it is here, within me

— but only sometimes

I cannot leave it

I cannot run from it

and, so I must be

here, where it is

— but only sometimes.

4. My Eagle

He soars above the mountain cliffs

oblivious to the cooling autumn air

he roams in sweeping arcs

nudging billows floating by

he envelopes me with outstretched wings

and holds me close against the piercing wind

he watches as he glides nigh

and bestows upon me silent eyes

his visits are but few

— so that —

the wonder of these moments

does not slip away

unnoticed or unmarked

when he becomes my eagle

and I become his spirit.

One of my favorite places to be is in a kayak. One day, while I was silently paddling near Poets Cove on South Pender Island, I came upon an eagle perched upon a stump on the beach. He sat utterly still, watching me, not five feet away. I, too, sat utterly still and watched him. The longer we stared at each other, the more I felt connected to him. I like to think he felt just as connected to me.

3. Waiting

The plane touches down

a brief stop turns into a delay

then a longer delay

one by one, we trudge off

to airport land

YYC, YQR, YVR, whichever

We wait.

Adults stuck to leather chairs

Adults stuck to screens

I see babies among them

sucking thumbs

sucking fists

they don’t have agendas

they aren’t stuck yet

waiting.

I spot a boy

an old-fashioned boy

with a ball cap on backwards

with rumpled clothes draped over

skinny elbows and bony knees

he swings his legs back and forth

as steadies his cell and sends off a text

He seems a boy in between

a shade less free than the babies in slings

a shade more free than the zombies on screens

he is teetering

soon he’ll learn that he is waiting

waiting

to get back on a plane

so life will resume once again

Years ago, at the advent of the smart phone era, I ended up on a flight that had a long and unexpected stopover. It quickly became apparent that we weren’t going to be moving on so quickly. This rather long and unplanned delay seemed to have an interesting effect on the passengers. It was if their lives had genuinely stopped once the plane had stopped, and that their lives would start up again, when they were up in the air and moving towards their destinations. I sat in a chair, and wrote down what I witnessed.

2. Wind

Like a high excitable wind

without course

I pause to enclose the moment

When before —

did a fallen leaf portend new life

did old tired words hold rich meaning

did a simple hug annul the complex

When was the last time —

that music so lightened a weary world

were purity and passion defined

Like a high excitable wind

on course

I release the moment

knowing so well the last time was

when I was last with you

1. Old Red Volvo

old red Volvo

living someone’s dream

a hundred thousand miles

            breaking trails

             with a friend

sharing sunsets

through the hills

 

old red Volvo

seeking philosophies

travelling the backroads

            quest of truth

            with a friend

stranger of life

telling tales

 

old humpback Volvo

haggard and weary

vagabond days eternal

            aimless machine

            faded friend

sharing trips

sharing dreams

This was the first poem I ever wrote. I wrote it to my Dad when I was thirteen or so, and gave it to him for Christmas. This was over fifty years ago. My Mom found it a few years back and gave it to me. My Dad had quite a special bond with this old car, and I tried to capture that bond in this very, old poem.