Category: Poetry

You remember those days,
warm in the early morning
but with a trace of night dew
still carried in the breeze,
sitting alone by the water
realizing you are never alone.

It is part of you.
The sea is your blood.
The wind is your breath.
The rock is your bone.

All gods are one.
All men are one.

We stand by the pool
of watery moonlight
watching, weaving,
waiting for Ragnarok.

We flow, anointing the earth,
swimming in the sea,
flying in the wind,
sculpting in the rock.

We are daughters and sisters,
lovers and healers.
We are mothers of the one
and the all.

We are the fertility
of imagination and destiny.
We are the keepers of fire
and water, rock and ice.

We are the scent of lilacs
and lilies, pumpkins and
apples, bistort and sage.

We are women.
Solitude does not exist.

It’s been awhile since we were new
between white sheets
watching westerns and making
love and promises
we couldn’t keep from time.

Wagner fell with thunder
and your head fell back
in sweet surprise.

You fed me caviar
I fed you lies

You took me to a gypsy
who saw the truth
through cataracts.

You took me to a room
where music was decided.
You told me to be silent
but someone asked me what
I thought.

I said it made no sense to ask
when I had no knowledge
and no power.
They looked at you
and saw you cringe.

I looked at you and smiled
and lit my cigarette
in the automatic lighter in your car
on the way home.

You told me I was beauty.
You told me I was legend.

And so we were
on Wharncliffe Road
with the rain and teriyaki and
each other
riding dragons in the Skye
at seven in the morning
in the coolness of
the snow
as memories drift.

You read Mein Kampf to me
in a low Teutonic whisper that
melted into tears
like a doorway lost in Paris
back in 1942.

It’s not your fault.

I think of you sometimes
sipping Chivas in the bathtub.
My hair has fallen tangled
just the way you love
and the leaves have fallen golden
all around the wooden gate

but your key is in a river
on the Front.

Clear, cold, blue sky and harsh November sun

glaring white light through stark and leafless trees

and glancing off the water, just begun

to reach with feather crystals and to freeze

the memories of summer on the shore.

Constant, unforgiving, unrelenting

light slices through late autumn just before

Ottawa Valley winds, unrepenting

and icy, sweep the St. Lawrence. But through

November light, time disappears and where

the sharp tang of burning leaves curls into

a drift of woodsmoke carried on the air,

we two are climbing over driftwood while

I wait for your approval and your smile.

Did you, who loved the earth so well, know then

what quickened in the dark and starless night?

What eternal beauty stirred your soul when

life’s sweet pulse was past? Is the air as bright

at heaven’s gate as it was when we talked

of eternity and I thought it meant

that you and I were forever? We walked

together hand in hand, my childhood spent

believing in your power. Will we meet

again or am I, like autumn, too late?

The river stones are cold beneath my feet,

just like they were in 1958,

as love’s philosophies I remember

in the clear, cold air of harsh November.

Bluejays call with rusty clothesline voices

while squirrels chatter over territory

in the maple trees. Over the warm, soft

grass the children run, scrambling for candy

thrown with abandon from Ethel’s basket.

The folding chairs are lined up in the shade

for the older folks – when did we become

older? It seems like yesterday we ran

the three-legged race, holding onto each

other with sticky fingers and laughing

when we fell. Now we sit with paper plates

balanced on our knees and with glasses of

lemonade in the grass between our feet.

We eat together with sticky fingers

and watch our children racing in the sun.

Last night I dreamed of Newfoundland,

the sky red gold above the setting sun,

slashed with purple shadow deeper

than the sea. As I passed, the trees

caught fire and cast a sylvan light upon

the waves like royal jewels and all

along the shore, the water amber gold.

I wonder now if Robert Frost

had walked upon these rocky twisting shores

and if his thoughts of fire and ice

were born from standing in the sea.

My feet are sculpted white against the rock

while playful pools of molten light

fire blazing cold that takes my breath away.

With beauty borne in fluid grace,

the North Atlantic wraps a shrouding mist

around the halo of the sun

and guides the longboats to the shore,

cold and shimmering on the ocean face.

My breath returns in crystal song,

a gift to guide the sailors from the sea.

I cannot help you fight the fire.

The sea will come again to claim the blood

upon the shore. The price is high

but like the tide it ebbs and flows

and always catches people unaware.

Like August wind, it carries low

and drifting ashes claim their sepulchre.

The sun is down. The dogs are loose.

A grisled Irish keeper holds the ground.

In garments tattered gray with dusk,

he scours the shadows in the wood

for waking landvættir from ancient realms

that to this island still belong,

alive in amber dreams of Newfoundland.

Warm, indolent air lies upon the ground

waiting. The cat lies hidden in the heat,

deep in the grass, watching its prey – no sound

disturbs the ancient, primal drumming beat

of blood inside the temples. A slow breath

of air moves stealthily among the trees

while nature waits in silence. Life or death

will be decided by a sudden breeze.

The smoky river eases its way through

the valley under sullen yellow skies.

Dark clouds, heavy with rain, move closer to

the earth. The cat, with shaded yellow eyes

watches while shadows darken all along

the shoreline. Patiently and quietly, it lies

unseen in the grass. Ancient, primal song –

drumming silence pierced by the heron’s cries.

The air collides and lightning cracks the sky

while thunder low and deep moves through the ground.

The rain unleashed in torrents melts the eye

and beats the rolling earth with drumming sound.

And then—just as suddenly —it is gone,

the thunderous clouds swept far to the east.

Late afternoon light creeps over the lawn

and down to the river. We are released.

Some things are forever…
like you, like me.
We slip through the spaces in the tapestry
weaving, diving and surfacing,
sometimes coming together for a moment.
We are joyful and we play even in adversity.
We have been far apart, but now I see you and you see me.
I found you in the spaces…
the spaces between your words,
between your actions,
between your thoughts.
I found you where you sleep because you let me.
You know I will hold you carefully,
cradle you with infinite strength yet never touch your wings.
This is trust.
Every tear you have shed,
every wound you have known,
every smile, every laugh
is a sacred trust.
Always I will be here
somewhere slipping through the spaces in the tapestry,
seeing you
and you will see me.
Through your storms of infatuation,
through your need to be acknowledged,
through your search for expansion,
through your search for perfection,
I will be here.
Now you know.
I am going out for nachos.