I could fall in love with this rugged land,
rough-hewn shores,
grace untouched by fashion
determination in each breathing leaf
shaped by the temperament of each wave that lands
over and over and over again
but as the moments stretch
diving into contented admiration
drowning in each sigh of satisfaction
the truth emerges
this is not my home
and this harbor offers me no shelter
i need not linger
so i throw it a silent kiss
turn my face into the fresh living wind
whisper a prayer of thanks
and move on
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Saturday, October 4, 2008
around noon, Newport, Rhode Island
15 little white sails popping up from the twinkling blue riveted my attention. A host of young teens were learning to sail in small vessels clearly built for one. They formed an armada of mini-sailboats and their captains efficiently moved within them.
The sea and winds must be their masters in a way the sun is mine. They must time everything according to her tides and currents and his gusts and gales. They seem aware with a set of senses I cannot imagine carrying ... being able to predict and capture the power of the wind in a sail, weaving in and out of their boat, ducking under their ever pivoting sail, the way a boxer incessantly dodges punches.
I -- who grew up land-locked -- who measures the seasons by lengths of days -- not by the temperature of the seas or the strength of the winds ... I wonder what it would be like to have the winds and waters as my master.
The sea and winds must be their masters in a way the sun is mine. They must time everything according to her tides and currents and his gusts and gales. They seem aware with a set of senses I cannot imagine carrying ... being able to predict and capture the power of the wind in a sail, weaving in and out of their boat, ducking under their ever pivoting sail, the way a boxer incessantly dodges punches.
I -- who grew up land-locked -- who measures the seasons by lengths of days -- not by the temperature of the seas or the strength of the winds ... I wonder what it would be like to have the winds and waters as my master.
Monday, September 29, 2008
5:45 pm - 6:45 pm, Madison Square Gardens, NYC
Waiting for my cousin, I take the time to watch the people of this city.
This city of the world -- not just of North America, but one teeming with global flavour.
I find some things that meet my expectations: a man walking with a big fat pretzel, a woman on her cellphone complaining about her relationship without pausing for a breath in fifteen minutes, artists carrying sketchbooks, and of course, the tourists.
I'm in all the pictures now of Madison Square Gardens for that hour. I blink as the flashes go off. Not used to lights from cameras nearby, nor the lights from the large screen behind me. I keep looking at the sky, wondering if the dark clouds above bring lightning with them ... then laugh at my innocent assumptions.
There are some things that surprise me: a tall blond man carrying a surfboard, a short bald south-asian man who looks like some kind of guru, except his green pants seem too shiny, and about four men whom I am certain I would have married in another lifetime. (They were not drop dead gorgeous -- they just looked like they would have made good husbands).
At about six pm, women and their young children go by me in parades. The toddlers are in strollers or perching from a carrying sling in front of the speedy, effective parents. Others walk alongside their parents. I didn't know three year olds could walk so fast.
The streets are impeccably clean. Here, in this hub, there is a garbage can every ten paces. (I count the paces as people walk pas - yes, it is ten steps). And I witness two men come by with their garbage bags and dustpans, sweeping up the cigarette butts and cleaning out the garbage. Maybe more than usual smoking this week in NYC. I catch snippets of conversation about rates and markets.
But even more than cleanliness, I see what surprises me most. The reports are true. New Yorkers are polite. A man drops a newspaper, the person behind him picks it up, runs to catch up with him and offers the paper back. One of the street cleaners tries to sweep a napkin into his dustpan. The wind blows it out of his reach. He tries and the wind gusts again. Another reach, and the napkin still escapes. Finally a young man, with a guitar slung across his back, steps on the napkin with his boot, picks it up and gently pushes it with his hand into the dustpan. Now, THAT's polite. It's hard to impress a Canadian with politeness, let me tell you.
A teen comes out of the subway, stops and does a couple of dance moves, oblivious to the people smiling around him. He opens one eye and grins. He knows he's watched. And then, three people saunter by, walking slow, with nowhere to go -- ah, they must be the tourists.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Story Slam-Off
There's a fantastic event in our city called "Story Slam".
Participants come up to a mike and have five minutes to tell a story. It must be an original story. Judges randomly picked from the audience rate the story from 1 to 10. A final score is given based on the total of the three middle scores (top score and bottom score are dropped). If you go over five minutes, you lose points. Each audience member throws five dollars into a hat (for the fantastic entertainment) and the winner gets the money. On some nights, we've had a prize of $500.
I love the dynamic created between readers and writers at events like this. An intimacy is created between the audience and the storyteller. Unlike any other performing arts event I go to, there is free flowing dialogue between the listener and the writer after the event. And the writers can be beginners or experienced. And there's no telling who wins!
Two months ago we had the semi-finals: the winner from each month competed in a story slam. Last night, we had the finals - the Slam-Off. The top six had to read two stories instead of just one. I was one of the top six.
I gave it my best. During these last months of writing and preparation, I felt quite competitive but I arrived at the event last night and realized how privileged I was to be among these talented writers. It didn't matter if I won. I was just happy to be participating.
Here are my two stories. I came in third. I got a little bit of recognition and a little prize :) It was a great night.
(If you're interested in creating a Story Slam Event in your community, let me know. I help support the organization of this event and can put you in touch with the person who started it in our city.)
Story One
Growing up, I was taught that dying was a natural consequence of everything I endeavored to undertake. My mother was endowed with a special hormone that creates unnecessary paranoia that allowed her to connect jumping on beds, running fast and eating more than two cookies with dying. It’s a miracle I’m standing here before you.
However, as I developed my own reasoning skills, my mother learned to be a little more realistic with the consequences she foresaw. And instead of death, I heard warnings like: “Wear a sweater, or else you’ll get pneumonia and go to the hospital” or “If you don’t wear makeup, you’ll never get married.”
With this in mind, I dreaded, at the age of eighteen, telling my mother what I had planned for the May long weekend.
“Camping?” she said.
I replied, “We went camping with you and Dad when we were kids.”
“In a motor home,” she answered. “You want to camp in a tent?” She was disgusted. “It’s not safe, honey.”
I mentally reviewed our weekend plans. We had thought about going to the mountains but camping elsewhere would be fine, I decided.
My mother was still talking. “It’s dangerous because of the … “
“Yes, I know. Bears,” I interrupted. “But we’re going to the lake. There’s no bears there.”
She answered, “It’s not bears, I’m worried about. You know why it’s dangerous … you know what’s there?”
My mind raced. What crazed news story had she read about now? Wolves? Mountain Lions?
“What, mother?” I asked.
“When convicts escape – you know the first place they’ll go to, don’t you?”
I tried to keep my jaw attached to the rest of my face. “The campground?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, eyebrows raised. “The campground.”
I was at a loss. My mother didn’t want me to go camping for fear of escaped convicts. I grasped for a solution. I convinced her there would be a huge number of friends – and strong boys – on my trip. She felt comforted.
The problem was, it was a lie. There would only be three of us – and all girls. But, why worry? The campground would be packed with people. Imagine my surprise when we discovered that it was so early in the season, nobody else was camping at Ma-Me-O Beach … except for me and my two friends, Sue and Leanne.
But, I took it all in stride. As the night wore on though, I felt a strange transformation taking place. Worries appeared unbidden in my mind, shadows grew, sounds magnified. I ignored them though until we had tucked ourselves in for the night, snug in our tent, buried in our sleeping bags.
Then, … crunch, crunch, crunch – footsteps. Someone was walking outside. My god – who would be walking out here without a vehicle – except for … an escaped convict??
“Do you hear those footsteps?” I whispered.
Leanne was still awake. “Yes,”
“Oh oh.” I continued. “I think I left the ax outside.”
I had to think on my feet. I prayed Leanne would catch on. In a loud voice, I said, “Could you ask Bob to move over? There’s not enough room for me.” That’s what we needed, a big man in the tent.
In her brilliance, Leanne improvised and said, [read in a deep man voice] “Alright, I’ll move over.”
Sue spoke up. “Who’s Bob?”
Panic engulfed me. Sue would be the end of us. If I died because of this ex-convict, my mother would kill me for not listening to her.
Leanne ignored Sue and said “Bob’s moved over, you should have enough room now.”
After a long pause, Sue said, “Who the hell is Bob?”
If the escaped convict was going to strike, he was going to do it then.
But, no one attacked us, and we never heard the footsteps again. After the delirious giggles we collapsed into - out of relief more so than humor – we finally fell asleep.
After that, I was a little more merciful with my mother. It seemed I was stricken with the affliction myself - this overactive imagination. My mother uses it to feed her worries and I use it to feed my stories – Bob being my first creation.
Now when my mother warns me of death, bankruptcy, or spinsterhood because of my haircut, my expensive shoes or how much time I spend in the sun … I just smile and nod. It’s really a blessing. In a sense, because of her worries, I’m standing here before you.
Story Two
Words – they echoed off the walls. Words from my mother’s language -- comforting, rhythmic, familiar – words I do not understand. In these words, my mother’s family recovered their home, talking faster, complaining louder, laughing harder. Words flew around the room during family reunions, where my mother’s siblings and their families totalled at least sixty people.
But, in January of 2004, my families’ words were colored by a different hue for we had gathered because my grandmother had died.
My grandmother was the axis of our chaotic family. A true matriarch – a Dona in my mother’s words. The funeral ceremony was to be everything she deserved, showcasing her greatest pride - her family. So every role in the funeral – whether it was handing out programs, holding flowers, singing songs – were to be evenly distributed between representatives of our families. Our own personal United Nations.
And because my talent was with words, words that could be molded and shaped – it was decided I would give the eulogy. I agreed. You don’t disagree with a request like that. But what words would disguise the fact that I never knew my grandmother?
She didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak her dialect, so our conversation consisted of phrases like “how are you grandma?” “love you grandma” and “time to eat, grandma”.
I had vivid memories of her visits to Edmonton – summer nights of our house overflowing with company. Windows open, fans whirring, and all of the adults unnaturally generous and patient. And, of course, the kitchen. Always warm and full of wondrous scents … magically churning out delights without end – like her homemade sausages, or Filipino desserts full of ice shavings, coconut, jello and fruit – or my favourite – ensemada – a sweet cheese-filled bun, with sugar sprinkled on top.
But those words would not be sufficient for her funeral – to say that I would miss my grandmother’s sausages? My words could describe what I found remarkable about my grandmother. How she never went to school, but ran a farming business. How she married twice – both husbands much younger than her. And how she was equally religious and superstitious, always carrying her rosary (for protection) and bullet shells (for good luck). You can imagine which got her into trouble at the airports.
But what I loved most about my grandmother were her kisses. She leaned into my face and I would feel her soft, wrinkly skin on my cheek, and then she would take a big breath in, as if my very scent brought her life.
But, I knew my family. These words were not respectful – thought they carried the truth of what I loved in her. I had shaped words in the past to fit the occasion. But, it was my grandmother, distortion here seemed wrong. And she was dead – she would know if I was lying. Worst of all, I had not shed a tear since I had heard the news. I loved her, but I did not feel that gaping hole that leaves so many breathless after death has touched their lives.
So when it was my turn to speak my words, words that were scattered into the wide church aisles, touching the bottom of the stained glass windows and breezing through the flower petals that rested on my grandmother’s coffin, it was the first time – ever - I felt that words could not live up to their task.
My words could not capture her – her greatest fear, her favourite color, her most cherished memory. My words could not keep her in the world that I knew – the world of sight and touch and smell. So, I spoke words that described what I knew for certain. The impact she had on me. On my mother, my five year old cousin, and my fifty year old aunt.
After I had finished my eulogy, I walked back to my seat, and slid onto the bench beside my sister. We all knelt for a moment, in silence. And in that empty lonely space, I broke down and wept. My grandmother didn’t need words. She never needed words. It was a most precious lesson – embodied in who she was and how she lived, and in how I said goodbye to her. It’s not in the words, it’s - ....
[hand on the heart – in silence].
Participants come up to a mike and have five minutes to tell a story. It must be an original story. Judges randomly picked from the audience rate the story from 1 to 10. A final score is given based on the total of the three middle scores (top score and bottom score are dropped). If you go over five minutes, you lose points. Each audience member throws five dollars into a hat (for the fantastic entertainment) and the winner gets the money. On some nights, we've had a prize of $500.
I love the dynamic created between readers and writers at events like this. An intimacy is created between the audience and the storyteller. Unlike any other performing arts event I go to, there is free flowing dialogue between the listener and the writer after the event. And the writers can be beginners or experienced. And there's no telling who wins!
Two months ago we had the semi-finals: the winner from each month competed in a story slam. Last night, we had the finals - the Slam-Off. The top six had to read two stories instead of just one. I was one of the top six.
I gave it my best. During these last months of writing and preparation, I felt quite competitive but I arrived at the event last night and realized how privileged I was to be among these talented writers. It didn't matter if I won. I was just happy to be participating.
Here are my two stories. I came in third. I got a little bit of recognition and a little prize :) It was a great night.
(If you're interested in creating a Story Slam Event in your community, let me know. I help support the organization of this event and can put you in touch with the person who started it in our city.)
Story One
Growing up, I was taught that dying was a natural consequence of everything I endeavored to undertake. My mother was endowed with a special hormone that creates unnecessary paranoia that allowed her to connect jumping on beds, running fast and eating more than two cookies with dying. It’s a miracle I’m standing here before you.
However, as I developed my own reasoning skills, my mother learned to be a little more realistic with the consequences she foresaw. And instead of death, I heard warnings like: “Wear a sweater, or else you’ll get pneumonia and go to the hospital” or “If you don’t wear makeup, you’ll never get married.”
With this in mind, I dreaded, at the age of eighteen, telling my mother what I had planned for the May long weekend.
“Camping?” she said.
I replied, “We went camping with you and Dad when we were kids.”
“In a motor home,” she answered. “You want to camp in a tent?” She was disgusted. “It’s not safe, honey.”
I mentally reviewed our weekend plans. We had thought about going to the mountains but camping elsewhere would be fine, I decided.
My mother was still talking. “It’s dangerous because of the … “
“Yes, I know. Bears,” I interrupted. “But we’re going to the lake. There’s no bears there.”
She answered, “It’s not bears, I’m worried about. You know why it’s dangerous … you know what’s there?”
My mind raced. What crazed news story had she read about now? Wolves? Mountain Lions?
“What, mother?” I asked.
“When convicts escape – you know the first place they’ll go to, don’t you?”
I tried to keep my jaw attached to the rest of my face. “The campground?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she replied, eyebrows raised. “The campground.”
I was at a loss. My mother didn’t want me to go camping for fear of escaped convicts. I grasped for a solution. I convinced her there would be a huge number of friends – and strong boys – on my trip. She felt comforted.
The problem was, it was a lie. There would only be three of us – and all girls. But, why worry? The campground would be packed with people. Imagine my surprise when we discovered that it was so early in the season, nobody else was camping at Ma-Me-O Beach … except for me and my two friends, Sue and Leanne.
But, I took it all in stride. As the night wore on though, I felt a strange transformation taking place. Worries appeared unbidden in my mind, shadows grew, sounds magnified. I ignored them though until we had tucked ourselves in for the night, snug in our tent, buried in our sleeping bags.
Then, … crunch, crunch, crunch – footsteps. Someone was walking outside. My god – who would be walking out here without a vehicle – except for … an escaped convict??
“Do you hear those footsteps?” I whispered.
Leanne was still awake. “Yes,”
“Oh oh.” I continued. “I think I left the ax outside.”
I had to think on my feet. I prayed Leanne would catch on. In a loud voice, I said, “Could you ask Bob to move over? There’s not enough room for me.” That’s what we needed, a big man in the tent.
In her brilliance, Leanne improvised and said, [read in a deep man voice] “Alright, I’ll move over.”
Sue spoke up. “Who’s Bob?”
Panic engulfed me. Sue would be the end of us. If I died because of this ex-convict, my mother would kill me for not listening to her.
Leanne ignored Sue and said “Bob’s moved over, you should have enough room now.”
After a long pause, Sue said, “Who the hell is Bob?”
If the escaped convict was going to strike, he was going to do it then.
But, no one attacked us, and we never heard the footsteps again. After the delirious giggles we collapsed into - out of relief more so than humor – we finally fell asleep.
After that, I was a little more merciful with my mother. It seemed I was stricken with the affliction myself - this overactive imagination. My mother uses it to feed her worries and I use it to feed my stories – Bob being my first creation.
Now when my mother warns me of death, bankruptcy, or spinsterhood because of my haircut, my expensive shoes or how much time I spend in the sun … I just smile and nod. It’s really a blessing. In a sense, because of her worries, I’m standing here before you.
Story Two
Words – they echoed off the walls. Words from my mother’s language -- comforting, rhythmic, familiar – words I do not understand. In these words, my mother’s family recovered their home, talking faster, complaining louder, laughing harder. Words flew around the room during family reunions, where my mother’s siblings and their families totalled at least sixty people.
But, in January of 2004, my families’ words were colored by a different hue for we had gathered because my grandmother had died.
My grandmother was the axis of our chaotic family. A true matriarch – a Dona in my mother’s words. The funeral ceremony was to be everything she deserved, showcasing her greatest pride - her family. So every role in the funeral – whether it was handing out programs, holding flowers, singing songs – were to be evenly distributed between representatives of our families. Our own personal United Nations.
And because my talent was with words, words that could be molded and shaped – it was decided I would give the eulogy. I agreed. You don’t disagree with a request like that. But what words would disguise the fact that I never knew my grandmother?
She didn’t speak English and I didn’t speak her dialect, so our conversation consisted of phrases like “how are you grandma?” “love you grandma” and “time to eat, grandma”.
I had vivid memories of her visits to Edmonton – summer nights of our house overflowing with company. Windows open, fans whirring, and all of the adults unnaturally generous and patient. And, of course, the kitchen. Always warm and full of wondrous scents … magically churning out delights without end – like her homemade sausages, or Filipino desserts full of ice shavings, coconut, jello and fruit – or my favourite – ensemada – a sweet cheese-filled bun, with sugar sprinkled on top.
But those words would not be sufficient for her funeral – to say that I would miss my grandmother’s sausages? My words could describe what I found remarkable about my grandmother. How she never went to school, but ran a farming business. How she married twice – both husbands much younger than her. And how she was equally religious and superstitious, always carrying her rosary (for protection) and bullet shells (for good luck). You can imagine which got her into trouble at the airports.
But what I loved most about my grandmother were her kisses. She leaned into my face and I would feel her soft, wrinkly skin on my cheek, and then she would take a big breath in, as if my very scent brought her life.
But, I knew my family. These words were not respectful – thought they carried the truth of what I loved in her. I had shaped words in the past to fit the occasion. But, it was my grandmother, distortion here seemed wrong. And she was dead – she would know if I was lying. Worst of all, I had not shed a tear since I had heard the news. I loved her, but I did not feel that gaping hole that leaves so many breathless after death has touched their lives.
So when it was my turn to speak my words, words that were scattered into the wide church aisles, touching the bottom of the stained glass windows and breezing through the flower petals that rested on my grandmother’s coffin, it was the first time – ever - I felt that words could not live up to their task.
My words could not capture her – her greatest fear, her favourite color, her most cherished memory. My words could not keep her in the world that I knew – the world of sight and touch and smell. So, I spoke words that described what I knew for certain. The impact she had on me. On my mother, my five year old cousin, and my fifty year old aunt.
After I had finished my eulogy, I walked back to my seat, and slid onto the bench beside my sister. We all knelt for a moment, in silence. And in that empty lonely space, I broke down and wept. My grandmother didn’t need words. She never needed words. It was a most precious lesson – embodied in who she was and how she lived, and in how I said goodbye to her. It’s not in the words, it’s - ....
[hand on the heart – in silence].
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
progress
It's a Tuesday night.
It feels like Fall. The nights are chillier and I'm often hauling my sweaters out of my closet. My toes are cold if I wear sandals and I'm turning the lights on in my living room earlier and earlier each night. Darkness descends around 8pm now. Gone are the northern long days of summer when the sun sets at around eleven.
Traffic is busy. Kids are back in school and the University area is always crowded. Even my friends without children -- they are caught up in the season. New night courses, fitness classes, September resolutions. A time of new beginnings. Everyone and everything is preoccupied. And even if we aren't starting something new - we're trying to finish what we can before the snow falls.
It will be soon.
But tonight, it rains. Drops splatter on the windshield as I make my way to kickboxing. No classes yet, just meeting some friends in the park to train. I hope. Maybe the rain will stop.
Turning on the heat, I stop at a traffic light and see it to the left of me. I almost missed it. I glance in my rearview mirror. The driver catches it too and is transfixed. I look ahead; the man in the Volvo glances back and forth between the traffic light and out his window. I look to the car beside me. Her head is tilted in admiration. She catches me looking at her and smiles at me.
Is she thinking the same thing as me?
Is she grateful? I am. I'm grateful to discover that when people see a rainbow, they still take the time to stop and look. And see. Even amidst all of this activity we call life.
We haven't lost all of our wonder. Yet.
It feels like Fall. The nights are chillier and I'm often hauling my sweaters out of my closet. My toes are cold if I wear sandals and I'm turning the lights on in my living room earlier and earlier each night. Darkness descends around 8pm now. Gone are the northern long days of summer when the sun sets at around eleven.
Traffic is busy. Kids are back in school and the University area is always crowded. Even my friends without children -- they are caught up in the season. New night courses, fitness classes, September resolutions. A time of new beginnings. Everyone and everything is preoccupied. And even if we aren't starting something new - we're trying to finish what we can before the snow falls.
It will be soon.
But tonight, it rains. Drops splatter on the windshield as I make my way to kickboxing. No classes yet, just meeting some friends in the park to train. I hope. Maybe the rain will stop.
Turning on the heat, I stop at a traffic light and see it to the left of me. I almost missed it. I glance in my rearview mirror. The driver catches it too and is transfixed. I look ahead; the man in the Volvo glances back and forth between the traffic light and out his window. I look to the car beside me. Her head is tilted in admiration. She catches me looking at her and smiles at me.
Is she thinking the same thing as me?
Is she grateful? I am. I'm grateful to discover that when people see a rainbow, they still take the time to stop and look. And see. Even amidst all of this activity we call life.
We haven't lost all of our wonder. Yet.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
ful-fill
calling, calling
I have heard
the whispers too long
deaf to their demands
they shift their form to
rustling of the grass through my fingertips
crunching of broken leaves under my steps
and I remember
I’ve missed listening
truths they speak
power of expression
humility of a gift
challenge of capturing
that one moment
that one breath
chiding, chiding
bestowing a blessing
a responsibility
creation
create
care
about the calling
that I alone cannot answer
until my words connect to
another
and complete
their purpose
so I can complete mine
I have heard
the whispers too long
deaf to their demands
they shift their form to
rustling of the grass through my fingertips
crunching of broken leaves under my steps
and I remember
I’ve missed listening
truths they speak
power of expression
humility of a gift
challenge of capturing
that one moment
that one breath
chiding, chiding
bestowing a blessing
a responsibility
creation
create
care
about the calling
that I alone cannot answer
until my words connect to
another
and complete
their purpose
so I can complete mine
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Ode: Collective Heritage
I've always grown up thinking of my home city as this little town in the middle of the prairies. Our population of one million people seemed so small compared to the busy cities all over the world. I remember looking in awe around Lima, Peru thinking "this single city has a third of Canada's population."
The great thing about Canada though, is the diversity of cultures. Despite our rustic reputation, one of the most attended festivals in Edmonton is "Heritage Days". Cultural community associations gather and use the opportunity to proudly demonstrate their heritage. Each country has a tent where they sell some of their most tempting wares - art, clothes, jewellery and of course - their mouthwatering food. (This is where you learn that people universally love fried dough or meat on a stick). Most countries also have a stage where they demonstrate the music, song and other forms of performance art from their cultures.
The great thing about Canada though, is the diversity of cultures. Despite our rustic reputation, one of the most attended festivals in Edmonton is "Heritage Days". Cultural community associations gather and use the opportunity to proudly demonstrate their heritage. Each country has a tent where they sell some of their most tempting wares - art, clothes, jewellery and of course - their mouthwatering food. (This is where you learn that people universally love fried dough or meat on a stick). Most countries also have a stage where they demonstrate the music, song and other forms of performance art from their cultures.
I've been going to this festival since I was a little girl. It's the only one I never grow tired of. There are always new people coming to Canada and cultures re-discovering aspects of their heritage and integrating them with the new. This year, I got to hear rap in Swahili! Our festival boasted a new number of pavilions - 52 countries represented here in our city.
What a wonderful celebration!
Collective Heritage
searing August sun
trampled grass
hazy orange light that slips
through tarps to fall in strips
on wares carved
by distant hands in skilled lands
all senses assaulted by a
cacophany of delights
the thundering seducing beat of drums
challenged by soft powdery promise of
sweet sugar dust, melting on warm dough
boistorous shouts of rosy-cheeked dancers
and the elegant art of orient assaults
overwhelming
intoxicating
familiar
this messy mosaic of Canada
Friday, August 15, 2008
release
she Worked through it all
stabbed her Anger
wept her Fears
Reasoned with her options
and at the end
of a long cool night
Brave enough to
peel back the layers
of Regret and Shame
she finally gets to the Heart of it
and there,
to her surprise,
It still Beats
Sadness
stabbed her Anger
wept her Fears
Reasoned with her options
and at the end
of a long cool night
Brave enough to
peel back the layers
of Regret and Shame
she finally gets to the Heart of it
and there,
to her surprise,
It still Beats
Sadness
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