Today is April 9th,
Vimy Ridge commemoration.
But it's the morning Prince Philip passed away.
I didn't know him personally, of course,
but it took me by surprise.
It reminded me that nothing really is eternal.
He has been the prince for my whole life and he lived until 99 years old, he would've turned 100 in June.
Anyway, I saw it on TV and I was taken aback because he died.
I don't know of all the things he's done
but I don't know...
My condolences.

it will not end here.

you, the one with violets in her lap,
the one, despite her mortality, that only gods may approach,
look at me

no truth was found in the fragments of sappho,
but what lies in all those lost to another time?

gently, I devour
the music that you play

the strumming and the sway,
the things you can convey

subtle, but the power
of the songs, the silent way

you make the unsaid there
and it becomes

real, authentic, ours.

i lived in the valley of butterflies
and it is now winter

leaves flicker a tune
and the ghosts waltz at midnight
among the tombstones

sunlight's strung the bow,
and the kiss of the wind strikes
the waltz of flowers.

love

is more pain than pleasure


yet we treat it like treasure

I prayed for her.
Please God, if this is the last thing I ever ask of you, give her the strength and hope to surge through.
Please do.
I wish I could take it instead of her.
I wish she didn't have to suffer alone.
But isn't it the things we mind that help us appreciate the things we love?
Still. I hate it when she hurts.

I want to write a song for you but you are the strummer,
the player,
the gentle wrist flicking up and down,
the echo in the cavity,
the vibration of the strings
and the voice that sings.

What do you think of when you think of beauty?

it is easy to know the despicability of living,
and a surprise to see the kindness when it comes.

When I was young, I hadn't learned of wars.
I thought they lasted hours, not lifetimes.
When I was young, I wanted to live in my room forever.
I didn't know there was a world past my backyard.
When I was young I played with kind kids.
I didn't know that people were mean because of someone's home.
When I was young, I disliked school.
I didn't know how much I took for granted.
When I was young, I was terribly afraid of getting taken.
I didn't know how many children went lost.
When I was young, I was free and had infinite imagination -
now I am caged inside of it.

when you're a star, watching a planet collapse in on itself … into dust, into nothing.

do you forgive me

where do they dwell,
deserters from mountain peaks,
the depths,
the deep hell, it can reach
but touch them no longer.

Swoop, soar, angels or spirits
floating between worlds,
white bodies and black fingers,
calling the freedom of flight their home.

I am from
the old brick house at the bottom of a hill;
from a small, sunny backyard;
that twilight taste of cigarette smoke from my neighbour.

I am from midnight walks through the park,
snow angels in the snow,
a house among the trees and hide-and-go-seek on rooftops.

I am from lots of bed time stories,
another one, mommy. Please?
Sitting on the staircase, contemplating whether I should ask to sleep with them because the monster scared me away.

I am from cousins and sleepovers in the summer-shed;
swinging for hours in their living room;
playing minecraft way longer than we should have;
from tag in the woods and more hide and seek down by the creek.

I am from waiting in my room 'till midnight just to make sure he got home safe and sound.
I am from watching the smoke from chimneys in the night,
from thinking that the park was on fire.

Going to twenty different places,
seeing oceans and mountains and adventures,
missing them.

From my first ballet class (and hating it),
from all those competitions and ribbons and costumes,
promising it was my last year every time and finally regretting it when it really was.

I am from going to Grandpa's house everyday after school.
I remember him in his rocking chair, with the cat in his lap, treats waiting our arrival.
He doesn't sit there any longer.

I am from wishing and watching and waiting for nothing.
I am from piles of paper and journals hidden in the corners of my room, scattered with words and memories.

I am from my sister. My mother. My father.

I am from flowers and forget me nots and daisies and lupins.
From the books on my shelves, half of them unread.

I am from staring at my ceiling fan, asking God what was wrong with me.
I am from my Black Book, where those heavy feelings linger.

From those first two weeks of quarantine, reading so much I actually couldn't see properly. And not regretting it at all.

I am from denial, denial, denial was the truth.
But hey, Grace, it's sitting right there in front of you.
Might as well embrace it.

I am from being the sentimental one.
Keeping those shoes that don't fit because I wore them on my trip.
I am from almost diving in too deep.

Sigh

I am from letting go. From love. From memories.
But where I'm from, is letting go.

who am I
who am I
who am I;
I feel like a flower, forgetting rain while it is sunny.

how do people speak so much about nothings

My street blazes orange
the lake hides in misery
the sky is beige
with the fires of a hot world

confess to the wind,
who knows only of freedom
and bears no burdens.

(I am your breeze)

The shoreline isn't what it used to be.
It's staggered now; the smoothness has regressed,
and aquamarine ice is stinging the water
like a knife. The room itself is warm,
though stifled with smoke and dust. We go out
in the night and inhale.
The cold smells nice. Where is the moon?
Where are the stars? All I see are city lights to the south,
and an unbreakable darkness in the east.
I miss the sound of moving water,
and I dream of summer.
But how I love these winternights, tucked beneath blankets
and snow. An interval to the dissonance
of a January that is too warm, too dry.
In the early dawn, the sky is periwinkle darkened,
and the waves crash me a song reminiscent of you.

If I was offered a million dollars or a hug from him, I would choose the hug. Without thought.

That's what she wrote.

I wonder,
do birds love each other,
or is it just a people thing?

why is it
that inspiration only befriends me
when happiness has not?

In my stories, I am the girl in the back with pretty eyes and bitten nails, a girl with a thousand classic books read and the daughter feeling somehow abandoned with a family that loves her.

In reality, I mind not the middle of the class, my eyes I find nice and no matter how hard I try, my nails only shrink with a cutter. I abandon myself and I confess to a bunch of strangers how twisted a little girl's life grows once she is exposed to the realities of her mind, poisoned by, well, society.

But honestly, no one is to blame.

the language of my love

                                                        it's you

my hands shake when sunlight hits their stony surface
my heart picks up as if I ran away
away into the dust which settles
on these rusted empty kettles,
kettles that once brewed water
to garden a flower, called
you.

listen -
to your voice;
many run through your head
but don't you know how impenetrable you are?

getting there may be walking through fire, hot coals,
getting there may need your two favourite things taken away,
getting there may be harder than anything, anything,
and you may want to do anything but get there.

but take it from me,
it is paradise here,
and getting here feels so worth it.

Here we go again

through paradise

with scorching sun and heavy storms

and crocodiles and butterflies;

starlight and clouds

and you and me and nothing.

she is on a plane now.
the void you've left is now filled with memory:

I think about when we met, out there in the cold,
walking in circles beside each other.
I was trying to be brave but you spoke first.
"Hello."
And then you looked at me and smiled
and my heart imploded.

Your word is kept by the promise of this:

a sun glowing in the brightness of dawn,
rivers flowing always to the sea,
grasses blowing in the summer's yawn,

so make your promise true to me.

there is no purgatory in regret
only to drink from the Lethe and forget