God killed Summer.
But caught her mid-Fall,
And laid her in a goldenrod dress.
We held our breath-and wept
To see her more lovely in sleep:
Green eyes closed brown,
God cried hardest-
Saturated her bedside in rain.
We drank deep draughts of her vibrant complexion
Brandishing onto our gaze
Her rosy palms and frosting fingers.
God blanketed Summer.
With a sheet of fine lace,
And lowered her into the earth.
We trudged home in the snow.
Her warmth had left us cold,
But we carried God's promise burning our ears:
"Whatever entity I take,
With tenfold will I bring.
Our Summer's hardy, just you wait-
And from her grave she'll Spring!"
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
My mother was
a first generation lesbian.
a first generation divorcee.
His father was the one child
of a public school teacher.
He found my grandmother at 18.
A farm child, one of seven.
A painter, a baker.
My mother's father
a single boy to three sisters.
His aggressive masculinity
kept the line clear and thick.
He found my mother's mother at 17.
A middle of seven Pentecostal children.
A beauty queen, an agoraphobic.
Each had five children.
The door-to-door salesmen/
homemaker and mother of boys duo
bet it all to open a hobby shop.
They were by far the poorest of the
watermelon farming siblings.
They were artists and explorers.
The high school graduate and ladies man,
was a logger before a father.
And the single mother of 25 he left
scarcely left her home at all.
Neither pair made it big.
But they made my father.
A lonely, post middle aged man.
The poorest of his brothers.
A used to be pilot,
and could have been teacher,
a want to be pioneer.
A nuclear family super fan
who never got his way.
And they made my mother.
A nervous, eccentric hippie
who doesn't know how to talk to her siblings.
A woman working her *** off to excel at lower middle class.
A builder, a fighter, a **** good mother.
Even if accidentally so.
She has plans to travel.
He has dreams to live by a lake.
And they made me.
A single girl among three boys.
A quirky, nervous tomboy.
A thinker, a gardener, a climber.
A loser and a dreamer by blood.
I’ve got nothing
I wish I did,
You know I don’t.
I hate love songs,
They sound like misplaced
Feelings of a young boy.
A boy who doesn’t understand
That things change
And some wounds
Can’t be healed with bandages.
So I turn of the radio
Cause I don’t want to think
Nowadays I know
That I still exist
Even when you don't say goodnight.
Eyes gaze wearily across the horizon
Tired and burdened by what they have seen
Cold sun creeps across the wilderness
Ancient ruins torn from their foundations
Walking slowly down an endless hallway
A thousand eyes turn and stare
For all my strength and will, my only creation
Towers above me, a monument to despair
In a colourless room, walls are closing in
Constricting and tightening, every day
Can't escape, this is all I know now
Can't escape, nowhere else to go now
Patiently he untangles the net
Brazing the breeze
On the dancing boat
With an oar on its side
Which is cooled by the
Waters of the river..
The sun will set in an hour or so
And he has to finish his catch
Before the dusk
And back to his hut
Where his wife will
To make the dinner
With the fresh catch
The river but
Remains the same
Greeting the fishermen
Who roam the river
With their boats