I often complain about my cot
nestled neatly in the shadows
of the mighty mountains.
I run my mouth in agony instead of my feet.
My mind wanders.
My body freezes under the sunless shade.
born on the prairie, stark clad
blue sky desert, blacktop desert, canola yellow desert
small in the great space
born of the mountains, wrapped
in forest standing strong-faced and tall, my
born of beloved lands lost
many times over so faith becomes place
and we drift—
born into the laws of my fathers, solemn
like their God, and righteous
holding fast to the book of their fathers
born of old world order imposed
on new world freedom—
the image shifts
and I blur
born of the rhythm of my mothers
of life-force and flutter
small hands and steaming pots in hot kitchens
born of bleached fluorescent flicker
drawn into her whirling hurry
longing for rainfall and
born of ghosts and tiny monsters
adrift in the hollow that bears their aching past
and tangled present
born of memory, my fingers carry secrets
daughter of the many mothers before me, their lives
tell the story
born of the unknown, a swell in the stream
that spills into the ocean, I am
mother of many daughters
...tell me who you are
My muse, you need know—
That some day hence,
Idleness shall come knocking on your
And know this now—
That when you do decide to let him in,
I shall accompany him—
For I have forfeited my night turned days
To him—In your name.
i wouldn't recommend you spend your years like me.
I did learn a thing or two! It's true.
But looking back I was beating around off track.
Years with the machete swinging lethargically
For empty hours each day
Contented to sit and grow fat on red berries.
What could i have done to skip my fall tonight
through the ice of these memories?
Is it today that colours the yesterdays in my brain?
A dark arctic swirl.
Submarine windows, cracking panes
What could i do now to stop feeling the same.
Let those carcasses freeze over,
Breathe air on top
I would like to say I'm a caterpillar
But that's not how humans work.
As I look through windows to the past
I whisper that they're growing pains.
Can I love my skin, as I stroke my scars?
I hope these feelings do not last.
I'm not dead yet, is my refrain.
Hey, aren't you
That son-of-a *****
Whose mother jumped the wall.
Yea! You know who you are.
I spotted you hanging on the corner
Through the windshield of my car.
Were you talking conspiracy,
And planning your next job;
Dealing girls, drugs and guns,
Looking goth macabre.
You know who you are.
I saw you look right back at me
Through the side window of my car.
You were talking to your buddies,
I couldn't hear what you said,
I'm convinced it wasn't good,
By the tatoos on your head.
Yes, you know who you are.
You're still idley standing there,
In the rearview of my car.
I feel like a tourist in my own life
Standing idle and watching things go by
Never gaining the courage needed to participate
It is not in idleness
That I justify my reproachfulness
That is where it is judged
Still elating in my sorrowful bath
Condensation lining the walls of my fragile heart
It feels like cold glass
Throbbing inside a marble cage
In every way
Close to shattering it's tiny pieces upon the cold linoleum
That provides the floor
To my aching gut
It's in idleness
That I may remain...
We gather them,
These stolen moments,
These orphaned seconds,
These lost dark minutes.
These refugee clicks
With no form or voice
Do not belong here.
We pile them up,
These off cuts of time,
These shards of passing,
This swarf of tempo.
Shreds of interval
With no named event
To give them title.
And with our small words we bind them,
A suture in the wounded day,
To make a tiny poem of the scars.
— The End —