It’s my memory
so I guess no one would understand
what that gesture
meant
to me.

All those years ago.
1975?
The prairies.
Grandpa and Grandma’s house
We congregated
Kids left to their own devices but sometimes
Grandpa would walk us to the park and sit with us in the knee-high grass.
We’d talk and play and he would say-go pick  those yellow flowers
I will pick them too
and bring them back to  me.

I did. I was so intrigued. The rest ran off to play

I dutifully brought my bounty back to him.
He took those dandelions
And braided them into a crown
and put them gently on my head and said, you are a princess now.

He said I could be a princess
For just a moment
With a smile and a lot of love he made me a princess for just a
Moment
In time.

And for that, Grandpa,
I’ll always be grateful.

I miss you

The heat
is oppressive
on the prairies -
this summer heat will envelope you
like a blanket.
It will comfort.
It will smother.
Whatever you choose.
In the still of a hot prairie night-
only the few
survive.

I hear you
Even when you don’t want me to.
It’s ok to lament.  To
Feel
Everything.
It’s ok to do that.
If you’re feeling lonely,
I can do that with you.
You’re not alone
Don’t be alone anymore.
Here I am.
Here I am.

Pansies

Five velvet petals
so soft to the touch.
They come
In a plethora of colours
Colours of hope but
They always have a dark center.  Pansies are so
Fragile .
Resilient.
These delicate little flowers are so
Like me.

This warmth surrounds me
because you are near and so
dear to my wizened heart.

On Canvas
Or
Whatever surface.
I spill paint and words
and I emote
I let it all bleed out.

Sometimes it’s pretty.
It’s Art. Artistry at its best.

A picture forms and it looks  like
a lovely moment in time.

Other times it’s a smear of dark hues
slaps of paint
angrily thrown on canvas.  


And other times it’s just a sigh.
A small stroke of pastel paint.
Looking for solace.

Every little stroke of paint.
Colour.
It’s me.
It’s me.

These Seasons

There is no misery under the sun,
by the sea.
It’s bright and warm
and lush and life abounds.
Yet
There is misery everywhere else.

Desert and drought  -
It is a morbid landscape -
the heat smothers the life out of every living thing.
Everything withers and dies under the oppressive heat.
Oh.
And the cold.
The bone-chilling cold  accompanied by
the bleak, grey landscape that is  painted in hues of sadness
and drab colours of death and deprivation.
A minute in wicked winter windchills
will take your fingers, toes , nose , or it might just
lull you into the winter sleep of death.  It’s all so
Wicked. So
Unjust.
These Seasons.
Where you are born is everything. Chance.
It all seems so terribly unfair.
There is no utopia. No equity.
Nothing
Is kind or just in this life
for the most of us.
Only for the few.
Why, my hopeful God.
Why is this so true?