Category Archives: poems

Bushwhacking with the Virgin Mary

Journal, poems, , ,

Man, am I ever a case of champagne taste on a beer budget. I adore modern design, came across an ultra cool chair, a Tom Dixon Wingback, a real Jetsons take on the traditional. I tracked down a store in Vancouver, thinking we could go take a test drive until I found out they cost 12,000. Wow! It’s hard to imagine the strata I would reside in to be spending $24,000. on a pair of arm chairs. I doubt that I could do it even if, by some miracle, I found myself in that bracket. White trash roots showing, I’d probably feel guilty, or foolish, or both.

Seems like everything is coming to a head. Roderick and I are picking up the AURAL Heather pace, rehearsing and working on new material. I’m not sure First Comes Mary will be ready for our show at the Media Club on April 1 but we are forging ahead. We are trying very hard as well to get a Continue reading →

When apps go sideways, haiku, hillbilly noble woman

Journal, poems, ,

Why, why, why? Why do applications go sideways, stop behaving normally? I need to make changes, update my web site, which is why I bought Adobe Contribute, and can’t because, the Edit Page field is gone and I can’t move the windows around. Arrgghh! And why do I have to spend so much time dicking around with this stuff? I just want to get in and drive. I bought it as a download and have no clue as to how to find the serial number or how to re-install, get to spend the weekend trouble shooting.I told my web designer John Dowler I’m amazed he has any hair left. I want to tear mine out!

I’m trying to write, despite a million distractions. So what else is new? I’m planning a retreat next month. My friend Pete has offered me the use of his place in Gibsons before he moves out so I think I will go over there and work on the novel, get it ready for the Mother Tongue BC novel deadline end of May. Just wrote a haiku for BARE, the art book with Tina though I’m not certain about that title. Most of the trees are bare though so perhaps it is apt .

lofty midrib splayed
dual cedar blades soaring
clear of high riggers

I’m beginning to wonder if there is something going on hormonally that is making me more sensitive to smell. I swear there must be a dead mouse rotting in the utility room. I keep smelling gas and all kinds of pleasant and unpleasant aromas around the house. I have always been acutely sensitive to smell though, my mother said I used to Continue reading →

A labyrinth of sword ferns and bad dreams

Journal, poems

On the road, or on the water more accurately, all day, on the fancy new ferry, the Coastal Renaissance, right now to Nanaimo to pick up Roderick and the painting I commissioned from him, for the blank wall in my office. In any case, I managed to make it to Crofton, to the ferry landing without getting lost. There are no signs at all and I went every which way except the right way last time. I was able to cruise all the way down to the end of the dock so Roddy didn’t have to carry the painting, his guitar and bags so far.

BFF Cathy has hit the west coast and I hope to meet up with her later at the Boathouse in Horseshoe Bay. She always blows in and out of town, and my life, in a matter of days, frantically busy during the short time she is here so I’m lucky if I get to see her. Junior has come down with another cold! Poor kid. He’s miserable. It always hits him in the throat and he gets laryngitis. I suspect it’s partly, if not entirely, hormonal, his adam apple growing in, which doesn’t happen overnight from what I hear.

Sure sign of spring; I found a doe raiding the bird feeder. (See poem below.) The dogs were going ballistic; I let them out on the deck to bark at her, the only way to get rid of her. The deer aren’t afraid of humans, with no natural predators on the island, except perhaps the phantom cougar. Between the squirrels and the deer I am going to go broke buying birdseed.

Old folks nightmare. I dreamed I was hosting a reading at our house and the start time was delayed and before I knew it, and to my horror, all these white-haired, tired, old people kept lying down or passing out and wouldn’t get up when I tried to rouse them. They would not participate in any way, as performers or audience. I was in a panic, frustrated and upset, didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t room for them all and they were all over the house, taking up all the beds and couches. It didn’t seem that late to me!

Life is strange. I’ve been conjuring up a shot list in my head all afternoon, ideas for the video Roderick and I hope to shoot for How To Remain. I was thinking about horses of course, because Continue reading →

Snow, synchronicity and fat, flying squirrels. “Scout”

Journal, poems

It’s snowing! Again! I can’t believe it. Guess it was folly to presume that things were getting back to normal around here. Shit. I am so disgusted, keep dreaming of the desert.

Threw a pineapple at a squirrel this morning; a pineapple-shaped lantern-candle holder. I picked it up and threw it at a fat squirrel raiding the bird feeder. He flew into the bushes. Looked like he could use the exercise.

Synchronicity alert. While working on a poem yesterday, I wrote, “periwinkle as stars emerging.” Jon Stewart or someone on his show last night used the word “periwinkle.” What’s up with that? How does that happen?

There is something rather spooky about this project with Tina, the art book combining Continue reading →

Knee injury @ Slits show. “Victor.”

Journal, poems,

Ah, the familiar, the pluvial. It’s been a relief to have our typical weather return the last few days; dark, dreary, torrents of rain, which are thankfully washing away heaps of dirty snow, providing access to yard and property. A friend said yesterday that she would never complain about the rain again. I suppose we need to complain because if it’s not that, then of course there is always the government, the ferry or bad art.

I saw a physiotherapist yesterday about my right knee which I injured long ago at a Slits concert in San Francisco. I was too impatient to wait in the hideously long queue for the Ladies Room; so feeling very clever and rebellious decided to pee behind the rhododendrons in the churchyard next door. I wish I could remember the venue but I think it was the Geary St. Theatre-the People’s Temple. I suppose I could research that. Wherever it was, it was located next to a Catholic church, or cathedral would be more accurate. I have no qualms about peeing outdoors, was used to it after years of accompanying my father the bushwhacker. I will use whatever is at hand, toilet paper, napkins, tissue, newspaper, are bonus. I can recall climbing back over the tall, wrought iron fence and jumping down onto the sidewalk, which was a lot closer than it appeared in the shadows. My ankle gave way and Continue reading →

Future of reading, books, authoring. Dead boyfriends.

Journal, poems, ,

I was chatting with my buddy poet Pete Trower and we were commiserating about how hard it is to get into print these days. The subject of e-books and online publishing came up. Several authors I know have recommended Lulu com. I like the idea that a customer can choose between downloading or ordering a book, which isn’t printed until it’s purchased, going green in a big way. Then I found a message in my In box about how to sell your book online. Then, Jon Stewart had the CEO of Amazon.com on the Daily show promoting the Kindle, a device with a screen that can hold thousands of books. I have no idea whether I would want to curl up in bed with it, would have to try it out but I’m open to the idea. I’m some kind of hybrid I guess, a cross between a page baby and digerati. I am not a digital native like my 14-year old son who used to fall asleep on the keyboard as a toddler. I have been on the internet since the early 90s, published one of Canada’s first electronic literary zines, the Edgewise Cafe and have typed so much my handwriting is about as legible as a doctor’s, but neither am I texting or tweeting much. I just haven’t had time to adapt to them or explore Second Life either. Well, at least I’m finally blogging, as much as possible. In any case, I told Pete I don’t think books will disappear, that they will become rare and even more like sacred objects. They are art objects as well and people will want them around. The demise of painting was predicted when photography  came along and we all know the name of that tune.

Good news! My book of verse, “Window Seat” is finally going to be published! Richard Olafson of Ekstasis Editions has selected it for his fall list. I am so relieved, was wondering Continue reading →

Flu-slayed. Hope. Disturbing bear dream. Art book poem.

Journal, poems, , ,

We're in Volume 2

Nursing a cold, listening to Kings of Leon sipping Stag Hollow Pinot Noir, ostensibly writing. Dinner by the boys tonight—some kind of pork and pineapple stir-fry—which means a late dinner. Trying to teach Junior life skills. He is very adept at plastering poppy seed bagels with peanut butter or pouring out a bowl of Cheerios but preparing a meal is a bit of a challenge. It is entirely within his abilities, I am certain, which is not to say that he is very motivated. He does like to eat however, so I hope it dawns on him some day soon that we won’t be around forever to feed him and that learning to cook is in his own best interests.

Despite this nasty virus, I am working on poems for our most unusual art book, mine and Tina’s. I must admit to no real method. The work is getting done but I never believe, no matter how many poems I’ve written—that I can do it again. It feels like a hat trick, and of course highly anxiety inducing but if I persist in muddling through, I succeed. Tina digs them and that is the most important thing at this point.

Dreamed I was in a car with Josef at the wheel, a bear in pursuit, it’s giant furious furry head at Josef’s window. Continue reading →

True mercy & “First Comes Mary”

Journal, poems, , , , ,

Cozumel, Mexico, 2006

Trying day; snow, snow, snow, and more snow! Up to our knees, still. sigh I haven’t seen so much snow since I was a kid living in Manitoba. I would walk to school in snowbanks two feet taller than myself. Last night I watched the wind hurling huge white flakes from the blackness onto my windows. My bitch Brinda is neck deep in it right now and eating it, shoving her snout in and chewing on it like a bone.

I’ve been stood up for an appointment with my medical herbalist. I received an excruciatingly sentimental Christmas card from my estranged sister. I can sense her reaching out, and my resistance, which I am working to overcome. She is lonely, I suspect. Our younger sister died in August, one of her few close friends. My anger has ebbed. She is all that remains of my immediate family and indeed, can drive me nuts but I do love her and miss her. So, I sent her a card and invited her to visit. If it happens or not, we shall see, but I know that I have tried, extended the olive branch. I decided as well, that our relationship doesn’t have to be perfect, or even healthy. I am going to have to be realistic, not expect so much, of her, of us. Considering all that we went through, I need to cut her a wide berth. She might need to realize that about me as well. I think we’re talking mercy here, which harkens the Mose Allison song/lyric, “Everybody’s cryin’ mercy but they don’t know the meaning of the word.” Used to cover it with my band the Zellots, I suppose because it rang true. Still does, so, we shall see. Continue reading →

Poems for forthcoming arbutus art book with photographer Tina Schliessler

poems, , ,

VELOCITY

Tremulous leaves quiver

but barmy birds eye

pistachios, fooled

by the flying V disciple’s

green skin peeping out

curling red pants of shell.

Crutch free at last

he climbs sunward,

higher than any other

for a glorious hour

of ecstasy, whooping hubris

before seeping sap loss,

Icarus molting,

plummeting boughs.

Helios thrill killing.

Winking navel

above the fork

must heft life up

out of the maelstrom.

CLAMOUR

Bark wattling,

coat warping, woofing.

Waning cockle stirrings,

withering crack,

lowering maven

trembles in a torrent of milk

mist, shudders at clonks,

crane calls,

dire sawing, rattling sheep

to slaughter

swarthy timbers falling.

Thunder in the chapel

beckons ample pressure,

staunchly wicked bush

germs, seething hands,

grizzled calculations shouted,

fleeting bounty,

illusory beneficence.

Fecund

poems

Serendipity? This inn happens to be situated in a veritable grove of arbutus, their twisted figures the subject of many of Tina’s fantastic photographs and the art book we’re collaborating on. My first day of writing today and I produced this rough draft despite feeling tired and fluey. Oh, and this place does have a lovely view, out back, so this afternoon I sat on the bed and gazed out the window. I came inside and worked at the dining table-my desk-after it got dark in the afternoon.

FECUND

Cast out sea tree

hugs cliff heads, bluffs rocky soil,

growing burls of water in drought

and twisted, sideways, for the sake of light.

Sinewy sun hog snaps rival plants

or serpent slinks round their trunks.

Spontaneously trimming contortionist

kill slippers beetle branches,
.
dying as little as necessary.

Core as habitat, squirrel base.

Virgin slung fruit feeds robins, waxwing

and deer red orange berries, dense white

clusters of honey flowers offered to spring’s bees.

Always in leaf she sheds her soft suit

in the summer, blushing lost

in cinnamon bark.

Take a peek teat.

What is under the skin peels?

A smooth tongue. Virescent sheen. One knot-

a button, a bump, a blossom end.