Happy Mother’s Day. I don’t have many photos of my mother—she was shy about cameras, always insecure and self-conscious. Corona. That’s her in the middle. I wonder what I’m holding… a candle? A wand? It was taken in either Charleswood or Transcona, Manitoba—we moved a lot. Back when coffee tables were laden with ashtrays and doilies. We were dressed for church, my sister’s christening.

I always feel conflicted about this day. I loved my mother, of course—she’s the only mother I’ll ever have—but she was not easy to love. Her childhood was traumatic, and that pain twisted her. My sisters and I survived the generational abuse, just as she had. But her deepest betrayal was the lifelong lie about my paternity. That deception cost me a relationship with a good father I would have loved—one who would have loved me back. Protected me. I’ve written about it here before.

Maybe that’s why I waited so long to become a mother myself. Life is complicated. But I’m here now, blessed to be a mom, and the experience has provided something rare: perspective and grace.

…and saviour. It preserves my sanity, I swear. This is one of the poems  from my forthcoming collection, working title, Cariboo Ashes. I’ve been working hard on revisions and soon will send the manuscript to editor extraordinaire Catherine Owen to help prepare it for publication.

CEDAR SHADOWS

Whispers of us
linger in the ether—
silence is an answer,
and I am listening.

With all that is no more,
and all that waits to be,
leaning into your absence
elicits song but no reply.

How present you are in the hollow
of my palm, in the turquoise it cradles,
a futile talisman to bridge the chasm,
to resurrect the calm before our quarrels.

Starved of forests, lacking in trees,
in branches where secrets unfold,
bereft of mountains,
we ceased climbing, ceased soaring.

We remained grounded
within the confines of four walls—
our love gasped for light,
reached for expanses it never found.

Through a breach
I glimpse the cedar’s grandeur,
its tremendous shadow cast long,
a tender embrace that allows
my love for you, your love for me.

Feels like the right way to kick off the week, return to editing and revising the new poems and my novel.  I’ve been preoccupied with music and the recording process. Life is a balancing act, isn’t it.

This one is inspired by the ocean of course. I tend to take it for granted and living in East Van fools me into forgetting that it’s just beyond those buildings across the street. Conceived on the Atlantic and raised by the Pacific, I am steeped in its depths.

STEERING FROM THE HARPOON

Scattered as if a thundercloud
of savage Eden roses,
exquisitely sultry, she draws
admiration from reptilian denizens.

She stares into shark eyes,
tapetum lucidum gleaming,
until their fins turn yellow
and their jaws relax,

while a guttural engine drives her
to swim in circles, seeking
a channel free of nets and barbs,
a channel red enough to lead her home.

Aquatic chatterati discuss
the metamorphosis from scrub to siren,
her voice, the colour of salt,
as beguiling as a ship on the horizon,

its windows reeking of hell,
a colossal compass within,
vast enough to claim
the hemisphere’s islands of flesh.

Instinctively she steers away,
a creature of the depths,
swept along towards the time to come,
its heady essence, flames of tide,
urban lighthouses guiding her return.

Another sad love song. Poem. My only solace is churning heartache into art.

STUNTED

Whispers of us
linger in the ether—
silence is an answer,
and I am listening.

With all that is no more,
and all that waits to be,
leaning into your absence
elicits song but no reply.

How present you are in the hollow
of my palm, in the turquoise it cradles,
a futile talisman to bridge the chasm,
to resurrect the calm before our quarrels.

Starved of forests, lacking in trees,
in branches where secrets unfold,
bereft of mountains,
we ceased climbing, ceased soaring.

We remained grounded
within the confines of four walls—
our love gasped for light,
reached for expanses it never found.

Through a breach I glimpse the cedar’s
grandeur, its tremendous shadow cast long,
a tender embrace that allows
my love for you, your love for me.

That time I featured at the Twisted Poets reading series.

Too busy to blog lately as I’m in writing and editing mode, this one of my latest efforts.

AVATARS & ADVENTURERS

We are warriors, from Beowulf’s might
to the steel resolve of #MeToo,
defending our realms on the ground,
in fields, swamps or office towers.

My tag was Tomboy; armed with long
legs, a hard head and will of iron,
intrepid as any FPS avatar,
I carved sagas and slayed

with a wooden stick turned bazooka,
defending our makeshift fortress
against marauders, human or beast,
battle-sweating and vanquishing foes.

We braved treacherous ditches,
lecherous uncles, concealed glass shards,
blizzards, bumps, badger holes, bug bites,
thin ice, the vertigo of sky-high train trestles,

the ambush of leeches
and the stench of skunk cabbage.
Masters of evasion we dodged coyotes,
bears, thundering big rigs, sinister wells,

stumbling, squawking inebriated
parental units and lurking lone dudes
beckoning from their Pintos
in desolate parking lots.

Unrelenting scouting missions led us
to caves, derelict farmhouses,
looming, gnarled trees, and the vast,
echoing unknown of storm drains.

Our non-linear escapades were bound
by no script or code. No one lagged or rage-quit
and when trapped indoors we engaged
in ancient rites of Rummy, Crazy 8s and checkers.

My son, a paladin forged in digital fires
embarks on galaxy spanning quests, every challenge,
every boss fight a step toward connection,
bonds formed through adversity.

He’s learned to navigate, strategize,
communicate and persevere,
face down demons with a continent-
spanning team of allies united in purpose.

Beneath the gaze of the sun
or the glow of screens,
we share a legacy of adventure,
resilience and ceaseless discovery.

Latest revision of my kooky slay the patriarchy poem, a kind of extended metaphor,  transforming the speaker into Artemis, the ancient Greek goddess of the hunt to explore themes of power, transformation and retribution. I have the rest of April to compose new work and finish editing ahead of meeting with an astute editor to pull together a manuscript. If only I can focus. My concentration has improved. Onward & upward!

IF I WERE ARTEMIS

My options swell
when I’m a goddess,
a goddess of the wilderness.

If I were Artemis,
beyond mere video game avatar
summoned with a click,

I would weave the tale.
Darling, I would transform
you into a stag,

from predator to prey,
from player to played.
My golden arrows ace your sword.

Machine gun. Hubris.
I’d deploy Nemesis
or rouse the sea’s wrath,

foil your holiday,
or perhaps unleash a hoary boar
to maim your mean old butt.

I made the mistake-or was it-of posting this recently. Almost immediately discourse deteriorated into unpleasantness. No wonder I’m reluctant to employ my voice or post anything remotely political. Navigating such a complex, polarized information landscape is fraught.

First there was a disagreement about the authenticity of the photo, which is fair enough. Then a sort of pissing contest ensued about who was the most well-informed, or least indoctrinated.

It appears to me there is little possibility of rational discussion, or a ceasefire, or the unimaginable therefore unattainable, peace.

What breaks my heart most is that despite our potential, human beings are seemingly incapable of true advancement. It’s all so fucking sad.

WHO TO BELIEVE

The podcaster with a legion of followers?
The journalist who’s been there,
face etched by the sun of that distant land?
What of the emigrant decrying the place,
or at least, its right-wing government?

Is it the loudest voice that holds the truth?
Or the one armed with the sharpest wit,
slicing through arguments with precision?
Is it the one drawing the most poignant,
heart wrenching analogies:
“World’s largest concentration camp.”

The optimists, pessimists or realists?
All claim to know the facts,
seemingly own the facts. Clarity.

Censors lurk, eager to snuff out every voice,
mute dissent, but still, we hear. Listen.

Exactly who are the indoctrinated?
Who wields oppression’s heaviest hand?

No one agrees as debates
devolve into discord none can flee
while sidestepping the vital teachings
of forgotten epochs,
flames ignited in a terrain
rife with deceit and harsh decrees.
I wonder how to mine hope from the mire.

Complexities abound in every human heart,
our aim not to unfurl hate
but to envision a world rooted in empathy.

Can I hear a gentle word?
Is there room for a kind gesture?

I cast my lot with truth,
however elusive.
Weariness creeps
into the wait for illumination,
the vigil for the dawn
of a new era.
A new beginning.

“It was never an apple.” Makes sense, doesn’t it?

Despite several disruptions, I’ve been writing like a fiend this year in order to complete a collection of poetry and new edition of my novel, “The Town Slut’s Daughter,” for its 10th anniversary in October, which blows my mind. I’m aiming to amass enough new work by end of April, enough to pull together a manuscript with an astute editor.

In any case, I happened across this funny and irreverent meme, the best characteristics of memes-and thought of Paradise, a concept as elusive in meaning as it is in real life. I found two poems with references to Paradise, both character sketches, both inspired by the same character. While some people remain enigmas, churning them into art is perhaps peversely, gratifying.

The image is “The Paradise Sonata – Revelation,”  a woodcarving on paper by  renowned Czech painter, draughtsman, graphic artist, Max Švabinský. Only the ether knows who’s responsible for the meme. Gotta love life in the 21st century; it’s moments like these that remind me to cherish the unpredictability and interconnectedness of life.

Happy Monday my pretties! I wish you all a week filled with fruitful endeavors.

ADAM

Free from moral constraints,
self-described mental case,
more lewdster than lover
disappears in a puff
of cigarette smoke
along with fig leaf
and cute apple cheeks.

Though his well-crafted sentences
seduced,
my pronounced longing
did nothing
to create union
or usher in paradise.

ADAMANTINE TRAVELLER

Though you may have an affinity
for the coke-addled,
a penchant for the woebegone
and a fetish for the shattered,
you will abandon the road to ruin
if I take too long
or refuse to take direction.

Transcendence is not
your destination, nor love.
Love is beside the point,
as is joy.
You may do jolly,
but not joy.
Whatever the point is,
your needs and desires
are shifty and ill-defined.
“Whatever,” you declare.

May your spittle fly,
may your words be sharp as daggers.
May tremors tickle the foot
of your bed, deliver
the entertainment you crave.

I will arrive at my destination
solo,
whether I like it or not.

I arrive as surely as verse and song,
for my destination is mine.
Your mayhem can’t blanket me
or smother chimera,
any more than you can “handle” me,
or get me, or have me,
me and my back-breaking dreams.