I had a wonderful job this spring. I reviewed three 'crime' novels that were very different in tone and style for Atlantic Books Today and it was an absolute pleasure to write. Having a deadline was refreshing and invigorating - it made me feel young again. COVID years dropped off my shoulders and it felt … Continue reading Imagine being a Writer
Poetry
It’s Just my Voice
Poetry is whatever you want it to be, voice calling, words singing, dreams talking. I don't care if you like it, I never wrote it for you. It's nothing. It's just my voice. It's possible that I only ever wrote for my parents, Critical, frustrated writers. It's all in good fun, hand slapping the sheets … Continue reading It’s Just my Voice
Still Born
A multitude of sins, of sorrows, Still Born. What Purpose? My Life. No Purpose. Of Course. I am clean, and full of love. I meant no harm. Glaciers calving, yes. With incremental, exponential effect. A billion eyes following a whale, and her child. Sustain this. Untenable.
Returning Home
A memory is an old kodachrome slide fading, framed and contained, Only visible with a light source. If I stand by the car at night It quiets, releases heat, ticks rhythmically. I stop to look at the stars in the dark canvas above. I remember doing that with each child after our nights out. Driving … Continue reading Returning Home
Calving Season
There was a sharp glint of pink in the universe, northern lights crackled in the night sky. There was a deep crack and rolling rumble, a seismic icy shift, and a quiet shaking that formed a crack in the mountainous block of ice, the glacier, the glacier that is me, the mother of you, when you moved away. My … Continue reading Calving Season
Fall and Fifty
Autumn swings in slowly, a flirt, with his flashy colours and moody looks. We sense winter and slowly release summer. The hydrangea blushes rosily, the fat blossoms white on her underbelly and pink and magenta where they have been kissed by the sun. Early morning is grey and petulant, but gradually the sun will transform the day. … Continue reading Fall and Fifty
The Birds and the Bees
Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo A cool grey morning after the school bus pulls away and I am sitting on the cold damp rocking chair on the porch, Sipping lukewarm tea. Watching the crows yell information at each other; They keep a beady eye on me as they eat our breakfast crusts. The blanket on the chair was precious, … Continue reading The Birds and the Bees
Magical thinking, magical writing
My Mom and I were talking about memory and writing; recollection. She said it is too bad she cannot write down all the things that she is thinking and remembering, recollecting and sorting. And and I said, does it matter, after all? Do we need to record the details of our lives, does it matter? … Continue reading Magical thinking, magical writing
Another Poem from the Past (while I work on my philosophy essay)
P.M. Behind your eyes is a forest: Fresh air, cool water running, Leaf filtered sunlight, Moss, ferns, mushrooms, Decaying logs. Eyelash curling coy around your hazel tree eyes. It is dark, cold, damp and I have no compass. Under the old leaves are shoots, and beetles. Footsteps around and around, who else is in this … Continue reading Another Poem from the Past (while I work on my philosophy essay)
More Poetry from a Dusty File
Mess I am a mess inside my head, ideas roam about like cattle chased by dogs and men. Constant fear and fullness Hold the world near to me. My voice stops at my mouth, held british tight no weakness. Pour spirits thru my teeth, my very own sweet mouth, will weaken, face redden, eyes … Continue reading More Poetry from a Dusty File
Notes from a Sinking Isthmus 