Week 52

How strange is it
that time flows
forwards and backwards
but not in any specific way.

Here I am in the future
but here I am, also,
in my past.

I see the way she reached out to me
as a child,
terrifying me.
I see the way he reaches out to me now,
equally terrifying
but in a completely different manner
and I live completely caught between
these two moments.
Neither of them are any less a part of me.

That is why you see
a part of the whole,
why melancholy and joy
mold together in unanimous jumble
and sometimes a song makes me cry.

None of us are isolated,
within us,
within me,
the turmoil of perfection
mixes with the imperfection
of my childhood,
my broken relationships,
my disappearing friendships.

I write
and I write
and sometimes I surprise myself.
I am no musician but
it becomes music,
only unsung.





It is complete.

Week 51

Falling out of love
With you
Was a process,
A scientific experiment
Without a method.

I tried to test the hypothesis
But it was difficult to figure out
the right way to go about it
We were built on
Such shaky foundations,
It seemed almost pointless
To put all this effort into disproving
What was never known to be true.
At least that's what I told myself
Because I like to have the option
Of thinking of you,
It's too quiet in my head otherwise.
Emptiness is too much for me
So I selfishly
Kept myself in love with you
Just a little bit.

Did you feel the strand of you
I kept locked up in my heart?
I kept it for so many years
It grew into my skin.
true seeds planted.
It grew and bloomed
But bore no fruit
So I tore it down,
Pulled out all the roots too.

Years go by
And I'm still finding pieces of you,
Just shards now, really.
Eventually they'll all go away
And I won't wonder
If you're thinking of me today.
It's already slowed down.
In fact,
I've found a new garden to water,
And this one may be fruitful
So I'll stay here
And see the results of due process,
The rigor of scientific prowess
The way love now makes me
a little girl again,
Seeing a flower for the first time.
For that, I must go on uprooting you.
and I hope that elsewhere you may bloom.

Week 50

It is in the late nights
That I find God
In the middle of actors
And actresses declaring their love
For each other
And for words.

When they write each other
Love letters
And letters of love
Escape their lips,
I imagine Him
Saying it to me
Saying it to me now.

My dearest daughter,
I miss you,
I love you,
Be mine.

But the moment passes
And my sin darkened soul realizes
That it is alone again
And I sit here
On top of my covers
And when my head finds rest against the wall
I wait
To capture that feeling again.

Week 49

I read about his loneliness
And it struck a chord within me
And I felt music begin to play,
Music that i hadn't heard in years.

He said that the loudest
Were the most loneliest
And he was the first person
To understand
My natural disposition
My current condition
Forcing on smiles
To alleviate people's suspicions.
If I wasn't smiling
I wasn't alright
And no one wanted to play doctor
To my soul.
So I faked it for them
And kept it to myself.

And then he said it out loud
Gave it a voice
And I didn't want to hide
But I don't have much of a choice.
No one wants to deal
With the aftermath of depression,
The flotsam and jetsam
Of some hundred ships
Sunk
For no good reason.

I look at my unfinished work
They scream to me,
I scream back
But the mask is back on
And it's good at muting me,
Putting me on silence.
You would never know that was the case
If you saw me,
But that's the trick
And I guess that makes me
a magician.

Week 48

Poetry has saved my life in a way
People never could.
Even when the block
Would drown out any semblance
Of the sun,
It still kept me going
Offered me an arm
And casually walked me to the next door,
Whether it was open or closed

I kiss the book of poetry you got me
The one I wish I wrote.
I close my eyes and kiss it
And feel like I'm kissing you.
You felt it, didn't you,
A rush of warmth on your cheek
Down your back
The gentle palm of
True love.

I read
And reread the same poems.
They always change
And always stay the same.
Consistency is key
And I am the lock
That is easily opened
By her words.

I sit here and think.
I think too much
About poetry and
How I could feel it flow through you.

Week 47

The thing with friendship is
Unlike in the movies
 it is temporary and fleeting.
They lied to you
But that's okay,
They lied to me too.

I held friendship
Like my mother's diamond bracelet
The only one my father gave her
Close to my chest
Wrapped in my chubby fingers.
I lost it
And my heart fell through my knees,
I was nine
They could only get so mad at me.

It's harder to let people slip by.
They're more precious than diamonds
More painful too.
So I cling
So very tightly
Hoping that those chains don't break. They never do
 I let go instead
 Since It hurts too much
 To hold on.

So I keep reading more stories
About friendship,
Everlasting friendship
And wonder why more romance
Isn't written about Philios.
Maybe this kind of heartbreak
Is too strong to survive
So we hide behind
The grief of lovers
Eros parting
In the oceans.
This kind of pining has no end,
You just bury it deep
And maybe have the courage
To try again.

Week 46

Lay yourself on me
Like a shield.
I look up at you
And you are a kite,
Beautiful
Blowing
Dancing in the air.
I hold on tightly
But not too much,
I need to let you be yourself
Magic happens when I do.

I haven't flown a kite in years
Not since I was a kid,
When strings broke easier
And days weren't as windy.
I remember feeling free.

Memory is a strong scent
That is easily  cast aside
And then a whiff of it
Enters,
Tickles the side of your cheek
And suddenly you are immersed
In in the middle of a swirling
Tornado
Of smiles and tears
And blank stares.

I remember you.
I forget you,
But not for long
The wind always picks up
The next day
And I'll have a kite ready,
Not today
But then I will.

Summer

Week 45

Reminders to smile
Hang all around us
Especially in the summer
When the clouds are light
And the breeze cool.

It can be difficult to smile always
Even though I want nothing more
For you,
Nothing less either.

Let the light of the sun
Shine through you
Even when you feel
Like an eclipse
Because everything is temporary,
Even Happiness
And the opposite.

In this world of change
I try to remain the same.
But every edge erodes eventually
So work on me to soften me up,
Flow over me and under me
And all around me
With love and peace
And eventually when I'm worked through
Or maybe a bit before that,
Pick me up and keep me
And perhaps I can be your reminder to smile,
Your summer,
The end of your eclipse.

Week 44

My eyes turn blood red
After I shower.
When I was young,
My mother used to say
It was because my dad was a drunk.

In the days and years that passed by
That phrase always stuck with me,
The sins of my father were my sins as well
My own cross to carry.
Can you really blame someone for being born?


What if my dad was a sailor
And the red of my eyes mimicked his
In the dark starry nights
Spent on ocean water
Swimming above whales
And leviathans,
And a whole universe below.

But he wasn't a sailor
He drank and gambled
When he was younger
Creating scars where none should have existed
And now I bear his mark
Every time I close my eyes underwater.

Week 43

The bed was wet
When we laid down on it
Concave and a mix of colours.
Your skin was warm
And tasted like salt and earth,
I had missed it the few days I was away.

It was early summer
And frost still filled the trees
And in our cocoon,
I was warm and alive
Out of it, I ran a little too cold
And a little too hot.

I still see your eyes
And your nose
And the way your lips part
When you lean in to kiss me.

Every day I ask if you still love me,
Maybe I won't today.
Maybe I'll trust to see it in the way
You grasp my fingers
And kiss my hips,
in the way you talk about our children,
the ones still unborn.
I'll nestle into this cocoon,
place my lips along your neck
and let the salt and earth coat them.

Week 42

Everyone who understood me
On the deepest level
Turned out to be unstable matter.

It's no wonder that I write
Instead of speak directly to you,
You and your brilliant eyes,
I want you to stay
Stay here with me.

Even my words
I am afraid if you see them
The way that they are
When they are naked,
I am afraid that you won't understand
And I want so badly for you to understand
And believe.

For now,
We are happy
And I hope it to stay that way
So I keep these words hidden
And when you discover them one day
Please do not laugh them away.

Week 41

Mountains are like a dream
when I visit the city
of Calgary.

They surround the city
beautifully breathtaking
but far away,
like the way you loom
over my soul
while I allow for people to pass through.
They stop by
visiting for a while at night
to rest their tired soles
while in the day,
they pass on
to brighter and better things
the mountains in the distance.

So here I remain
a pitstop
a bed and breakfast
a little retreat
on the way to something more.

Week 40

I'm up late again,
Sleep evades me
Evades my tired eyes
My tired heart.

I am sinking again,
I can feel it.
Little messages of hope
Rise up around me,
Little butterfly kisses,
But you tell me how long
Butterflies live for
And then remind me again
How that is enough.

I wish sleep came easier
Right now.
I'm not even thinking thoughts
Just sit here,
Blank
And blanketed.
I imagine the feel of his beard
Against my neck
As he turns over
And in his sleep
Places his lips behind my ear.

The hole is deep
And I am sinking,
But sinking slower with you.

Week 39

We are on opposite sides
Of this mirror.
Do you look for me
As often as I look for you?
Do you watch me as I kiss him?
Do you watch as his hand
Gently traces circles on my back
And his lips find the back of my neck?
Does your heart break a little?

I look for you among the shadows
The cracks
The moonlight in the dark of night.
I hope to glimpse you
And see you happy,
You and your little family.
I wish I could have known you
On my side
Or yours
I guess we inhabit two different planes
And although you're not here
The amount of space you occupy
In my soul
Is overwhelming.

But we are on two different continents
Two different planets
Two different planes.
And he kisses me goodnight
And holds me until I fall asleep.
The way things are
Maybe the way things should be.

Week 38

I worry that you are going to leave my life
Yet I hear you sleeping beside me,
Breathing in the way that is yours
And yours alone.

I want you around forever, you know,
But this sensation is the strangest feeling.
It's like my body always knew you
Yet rediscovering you makes it feel
Unfamiliar but not different,
Like building the same jigsaw over
And over again.
The pieces fitting unexpectedly,
a piece of sky there,
the glimpse of a kiss there,
but the picture isn't complete.
And I want to know
So badly
That all the pieces will find themselves in the end.

You caution me
that everything is in the journey.
I close my eyes and trust you,
blindly let the puzzle pieces
fall into place.

Week 37

Mom and dad always fought,
like hyenas I should say
but I've never met hyenas in real life.
Mom would nip and nip and nip
until dad had enough and would suddenly roar back,
his roar was unexpected
like being dunked under ocean water
and the weight of the wave was a surprise of sorts,
icy cold
on a hot summer's day.
I never liked when they fought
just like I don't like hyenas
and cold salt water
in my ears
and my nostrils,
when for a second you became
a sea creature.
It's just like the wild becomes you
when you live in it and among it,
the dew of rage seeping into you
and burying deep,
and you become part hyena without meaning to be.
I wonder if I can be any different.

Week 36

The lady at church
greeted my grandmother
with a big smile
and said,
"Jesus is with us"
as if it was that simple
and available,
Peace,
Love,
Joy,
Happiness.
I looked around and realized that
maybe I was wrong,
and that maybe it was to be simply found in the pews
and altars
littered on every other street
in sleepy little suburbs
in a beautiful land far away.
Who am I to say differently?
My grandmother was happy,
Mostly,
and happy is something I mostly want.

Week 35

Every time I land
I wonder if the song
playing on my headphones
is the last song I'll ever listen to.

I wonder if people will ever find my poems,
especially the unpublished ones,
the ones I started
but never finished
because I never knew what to say.
Now I know what to say
at this edge between life and death,
"I'm sorry, I should have done more
but I think I loved enough,
maybe it was a little
but it was enough.
Lord, have mercy.".

But the plane lands
and it's summer
so the brakes work just fine,
nothing slides,
and I'm alive,
my last thoughts forgotten
to be remembered again
the next time my heart drops.

Week 34

My hand was shiny
underneath the cabin lights
in the aeroplane in the middle of the sky.
The familiar nausea eats away at me,
as if distance,
real or imagined
is the reason
that people break up.

The first boy,
well he never swam across the Atlantic
so we slowly talked over a great
insurmountable distance
until our whispers faded,
or his did anyway.

The next boy, he got distracted
by a kangaroo,
or anything that hopped really.

This last one,
he felt real.
I knew he was just visiting
but he promised to stay.
Alas, words were the only thing he left behind,
along with a boxed bottle of whiskey
and a signature in a book.

So this is why I'm scared
of flying away from you.
You're going to forget
that I'm prettier in person,
funnier too.
I'll wait and see,
hold out hope,
for you,
for me
but I am fully prepared for you to leave.
But for now you are mine
even as I sit in this aeroplane in the middle of the sky.

Week 33

There is a careful shared fear
in the economy class
when an airplane takes us up.
Even us more experienced fliers
feel it.
It's as if we make a shared promise
to live and die together,
a group of strangers
now forever connected
by recycled air.
It makes sense that death
connects us
bonds us
ties up and leaves us
to fend for ourselves
in a metal box in the air.
At the end of the journey,
we land, grateful to be alive
even if nothing waits for us
on the other side.

Week 32

Sometimes
The world holds little surprises.
Like the way the sun breaks through
The clouds,
Or the way the breeze blows her hair in the wind.
Like the way my cat tentatively
Walks under the bridge of my legs,
Curling his tail up
Leaving his scent behind.

It's nice smelling your scent on my sheets,
On my shirt,
On my wrist.
For so long
My room remained stark
And clean,
Smelling of laundry
And old regrets.

I am not afraid of you.
You and your beautiful nose.
There is a quiet strength,
A sense of belief and change
Growing,
Rooting.
Maybe one day this sapling
Will become a giant tree
Providing shade for generations to come.
But for now
Little surprises are all I need,
Your scent on my bedsheets,
My little cat purring beside me.

Week 31

I'm trying to write
And the block rises up again,
Victorious and proud.
I don't want to wait
For inspiration again,
I don't want to be buried
Under those dark depths
That depression took me to
That made beautiful words fly out
From within my throat,
Guttural and pure
The command I held onto rhythm
And sound,
Unparalleled.
And now I'm stuck,
Locked into place
By apathy,
By being happy.
There is a lot that is poetic
In the way he feels me smile
When he kisses my cheek,
I just seem to have trouble capturing it.

Week 30

I just realized I hate blank pages.
I'm sitting and staring at one right now.
The page, pure
and pristine.

He is a blank page,
I am not.
I come with pre-written instructions,
fill in the blank
with the answers erased
and written in again,
and erased.
The etchings remain
and if you close enough
you can make out the words.
It comes out the way I hold myself,
the way my thumb presses against
the flesh of my palm,
the way my heart beats faster
when I think about my future
or lack thereof,
the way things always go slightly awry.

But he is starting to fill in the blanks
of my heart,
slowly and carefully,
writing in pen.
I let him be,
my beautiful white blank page,
one day maybe I'll come up with a title,
the beginning, the end,
and the middle.

Week 29

I remember when you told me,
"I don't need anyone
But I'm happy to share things with you,
Which is a bit mad
And disconcerting."

I found myself saying the same thing
To someone
Years later.
It was unexpected
When the words came out
And I saw you so clearly
Whispering them to me.

How long were you happy to share things with me for?
Are you happy now?
These are things I'll never know
But I'll enjoy the moments
That you appear through me
And through him.

Susanna

Nobody in the hospital
Could tell the age
Of the old woman who
Was called Susanna

I knew she spoke some English
And that she was an immigrant
Out of a little country
Trampled by armies

Because she had no visitors
I would stop by to see her
But she was always sleeping

All I could do
Was to get out her comb
And carefully untangle
The tangles in her hair

One day I was beside her
When she woke up
Opening small dark eyes
Of a surprising clearness

She looked at me and said
You want to know the truth?
I answered Yes

She said it’s something that
My mother told me

There’s not a single inch
Of our whole body
That the Lord does not love

She then went back to sleep.

Anne Porter

Week 28

I write poems in my dreams
I wake and forget them,
Forget what they are about.
And it is incredibly frustrating,
It hurts my heart
To lose the words
The thoughts
The feelings.
I try to remember when I wake
But the sounds
Of early morning croon in the air,
Silence is too delicate
And much too painful to bear.
I guess I'll lose my words in dreams
And spend the rest of my life
Chasing them down.

Week 27 - Depression/Catharsis

I drink to write.
I write to my drink.
black and sweet
it swirls around
the muddied glass,
a sip left on my lower lip.
I am across from you,
you and your beautiful body.
I take off my shirt
pout at you,
bite my lower lip
and widen my eyes.
I feel your hand on my back,
drawing me closer,
I see my reflection in your eyes
my luscious breasts pressed together,
hair dark and thick,
sadness in the arch of my eyebrows.
I see you ache for me,
so I lean over
and place soft kisses on your eyelids,
cheeks,
nose,
filling you with lust and love.
You look at me,
look deep into my ridiculous eyes,
don't even realize that I am right there with you.
I am simply a warm wet body,
a thing of flesh
of smells
of softness.
In desperation we reach for each other,
and after
we lay down to sleep
in silence,
backs touching.

****************************************************************************

I am a shell
of the person
I used to be.

There is a growing darkness in me
and it's swallowing me whole,
this chasm,
this black hole
absorbing all the light.

It's no one's fault that I'm this way.
No one's fault
that I lay here
unable to move,
thoughts racing
bouncing up down around and around
until all I can hear is the
pounding of my heart,
rendering me unable to sleep,
to think,
to breathe.

I will keep this shell until I find a new one.
I will stay quiet,
mourn in silence.

*********************************************************************************

Defend the sacred
in you,
around you.

I am not so good at that.
I lie back
and let him have his way,
it's not his fault,
I want it
I think.

It is confusing
to figure out what is affection
what is attention
what is lamentation.
I cannot tell grief from relief,
I need help please,
can someone reach out
touch me
and make me feel alive again?
Can someone reach out
and make me feel sacred again?

*********************************************************************************

Sometimes all I have is my favourite shirt,
so reluctant to take it off,
I wear it five days in a row.
The comfort in the fabric,
the way it feels on my skin.
It is my armor,
my protection
against the elements.

I am alone,
don't you see,
so alone,
there is no one here but me.
And I try to reach out
and I touch glass,
realizing that I am inside my own world
looking out,
no one sees me anymore.
Isolated, alone.
I made my own bed,
I lie in it,
there's no one here,
not even God.
This is why I wear my favourite shirt
five days in a row,
maybe it's all I have left.

Week 26

It is something magical
to be here with you
in my dreams.
I mean,
real life would be better
but I can settle for this.

I imagine your scent,
smooth, musky,
and a little bit nervous
I know I would make you nervous.

I imagine running my nose
my plump lips along your ribs,
placing light kisses
tasting, feeling, being.

It would be something
to gaze into your eyes,
for real this time,
to see myself mirrored in them
so perfectly.
I would be perfect in them
like you are to me.

If I close my eyes,
it almost happens,
you and me,
me with you.
At least I have that
in dreams
and for that
I should be grateful.

Following the Road

I have left my wife at the airport,
flying out to help our daughter
whose baby will not eat.
And I am driving on to Kent
to hear some poets read tonight.

I don’t know what to do with myself
when she leaves me like this.
An old friend has decided to
end our friendship. Another
is breaking it off with his wife.

I don’t know what to say
to any of this—Life’s hard.
And I say it aloud to myself,
Living is hard, and drive further
into the darkness, my headlights
only going so far.

I sense my own tense breath, this fear
we call stress, making it something else;
hiding from all that is real.

As I glide past Twin Lakes,
flat bodies of water under stars,
I hold the wheel gently, slowing my
body to the road, and know again that
this is just living, not a trauma
nor dying, but a lingering pain
reminding us that we are alive.

Larry Smith

Antilamentation

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.

Dorianne Laux

Week 25

You were in an out of my life
faster than the hummingbird
that kept me company
in the monsoons of India.

I remember that day so clearly,
tears pouring from my face,
tears pouring out of the sky
and that little beacon of hope
flitted across my vision,
stayed for a while.

And that's what you were to me,
my little beacon of change,
a reminder that maybe I could feel something
for someone,
someone that wasn't in the past or the future.

But you left,
like all pretty things are wont to do.
Left me with a butterfly kiss
on my heart,
saying "I'll see you soon"
even though we both know that wasn't true.

I miss you, sometimes.
your incredible touch.
But I'll take it for what it was,
a hummingbird bathing in the sky,
hello, I like you,
I'll miss you,
goodbye. 

Week 24

It is dark in here,
deep and dark
yet strangely comforting.
The shadows are hugging me,
massaging my neck,
my stiff shoulders,
massaging the thought of you
away from me.

Dear God, I miss you
or at least
miss the way you made me feel,
brilliant,
beautiful,
alive.

Now I am a leaf
at the end of autumn,
floating on a pool
of half glass,
waiting to drown,
waiting to breathe,
staring up at the pristine sky
wondering what if,
what is,
what will be.

And I know it won't be for me.
So I wait here in the shadows,
wait with my eyes open.
Maybe one day I will feel again.
Not today,
but some day.

Week 23

I need to write again
To create all on my own
To make words dance in front of you
And me
But it isn't easy and I forget how.

I lost it when I lost you,
I forget how to birth and create love
It feels so distant from me
Such a far away land
It's not even on my map.

So here I wander
Looking for it, for truth.
The creator spirit
Has left me for you.
And it is difficult to rationalize
And as much as I try
I cannot stop feeling dead inside
But alas, I must write.

So what's a girl to do
When she can't sing the truth?
She writes and hope something happens,
Something magical happens
To her too.

Week 22

We went for a drive last night
to capture the northern lights
but they weren't there
where we could see them.

I rolled the window down
and stuck my head out the window
with the breeze blowing red on my cheeks.
My hair danced
the stars were bright,
I sat there
confusing clouds for those elusive lights.

The cool air felt fresh
unlike every single emotion
that was recycled in my poor stale heart
I wish every night felt like that,
Leonard Cohen crooning in my car
on a broken speaker,
me falling back in love with you,
you already loving me.

That one night isn't enough to last a lifetime,
but maybe we can start again
one night at a time,
until before we knew it,
it lasted the lifetime.

Week 21

I'm where you left me.
It wasn't a good place at all.
I don't even know
why I wanted to be here to begin with.
Was this place that different with you?

It seems that all my fears have come true
and they seem have come true with you.
So I'll stay here
where you left me,
alone but not truly so.
I will take care of it,
build it up
maybe move some things around
so if you came back to where you left me
you wouldn't recognize me.

You would walk around
and right there in the air,
a touch of familiarity;
the scent of soap and
late mornings curled up beneath a blanket
would tingle at the base of your neck.

And I would walk by,
a stranger,
right where you left me.

Week 20

There are times
I cannot behold
my own mysteries.

Why is it that when I go to church,
sometimes,
it feels like my soul is ripped open
and I am laying there naked
and afraid
and whole?

They say I have the gift of tears
but many times it does not feel like a gift.
They burn in my eyes
run down my cheeks
wet my shirt.

Oh for what love do I ache?
For what sense of wholeness
do I long for?

And what if it is never to be found?

Week 19

I think about him,
His smile,
the way his eyes close
when he leans in to kiss me,
the way he says my name.
My brain says, "Not for long,"
and I try to convince myself that
it will be okay,
I will get by.
I'll miss him when he's gone,
he awoke something in me that
I completely forgot existed,
a simplicity of being,
a sense of excitement
of entitlement
to like, love, and beginnings.
I did not stop it early
and it might already be too late.
I do not care
as I hope to hear from him
early, late,
anytime the next day.