“Full Circle”

Tomorrow would have been my mother’s 89^th birthday. Actually, it will still be her birthday; she’s just not here to celebrate it.

Ter and I used to call her on the day and sing a silly birthday song we learned in church. Maybe we’ll do it this year, too, only without the telephone. Last year, instead of taking her and Dad to lunch, we drove out to the house, where Wee Sis and Boy Sister joined us for tea and cake in an impromptu party. It was one of the happiest times I’ve had. No one suspected it would be our last birthday with Mum.

I’ve spent this whole summer trying to write a poem that would do her justice. I’ve played with phrases and couplets, seeking to describe the “something special” that Dad says existed between Mum and me from the day I was born. Who am I kidding? A proper poetic tribute would have to be an epic to rival the Viking sagas, except it exceeds my ability to compose one.

And yet, perhaps an epic ode is unnecessary. In this instance, perhaps less is truly more. A single line that came to me on the day of her passing seems to say it all. It certainly feels that way.

You were there when I arrived

And I was there to say good bye.

Happy Birthday, Mum.

“Two Protons”

How did Shakespeare do it? He wrote an entire play (maybe more than one) in iambic pentameter – defined as a poem featuring five feet (or “iambs”) per line. An iamb is two or three syllables with emphasis on the second or third syllable, i.e., “two households, both alike in dignity.” A two-syllable word can be a single iamb, i.e. “alike”, because the emphasis is on syllable number two.

I know. If you’re not a poetry geek – and I’m not – who cares? I am, however, a Shakespeare fan and enough of a word geek to look at Will’s genius and see it as something within my ability to emulate. I mean, five beats per line. How hard can it be?

Harder than it looks, that’s for sure! I wasn’t aiming for a full-length play, either; just a poem. A simple verse that doesn’t even rhyme! My natural rhythm is four iambs per line. Creating space for that fifth beat just about did me in. In fact, this grandiose notion occurred almost a year ago. It slipped off my radar when it proved more difficult than I’d expected and less complex things distracted me from the challenge. It resurfaced last week, when I decided to resume drafting blog posts during my lunch break. I blew the dust off my office “blog log”, took it to my not-normal café, ordered a chocolate chai with extra foam, opened the journal’s cover, and a piece of paper – well-scribbled upon – fell onto the table. Oh, ye gods, I thought, my nod to Shakespeare!

Upon revisiting my effort, I decided it wasn’t that bad. It was, in fact, pretty good, and so my chocolate chai sat cooling by my elbow as I spent the next half-hour counting syllables and rearranging iambs into something loosely resembling a Shakespearean-style verse.

And so, with apologies to the Bard and no further ado, I humbly present my minuscule ode to soul sistah Ter, who is always my better half.

Enjoy!

* * *

Two protons, mirrored in identity,

being sprung from a singular atom, when split and parted

do remain connected as if by a force unseen,

unknown yet known by far better than each knows itself.

For home and home exist with these particles.

’Cross stars and space, identical response is prov’n.

Though dust and dark matter conspire to confound, the bond

Ne’er breaks nor weakens. Twin parts of one whole, space is

an illusion, and real for one is as much for the other.

Get a Heart On

I move that we ban romance from Valentine’s Day. Love comes in many shapes and sizes, but let’s face it, romance is about chemical response and doesn’t go the distance. How many diamonds bestowed today will sparkle for the same lover five or ten or fifty years from now?

Oh, Ru, you’re being cynical.

Okay, maybe so. I may be taking the bait set out by the same big eastern syndicate that made Christmas a crass commercial racket. You know the message: that you’re not a winner if you don’t have a lover to ply you with roses and chocolate and a strand of costly bling.

Pah! I say! Who needs a lover when one has love? And I do. Boy, do I ever! I have a life full of people who love me, and whom I love in return. No love of mine is unrequited... except perhaps the torch I carry for John Taylor. Ah, contrast.

I digress. Love, as I say, comes in all shapes and sizes. Love for a friend. Love for family. Love for a pet. Love for a plant. Love for oneself—and this is no small thing. Too many of us think we’re unworthy of being loved and this is simply not so. Everyone deserves to be loved. Everyone is loved by someone, somewhere.

One of the most beautiful poems I have ever read was written by Ravindra Kumar Karnani. I have no idea what inspired me to post it here, but it seems an appropriate sentiment to help anyone who may feel lost, alone or unloved on this day when love seems more important than on any other (which, by the way, it’s not):

God, Speak to Me

The child whispered, “God, speak to me”
And a meadow lark sang.
The child did not hear.

So the child yelled, “God, speak to me!”
And the thunder rolled across the sky
But the child did not listen.

The child looked around and said,
“God, let me see you” and a star shone brightly.
But the child did not notice.

And the child shouted,
“God, show me a miracle!”
And a life was born but the child did not know.

So, the child cried out in despair.
“Touch me God, and let me know you are here!”
Whereupon God reached down and touched the child.

But the child brushed the butterfly away
And walked away unknowingly.

Rest assured, you are loved.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

“Alfie the Christmas Tree”

This year I wanted to write a meaningful piece for Christmas Eve; something wondrous and magical that reflects the spirit of the season. Alas, nothing original came—but I remembered a poem that was written by the late John Denver and performed on a TV special with the Muppets many years ago (John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together). I’m unsure that it’s as powerful in writing as it was when he read it aloud, but the sentiment speaks to my wish for the holiday this year, so I thought I’d share.

Merry Christmas, with love.

* * *

Did you ever hear the story of the Christmas tree that didn’t want to change the show?

He liked living in the wood, he liked icicles and snow.

He liked wolves and eagles and grizzly bears, and critters and creatures that crawl.

Why, bugs were some of his very best friends, spiders and ants and all.

Now that’s not to say that he ever looked down on twinkle lights

Or mirrored bubbles and peppermint canes and a thousand other delights,

And he often had dreams of tiny reindeer and a jolly old man in a sleigh

Full of toys and presents and wonderful things, and the story of Christmas Day.

Oh, Alfie believed in Christmas, all right. He was full of Christmas cheer

All of each and every day, all throughout the year.

To him it was more than a special time, much more than a special day.

It was more than a beautiful story; it was a special kind of way.

You see, some folks have never heard a jingle bell ring and they’ve never heard of Santa Claus.

They’ve never heard the story of the Son of God, and that made Alfie pause:

Did that mean that they’d never know of peace on earth or the brotherhood of man,

Or how to love or know how to give? If they can’t, no one can.

You see, life is a very special kind of thing, not just for a chosen few,

But for each and every living breathing thing, not just me and you.

So in your Christmas prayers this year, Alfie asked me if I’d ask you

To say a prayer for the wind and the water and the wood—and those who live there too.

Tears

Where do tears come from? The head or the heart? I can’t always tell.

In my staunch religious youth, if a song was sung or a prayer said aloud and Ruth cried, it was deemed a winner. Even today, in my not-so-religious middle years, I cry when reminded that I am loved. I dislike crying; it makes my head ache and waters down my resolve to, well, not cry. Tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears of empathy, tears of frustration, tears of pain, tears of hay fever—I guess they come from everywhere: head, heart and itchy nose.

Seated in a prayer circle during a workshop seminar on addressing the needs of Aboriginal kids in care, I suddenly, unaccountably, welled up and started to weep. Most of the people around me freaked out a little, unnerved by the European show of weakness, but the native facilitator smiled and accepted my apology with words I will always remember:

“Tears are a gift.”

A few years later, when I became a regular at the local tea shop where Joelique worked, he announced one day that he had cried the previous night. “Why?” I asked. “Did someone hurt you?”

“No,” he replied, philosophically, “I’m teaching myself that it’s okay to cry.” Though he was roughly half my age, his parents, like many of their generation, had employed the Stop it now or I’ll give you something to cry about tactic to turn off the tap in a highly emotional child.

I laughed at his thundering impression of his dad, then I shared my experience in the prayer circle and told him what the facilitator had told me.

“Tears are a gift.”

We held each other’s gaze for a heartbeat, and just as tears rose in both pairs of eyes, the timer went off and saved us.

I wrote this tiny poem as a tribute to the moment:

a confession

I’ve had a day

and you told me you’d cried

so we talked about tears

until duty called

which was probably good

else I’d have dissolved

April 28, 2011

With love,

“Warrior”

feathers in his hair

he stands proud in sunlight

dances in moonlight

drumbeat, heartbeat

he rides the wind

honours the rain

kneels before fire

the earth is his mother

heartbeat, drumbeat

the children laugh

the elders smile

peacekeeper, nightwalker

he is the wolf

ever watchful over them

as spirit guides watch over him

he fights not to be conquered

Full Moon Rising

Full Moon Rising

full moon rising

swollen and dripping

pearls of light

o’er a black opal sea

silver moon shining

frosted purity

commanding the tide

to heights undisclosed

a sphere of influence

beyond mortal reckoning

inspires lunacy

in an urban forest

wolf moon watching

from a star-scattered sky

she calls in white silence

and we answer in song

Sunday Mornings

I love Sunday mornings. The quiet, the venerable peace I take from quietude, a full cup, the written word in any incarnation and the sound of my own breathing. Sunday mornings for me is one of many versions of comfortable rebellion: the weekend isn’t quite over but there’s just enough of it left to be languid, to be solaced, to count blessings and be grateful.

It is September 1^st, 2015. A new month, a new dawn officially not called summer. It’s back to school, a clean slate, sweater weather, and almost pumpkin spice time (for those who partake: blech). For me, it is my day to guest blog. To prepare, I spent a quiet Sunday morning musing on what I’d write. I did this with my kitchen table littered with pen and paper and the contents of a birthday package waiting to be assembled and the sound of my Mama and niece in the other room talking quietly and laughing with the TV on in the background and a warm morning breeze coming in through open windows. For all of the troubles that weigh on me of late, the staying sorrows of loss and pressures of work and responsibility accepted the invitation and the deadline to write something for Ru while she was away on holiday. The feeling and the love I feel for Sunday mornings seemed like a fitting subject. So, I threw on my headphones to block out the chatter and white noise, set my favorite playlist to inspire and started to write.

This is what I came up with:

Sunday Mornings

I get my news from long languorous poems

miraculously observant and mimetic verses

brimming with wise blood, skill and honesty &

scrupulous particulars that denote many things.

I derive my concord from the brevity and intensity

of chain-smoking slim cigarillos with Lucille Ball

an act full of division and finality on the surface

her company is startling yet serene down deep.

I take my time reading Raymond Carver stories

to feel soothingly more like my old cheerful self

to escape the haunting of an old handsome lover

to remember that life & art are never separate.

Sunday mornings harmonize with a deep peace

a sound meeting place of imagination and time

sparing with its metaphors generous in comfort.

It sounds ceremonious.

It is.

Sunday mornings save my soul.

**

I am grateful to have been asked to guest blog. It put me back in the creative mind-set. I’ve been barren in that department a long time and appreciate any kick in the pants to get the mind moving, the heart feeling and the fingers typing.

It is also an honour to be asked by someone I admire greatly. When I grow up I hope I will be able to manipulate words as beautifully as Ru does. We are lucky beans to have her creations to enrich us.

Until the next guest blog (provided she’ll have me back) …

In propinquity,

Nic

“Forever in His Eyes”

Nature boy

authentic, organic

at one with the earth

Lullaby lyric

velvet in his voice

healing in his hands

Pure power

used for good of others

used against himself

Dark angel

caught internal conflict

pushing love away

Infinite soul

mortal, immortal

luminous and loving

Light essence

stars and space

forever in his eyes

“You Spoke to Me in Poetry”

Your spoke to me in poetry

And I did the unthinkable

I swooned

Straight into your arms

Heedless of the peril in your pretty words

Strung like stars on a silken line

Destined to delight and be my end

You spoke to me in poetry

And I did the unforgivable

I forgave

Lulled by a lyric

Called to curb my waking temper

And cloud my clearing vision

Destined to reveal and be your end

You spoke to me in poetry

And I did the inevitable

I trembled

Fearing loneliness yet

Witnessing within the words you wove

The oblique lies and angled truth

Destined to destroy and be our end

"The Difference Between"

Your head will urge you to vengeance

Your head will prompt you to rail

Your head will take pleasure in spitefulness

Your head will tell you you’ve failed.

Your heart is the speaker of the soul

Your heart knows what is true

Your heart is always led by love

Your heart is the real you.

“The Laird of These Lands”

I am the laird of these lands

he says—and I smile

a patchwork prince

in threadbare clothes

barefoot in the grass

crooked staff in hand

he flings out his arms

to claim his dominion

grinning wider than the sky

he basks in his liberty

beholding to none

and I think

he is the richest lord of all

Happy birthday, Joelique.

With love,