The Things We Carry

The things we carry

shoved hastily into drawers that stick

hidden in the back of the closet

in the basement 

under the stairs

in the pockets of pants

we refuse to wear


If we can’t see them,

maybe they’ll disappear?


They lie there nudging us

a whiff of mildew

something unattended

tossing our night dreams

like sand in our socks


I was reminded of my mother today

my inner voice, her assessing tone

I am a woman grown

and yet…


The things we carry

those we go digging for,

those that offer themselves unannounced


The way a kingfisher spins me

into childhood wonder,

the shape of a cloud recalling picnics

scratchy red wool blanket 

covering still wet grass

the family, side by each

gazing up, open palms sun warmed



That first dandelion

sharp tang of milky sap

peeled stem curling

ringlets around our fingers

daisy chains gracing our crowns


I hold all memories

soft as cattail flower heads

and sharp as gravel

We can’t choose what we carry


We can choose to haul out

those things we’d rather not

air them 

to the wide sky

watch them sail like kites

refold them again when they return

as they must


They too have clothed us

though the fit restrictive, uncomfortable

the colours garish, embarrassing


The things we carry

transform

with how they are held

My Favourite Jesus Story

I like the Bible stories:

Jesus being born,

The straw, a big star,

Sheep watching, probably lambs licking his forehead,

more probably goats;

folks coming by. Presents.

That’s nice, but it’s the desert I like.

Forty days and Forty nights.

Wandering. But not wandering looking

at all the cool shit God created.

No, I don’t think so, and not just days,

Forty nights.

Sit-up sweaty anxious bad sleep nights.

Did he remember to thank the wise men:

really appreciate his mother; honestly Jesus?

that time with Paul, arrogant? the money lender thing:

all of it slithering out endlessly in the wilderness,

and listening hard to hear:

It’s ok, you’re good person.

Yeah I like to think he suffered.

Then walked out.

Who built these minds…

Jesus we suffer.

Stillness


Woman on the meridian, panhandling, sneakers collapsed, face shuttered.

November chilled cement

Outside the liquor store, man with his head down. Is he weeping?

His body a curled comma, head covered by an ugly toque

Unlikely pom pom dandling.

A cuff of dirty skin where bony knees jut through filthy fabric

I walk by, chance a look back. He doesn’t unfold.

Change jangles in my pocket unannounced 

Head home 

Under ominous skies


Outside a howling rattles the windows, parties with the wind chimes, slinks down the chimney with a whistle howl.

Glass and curtain muffled

The dog snores

The furnace hums

I am curled like a half question mark

A pause of stillness


An intersection of inadequate awareness

Gaze returning to the unsheltered

Dark side of the glass

Imagining the weary

Waiting 

Stillness

Tuesday Morning

I woke

this morning

listening to the rain

knocking on my roof

Gently, insistently,

tap tap taping

on the sky light, on the windows.

Perhaps my neighbours heard it

On their roof, at their door

While getting coffee, while watching news,

While praying

on a Tuesday morning in November

gently, insistently.

All over the city,

Up north, down south

Tap tap taping

Everybody listening to the rain.

Seldom Stuck

I am seldom stuck,

though the words that pour forth

through pen and unleashed mind babble,

race like ponies in the field

tossing frantic manes and tails

the whites of their eyes rolling,

their nostrils dilated

like the peach clamshells I gather in summer


I want to hold my hands up and out,

hush now, it's okay

the lullaby unwinding

To place my hand upon the sweat soaked neck,
gentle, gentle,

stroke the kitten soft muzzle


I do not want to saddle words,

to rein them in,

a sharp bit between the teeth

I want to settle,

let the head dip,

munch the sweet damp grass,

honey scented summer

warm upon my shoulders


A pause then,

a breath drawn from the belly,

deep then deeper still

filling like a swollen creek

rich and cool, and then

the release


a ribbon unfurled

a kite unbound,

a cresting wave

the pen, a shadow dancer


unstuck

yet...inadequate

I wonder about babes before

language creates the topography

the map of their knowing

so finely attuned to senses

the brush of a hand upon the cheek,

the hum of a voice against the belly

the language of life

buzzing through

the unquestioning

soles of their tender toes


they are

seldom stuck














Didn't I?

Rabbits, gathering around a hole,

Foxes tumbling near the den,

They are aware we are watching them.

You, in the street,

Your gait – a whispering limp but,

You’re out with a purpose!

To get milk

Attend to your friend

Your child

Your case

I’m over here, in the wild

Observing,

The ocean, a screen between us

Observing with short, shallow breaths

Watching it all unfold like

A Netflix series.

Rabbits gathering around a hole

Foxes tumbling near the den

I am watching you, like I watched the bear,

That ran alongside the van on the Dempster

Fascinated. Curious. Alive

Seeing what I can, while I can.

The rabbits went into their hole (at least I think they did)

The foxes skittered off (they won’t show you where they live)

That bear ran alongside us (for a surprisingly long time)

then down into the gully, out of sight.

When will you?

All Day

All day I worked in a basement

All day I stretched my yellow tape

All day I laided down lines, blue, red and straight.

(All at 90… though some, needed a tweek)

 

All day I looked at walls to be, a bedroom, a kitchen, a home

All day I wrote short hand with my pen, DW CP FR

And All day I looked out the window … sometimes.

 

At lunch I sat in a chair, in the sun

And I had my phone all day

But I stopped, I put it down, so I could stop

because

 

All day I half listened to myself

And all day I listened to the radio

CBC

 all day

the morning in english, the afternoon in French,

(it’s just better that way).

 

After my all day I went to the store

And talked about doors and ratings and code

But not about clouds.

Who was looking at the clouds?

 

So,

 after all day in the basement with lines

And after all day at the store with doors

I looked at clouds, at their colour and shape,

The way they moved with the sun

 on their bottoms.

 

It seemed like my neck was pleased now

 looking up

instead of down

All day

   

Dog Poem #2

Two wolves are coming for you

along the stony beach

 a remote place, all loneliness and hunger.

You are not prepared,

all you have is a frisbee

your mother’s gift.

Each night they circle the fire.

Eyes watching, gold and steel.

The deep forest behind holds secrets

and sweet berries.

Once, on an unfamiliar trail

they ran past you

brushing your hand with the soft fur

of a happy dog.

You mark the trail 

with shared bread. 

Horizontal

She spends much more time on the horizontal these days

Watching me 

for signs of movement

Signs that she can somehow be involved

In the things we do

Worrying when the door opens up.

Sighing and sitting when the leash does not come out of its hiding spot.

My neighbours got a puppy

All floppy ears and tangled limbs

Leaping up the stairs, chasing bees

I remember those days.

Now that I watch her slow descent

Into the quiet of our lives, I wonder...

Does she know that she ushered us through the most important years of our lives?

Does she know that she taught me about friendship more than anyone I’ve ever known? 

Good girl. Good good girl.