Floundering

Floundering beneath a wave

of something I’ve yet to put a name to,

I am trapped,

caught in a dizzying dance

so hypnotic to watch;

Breaking the surface,

freedoms first gasp is

confinements last laugh

when I’m pulled back under

tied to and with

the flotsam and jetsam

lurking below.

Even words

Even words can become all too familiar.

Favourite storybook words carouselling around your brain,

read so many times that they’ve lost their distinction,

their flavour.

You dove in, head first,

recklessness embodied

if not for the fact that you have taken the plunge before,

and every inch has once before been swept

with your eyes and your hands.

Sing-song lines and lyrics are sounding monotonous,

making you plough through their rhymes and rhythms

like chores.

Like chores?

Since when has the poets palate been bland to the ears,

a flat line in emotion?

What are you supposed to do

when the verses you sink yourself into so regularly

won’t hold you up any more?

Words are the faithful lovers,

however quarrelsome they may be;

Words are the burning little suns in the minds horizon,

bursting into flame then dying out-- always reborn.

Words are the sweet lips you grow tired of kissing

without a first kiss.

Matches to ashes

Have you ever played with fire

just to hide behind a wall of smoke?

What is it about dangerous things

that hide the most vulnerable?

Ever noticed,

When you run your fingers through candle flame

You half hope to God

something will go wrong.

Is it because you want to pull away,

wanting the sudden flash of fight or flight?

Or does the wound serve the ego?

A story to tell and a sick thrill of victory, to boot.

Maybe its our need to play God with ourselves.

Do we create chaos

just to have the power

to control everything and walk away?

Sort of like throwing the match

exactly where you want it;

the starting point with the most potential,

then stepping away

when the smoke and alarms turn

the spotlights in a different direction.

Maybe our fire, smoke and chaos

is humanities chance at designing something of a legacy;

Fuelled into life by its insatiable appetite for destruction

and instilled with less than no moral guides.

A legacy that can only burn itself out.

Foul vowel.

It’s a vise

around my throat, hot and cold,

a burning without any of the heat.

Constricting,

I think its travelling down

my chest and into my lungs

around my ribs and straight down

into my belly, rolling its greasy fingers

along my insides

feeling for the weakest spot,

and infecting the rest.

So cold it hurts,

but we already know its not really cold.

It’s not really anything,

for no prescription or bought remedy, nor sought

or traded medicine,

could touch what decides to afflict me.

Because how can you cure the letters

of a name? How can you stop

vowels sinking into your blood

winding their way up to your brain,

and clutching relentlessly?

Flawed, cracked.

Cracks and flaws are ugly things,

but often ignored is the fact

that lines make up the most beautiful pictures of all.

They are the everlasting footprints of movement

that, when examined with enough detail,

are exquisite maps

tracing the best and worst of the things that sit inside our souls.

We use maps to carefully select where we are going,

and often forget

that maps are also amazing at showing us exactly

where we have been,

and how that,

and not some map book,

is what really tells us where we’re going.

Two rocks and a hard place

What to do,

when you’re in a room
and words can’t march on out

like they usually do
because

you’re stuck between

two rocks and a hard place;

Everyone’s staring you

dead in the eye

because you know them and

they know you.

So, do what do you say

when you don’t know whose

line to cross first,

or at all

and all the nitty, gritty details

in between?

It's like talking with a

tongue covered in glue,

words all pasty and thick,

as fast as molasses, too.

I’m cornered and I’m quick,

hasty in speech.

I don’t want to look,

I don’t want to believe,

and if I try hard enough,

it's all in the corner of my eye.

Tea.

Maybe tea is an accurate representation

of the human heart.

Maybe I’m just crazy.

Water

clear, glossy and pure

is foundation and stepping stone

all in one.

You can drink it alone, warm or cold

or infuse it, colour it, add to it,

but you can never take away what it started out as.

In the process of brewing,

you’ve got to bring water to a boil;

get things simmering, shake it up a bit,

get the ball roiling, if you get me.

Then you add in the catalyst,

a bag of leaves.

Now watch.

Clear water all shook up

from the heat of the moment

being addled with the colours of fall

reds and browns, orangey tinges leaking

into the water spindly arms weave around, grasping for hold.

Finally, the clear is not so clear,

it has evolved into something so much more.

A beautiful brew has emerged,

ready to delight the senses with its warmth, its spice,

but you forgot about it.

You left the kettle on the back burner,

it slipped your mind.

You can come back for it all you want

but it’s a wasted opportunity;

you left the leaves in,

so now it’s cold, dark and

bitter.

You lost track of time, and now it’s useless,

wasted resources sitting in stalemate.

So you throw it out, and you resent yourself

if only for five minutes. Why did you make a pot of tea,

when you could have made a cup?

Created dishes, wasted water, used the last of the milk

drained a bag of leaves for all its worth,

expended energy for no reason.

Excess work

because you were thirsty.

What does this remind you of?

Once upon a time

you stole an extra minute glancing at the boy

and your all-too-new heart stuttered,

bubbled and boiled,

like the water in your tea.

You bubbled and boiled,

the heart on fire.

Then the catalyst dropped,

the boy sort of knew

(only sort of)

and you didn’t want him to.

(only sort of)

that’s when the tendrils snaked around

sweetening and spicing everything up.

The colour of conversation changed dramatically

from light to dark the longer you kept your mouth shut.

Its been a few months now,

everything under wraps and only now do you look,

and all you can find

is the bitter brew you’ve stewed.

You should have opened your mouth

before this.

But you didn’t

and now your tea is

bitter and cold,

palatable, but unsavoury.

Like tea,

there isn’t a lot you can’t fix

with patience and (sugar) sweetness.

So pour in your sweet side

and see what happens.

Iced tea, anyone?

Said and done

After all is said and done

will you think to yourself

was it worth its weight in gold?

Often repeated,

my favourite phrase; never regret

something that made you smile.

Well, don’t.

Don’t you believe in the reasons

behind what drive these mistakes?

After all,

you were always living in the moment,

minute.

Living spree, so carefree!

The kind of care that turns into

careless-- with the things,

the things around, surrounding you.

But.

With everything said and done

what do I think to myself?

No regrets, just the useless decay

of useful tears time and love.

There is no room for waste anymore,

so I won’t waste another word

for they are priceless;

what we put into the atmosphere

is irretrievable,

unchanging.

Are band-aides big enough?

It’s a bit past spring

spring cleaning that is,

and I’m sweeping;

Sweeping up, sweeping away

every last vestige

of you.

And oh god, it hurts.

Did you know

how much it hurt

when you left?

You were my scab,

as bad as that sounds.

You were thick and tough,

and you clung to my skin

keeping in the bleeding,

hiding my wounds.

And too soon, too soon,

you ripped yourself off and

away you fluttered,

slowly at first

because I could still see you,

and then

out of sight you fell,

gone in the wind.

So I grew a new scab,

it blossomed where you left off,

and as time went on

your voice faded from my mind

and a shiny layer of scar tissue

is all I’ve got left of where you used to be.

Never expect, less than FIERCE.

You have no idea of

how brutal I want to be;

feed you the pain you dealt me,

send shock waves up and down your body.

Hopefully they’ll reach your brain and

electrify you

maybe make you start to think again.

I want to ravage my sanity

break loose

like the noose you had wrapped

right ‘round my neck,

your security blanket if I ever got too close.

My fingers are in fists and
oh how I want to hit you

break your bones and your face

A physical painting of every time

you grabbed my heart and squeezed

and layered bruises over your old ones.

I want to be vicious,

and toy with your pain, play with it,

like you played with my head...

sending me farther and farther down to the ground,

where I never belonged.

It was always you, who rose above the squalor,

mistaking the necks of those around you

as a stairway to your heaven.

Your throne was risen to the clouds

on the backs of men and women,

raising you much higher than

you could have ever gotten on your own.

You are the thorn in my side

that has crippled me from day one,

and I alone rejoice, for you have been dislodged,

discarded and useless,

for the day has risen

and without you,

I stand tall and proud,

finally

unhindered.

Image to ash

Page by page,

I'll go through our book,

of memories, of lies, of a happier time.

Each picture is another one I have to pry up,

examine and burn.

Gently I’ll turn our pages,

letting my fingers walk down memory lane,

A path obscured by taped corners,

stickers and phrases once defining our days.

Our images are what’s left of us

A moment frozen eternally

capturing every grain the lens could see.

A prismatic tableaux detailing a table of contents

spanning a relationship still indefinable by mere words.

My memories won’t follow suit with the actions of the physical world,

Your images in ashes around me, are still in my head

but maybe, maybe, time will blow them away

like the wind has taken away your ashes, already.

Thoughts

I think too hard, sometimes.

Leaving myself with too many words

and never enough space.

Things cram up every nook and cranny,

expanding each time they go round again.

Each time I contradict myself again,

a new thought pops up,

multiplying and dividing

like the new cells they resemble.

I think they are reused, recycled,

ultimately layered upon each time.

But maybe their new, each time we think them;

maybe both, maybe neither.

But all I know is that I know too much

For my own good sometimes.

Night time?

Night time is when I’m feeling fine,

when everything has receded

all the way back at the end of my mind.

Night time is the only time

when I’ve got that feeling,

of being fine.

When the dark comes out to play,

my thoughts are easier to lay out,

to look back on.

Things are far simpler, under a shroud of black,

bringing everything into sharp focus,

with the right amount of blurring the edges.

At night is when the ink runs hot,

and its at night

when everything feels all right.

Morning songs

There’s a certain cadence coming from morning hours,

a rush and a rhythm that

comes from the silence of slumber

and early morning city-life.

It’s dark, and not as cold as you think,

and even leaves tiptoe down the sidewalks,

unwilling to break silence, yet.

The flowers haven’t woken up,

the sun starts stirring

and most of the stars are awake,
blinking their diamond eyes wide.

As the clock gets older

the sound of music taps its feet faster,

building the bare bones for the intercity banter

you hear, walking the streets.

The Roses that grew from concrete.

You might be wondering,

What does a little white

Canadian girl, have in common

with a black man, inner city rap extraordinaire,

pumping beats out of the west?

I’d explain, but I guess our wise man says it best:

“Did you hear about the rose that grew

from a crack in the concrete?

Proving natures law wrong it

learned to walk with out feet”

I guess today,

I can finally explain.

Roses are our theme,

and I happen to be just that,

through and through.

Prim and proper, and English, too,

with a British passion for tea.

So I guess Pac was right when

he said even a rose could grow in the rockiest roads,

that even a flower, could rise up and be free.

RIP TUPAC SHAKUR
June 16, 1971 – September 13, 1996

Ostara

Into the springs refreshed winds

I send my skin, shed anew;

A liberating experience,

creating myself,

a bloom, expanding in the sun

like the new flowers poking fragile heads

out from beneath the earthy mantle

they tuck themselves into.

Year long, the wait, primitive and patient

waiting for the right moment,

right mixture of warmth and water,

and sheer luck, too.

Like the flowers, I wait.

Waiting for just the right moment

of warmth and luck

that brings me to these very moments

of blossom, of unfurling,

of something new.

Is this a gift?

Somewhere out there,

there is a pair of scissors

large and sharp

and of all the right proportions to cut me down

from the marionetter’s cross you have seen so fit to crucify me on.

Strung so carelessly about, I am

limbs tied to the most unexpected obstacles

finer than those you have built before.

The fishing line is digging in,

red lines criss crossing from where the weight of this

digs in, sharp and thin, like your voice

when you’re pulling the tightest.

My face is glued to the looking glass,

shiny and new, fading so fast,

I’m trying so hard to not jump right in;

Maybe it's your leash keeping me from drowning myself,

but never would I have walked to the water

without your guiding hand.

Look real close.

If you looked close,

(real close)

you could see little lace-y, trace-y lines,

blooming webs spanning a face,

tracking the tread marks of lies, strains,

smiles and surprises,

all leaving footprints
after coming around often enough.

My eyes can only see what left a mark,

soap washes away the fingerprints of today.

You open your mouth and there-- there I see it.

The lie. It’s behind the sides of your smile,

peeking out like so.

Lies twitch, and so do you;

you're staring me straight in the eye, you're that good

and I'm waiting for you to put the finishing touches

on all this, 
and there you go,

singing sweet words and absolute promises...

both of us know that next week,

maybe the week after next
i'll find the lie
again.

Red and White

The ambulance rains,

red, white, screaming and loud

are taking their toll on my head,

screaming at me to fix it, fix it.

The cars

some of them won't get out of the way,

and that’s the one taking the toll on my heart.

Human curiosity is amazing, disgusting.

I want to know, want to know what happened,

what I'd say, is everyone okay?

The city has a voice, sometimes loud, sometimes not

so much. But its always there.

Its wailing begs to drive me away, but I know,
I know that anywhere else,

it’ll never get any better.

She Doll

She sat and she sang,

and for all the eye could see,

she was as happy as could be.

Fine gold threads made up

little lashes framing

big oval eyes, set with blue stones;

Fanning across cheeks so

pale they could only be porcelain.

Rose petals must have been brushed across those

lovely cheeks, to give them that palest pretty blush.

Positioned at will, she could do nothing

but look as pretty as she did,

while she was told of all the beautiful things in life

she had.

Thin copper strands dusted her halo of gold,

dancing around her face in the winds and breeze,

fluttering fancifully around red lips

she couldn’t put to use.

She,

the delicate rose

white as cotton

in a sea of plumage.

They looked again,

For her, their treasure,

and when they did

it was a diamond that rolled down that slope of porcelain

Stone basins

The heart is a basin, starting out so empty

and filled to the top with each drip drop.

It swells and ebbs, rising and flowing

with the motion we set ourselves in

until, accidentally, carelessly,

A stray pebble, word, slips and falls in,

overflowing.

Suddenly like water, everything is spilt

amongst the dust collecting down on the floor.

Secret worlds and lovers flames

scattered and strewn about,

impossible, implausible to put back together again,

leaving the heart lighter, freer to fill back up again.

Doctor Doctor

I’m drowning

I’m drowning

and doctor,

you're prescribing the water.

Sinking, sinking

How fast can I go?

Down into the deep,

and maybe I’ll lay my head down,

it’s a perfect time to sleep.

Thrashing for air

and the water’s locked in,

got a hold on me.

I’m screaming to rise up,

float and coast

ride the bubbles

but the air,

it's just too cold

and the water,

the waters too deep.

Drowning

while you describe the motion of the ocean.

Speak a little louder, please.

All these words I'm

spilling out,

you know their true,

but you ain't listening

because they didnt come from someone

who looks like you.

With all these categories,

blondie, brown, short and tan,

certainly I can't fit them all in.

My voice is pretty damn new

compared to you,

so why not take a minute and listen in?

Yeah I've got ink,

sorry it's not in a pen.

True, I've got steel in me,

but it's not all nerves.

Guess everyones in an uproar,

because I took a few ounces away

from the artists in the great masterpiece of war.

I'm not sorry I'm a sinner,

I just wish you'd read what I have to say;

You're afraid because...

because you might just agree.