Poetry Samples

---

Little fingers hugged in oversized mittens, dangling 

from swinging arms that earlier reached 

to touch sunlight through frosty panes.

Beneath a turned-up knitted toque, glances of curiosity

color the snow, penetrate buried seeds with dreams.

Trudging in silent unison 

under canopies of naked branches, 

warm breaths join to paint floating pictures, 

as footprints recede into non-existence.

Turned up collars break whistling north winds liberating 

refrains of nuthatch calls under the sky’s frozen sound reflector 

Hands joined, swinging with rhythmic precision, 

Father and son in synchronized stride, exhale

arpeggios of wonder. 

I once stood on Parliament Hill and protested, but that was 1972. 

I kept a journal revealing the sweetness of my first kiss. I hitchhiked across Canada, 

slept alongside bears in the wild campgrounds of northern Ontario, hanging food from the trees like Christmas ornaments.

I shed tears when I was supposed to feel love while he penetrated my hymen saying, “It will keep you from being frigid”. 

I experimented with ecstasy. thinking it would be a spiritual journey, but I only saw the spiders on the wall. 

I sang songs of Dylan and Lightfoot and thought it would change the world.

I was wrong. 

I asked big questions. But got nothing in reply.

I gave it all up and got a job. 

I had no time to look up at the universe, even though I knew it held the answers. 

Maybe one day.

Time passed like a shooting star.

I woke up to the future of my past. My eyesight gone, but I still my vision is clear.

I see my spirit is not buried under mounds of forgotten black and white Polaroids.

My thirst for an embrace is not lost through wrinkled skin or dirty dishes. 

Chi clutches my hand and beckons for the Rider Waite chariot. 

Prods me to hop in and be brave. 

I get in.

Fear stays behind in the claustrophobic corner of the elevators that I once wouldn’t ride. 

Peace calls to me from the shadows of the maples. Wait.

I don’t ask where we are going, what does it matter? 

The ride is enough. I sit back.

I forget to hold on.

Life Itself

You told me it will be golden, 

It will bring freedom, that time 

will return like a robin in spring

to procreate passions, satisfy 

desires and dole out happiness. 

You told me to wait, 

work hard, save

and the pot of 

gold will be

mine.

I did what you asked, I bore two children. Toiled 

for 40 odd years. Followed the rules that hung 

around my neck like a noose. Indulged in 

a few sojourns along the way to feed 

my soul. Ran two marathons to test 

my prowess. Climbed through 

roadblocks with only sheer 

doggedness to comfort 

me

I navigated with a compass stuck but determined. 

Questioned the intersections for signs, 

or for a beacon of light 

as darkness approached 

and time was taken 

some where 

classified.

My gait quickened like a pursued victim 

frightened at the cost of stopping,

or peering into the unknown, 

deep in the cavities of the 

amygdala. Fear and hope 

lit the path while 

I ran toward 

the rabbit 

hole.

I arrived at your calling. Unbolted the gate 

with the key you provided. It opened

without a push, flung open in fact. 

I scurried through, jumped like a 

newborn chick, arms in warrior 

pose, wanting to touch the 

heavens, my white hair 

reflecting the sunset 

colors.

I combed the ground for promised jewels.

Perused the horizon for their existence.

Did you not say they were here? You 

whispered stories of the Holy Grail.

Told me that happiness would be 

revealed by Aphrodite herself, 

and time would be waiting 

at the gate by sunset. 

Your secrets did 

not appear.

Instead, you sent a dove in her place. It 

spotted me easily on the empty plain 

ambling, thrashing through the tall 

grasses with my cane. “Carry me 

to my entitlement,” I implored. 

“I have plans to paint the 

burning sky, fly with 

the birds. My time

is here.”

The dove whispered, “Dear soul, you followed 

the mirage of empty hopes. Overlooked the 

gems peppering the path along the way,

with abundance underfoot 

connecting hearts 

at every turn. 

“Take hold of my wings. We’ll light the treasures 

along the avenue of life. Seekers will taste 

sweet smiles, hold hands with enemies 

weep tears of love, wet throats 

parched from anger and 

breathe in love 

of life itself.”

Hi there,

you serpent-like wrinkle 

defining the corner of my seasoned lip. 

Lying there perfectly.

At peace like a reclining Buddha. 

I looked for you 

in the moonlit reflections on Crystal Crescent shores, 

after walks on Bluff Trail.

I checked for you 

in the mornings after wild two-step parties 

to see if you had arrived.

I wanted to make the finish line without you. 

I did everything to keep you away.

Ignored signs of your imminent arrival

Preened my skin, 

lifted it between my fingers, 

kneaded 

delineated curves 

and shaped reliefs around my cheekbones and temples.

Exercised it

like an operatic singer warming up between vowels. 

Washed with rose water, massaged in Ayurvedic creams.

Pinched it 

to glow like the young girl I once was. 

Then, suddenly you appeared one day.

I studied you in the mirror at every hour 

to be certain. 

You stayed, as if you were home.

I touched you.

I scrubbed you 

to see if I could coax you

to go. 

You didn’t move. 

You just placed yourself there

silently

proudly

defiantly.

“Have you come to steady me 

when I question my beauty? 

To share memories I have forgotten?

To comfort me 

in my solitude 

with my children gone,

work done,

and knees weakened?”

Now that you are here, join the family 

across my weathered and freckled face 

that once saw smoothness, 

fun and innocence, 

while I sit 

by the hourglass 

with the sands 

running, 

running, 

running. 

I watch and wait…

I will shout out,

“Take it! Turn it over-

Change the sand to boulders.

Throw them against me!

Let me feel. 

Move.

I will stand up to my fears! 

Tell the world it is still me

under this quilt of lines!” 

So here you are. 

How did you know to appear

at this crossroad of denial and acceptance? 

You think that you deserve the red carpet, 

heralded welcome of my lips?

Or the applause from my masked face 

Sheltered under layers of cover girl beige? 

No, I won’t make any fuss for you.

You are family now.

Stay with me.

Play with my smile. Catch my tears. 

Let the sunlight romp in your recesses. 

Feed me with memories.