Gift

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Gift

“I have a gift for you,” I said.
“Why?” I had no answer.
Silence built its barriers
between us. “Look,” I said.
“It’s yours.” I held out the book
and she took it in her hands.
“For me?” she asked. “You wrote
this book for me?” “Yes.” The lie
hung in the air for a moment,
a listless, lifeless kite, floating.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. Her smile
ignited the air, sent sparks across
the space between us. She opened
the book, turned the pages, saw
her name. It was indeed her name,
but she was not the person who bore
that name when I wrote the book.

Rainbow

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Rainbow

I dreamed last night
that angels lofted me
skywards and wrapped me
in cotton-wool clouds.

The nearest rainbow
was a helter-skelter
that returned me to earth
where I landed in a pot
of golden sunlight.

Red, gold, and yellow
were my hands and face.
I stood rooted like
an autumn tree covered
in fall foliage with
no trace of winter’s woe.

“May this moment last
forever,” I murmured,
as the rainbow sparkled
and I rejoiced in
my many-colored coat.

Reversing Falls

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Reversing Falls
Saint John, NB

Quietly, the tide turns,
holds back the river’s flow,
pushes fresh waters
backwards, holds them up
against their will.
The river builds and gains
in strength. The tide water
weakens, its muscles can
no longer support
the river’s weight. The tide
ebbs, flows out of the bay,
slowly at first, then with
ever quickening steps.
The river grows strong,
pushes back against the tide
and renews its seaward flow.

Comment: Just back from Saint John, New Brunswick and the WordSpring meeting of the Writers’ Federation of New Brunswick (WFNB): theme … Finding Your Voice. I gave two seminars, one on Friday night (30 participants) about choosing your text for a literary reading and the other on Saturday afternoon (25 participants) about meeting your metaphor and finding your voice. I had a great time and I hope the other participants did too. We finished the Saturday afternoon seminar with a sing-song, so I guess a good time was had by all. Oh yes, and I did a Blue Pencil Café and several one-on-ones that were wonderful. I attended some very fine sessions, too, heard some great people read, play the piano, and sing. Oh yes, the hospitality and food in the Harbour Hilton was excellent. It was a fabulous weekend and I would like to give a big thank you to all who made it possible, especially my guide, the poet Annette, and the chief organizers, Andrea, Cathy, Gwen, and Rosalyn. If I have missed anyone out, forgive me. The omission is by accident, not design.

It’s Over

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It’s Over

The big top’s empty now.
The crowd’s gone home.
The trainer’s put down his whip
and lions and tigers are safely
asleep back in their cages.
Dim are lime and spotlights.
Yellow glow caravan windows
as juggler and clowns wipe
clean their grease paint smiles,
strip off their sequined clothes,
and prepare for bed. One by one,
the lights go out until darkness
rules menagerie and circus.
Only in the heads of little boys
and girls do the dancers still dance,
the ponies still prance, the tamers
still crack their whips and hold up
their chairs to keep wild animals
glued to their perches, while high
above, in the bedroom’s canvas roof
wire walkers strut their stuff, above
white sheets and the safety nets
of Teddy clutched, and mattress.

Going Pro Versus Going It Alone

Wednesday Workshop: It’s a pleasure to re-blog this post from Meg Sorick on Beta Readers and the Art of Editing.

Meg's avatarMeg Sorick, Author/Artist

Adventures in editing.

As I begin editing Breaking Bread, I can’t help but think about how I fumbled through the process with Book One: Three Empty Frames. As a first time, unpublished author, I didn’t feel I had the luxury of hiring a professional editor. Professional editing can get expensive. Depending on the length of your document and the level of editing you choose, it can cost several hundred to several thousand dollars. And though I knew an editor could take a good manuscript and make it great, I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Nevertheless, I wasn’t so naive as to think I could do this alone. I had to get objective feedback before I published the book. Sure I loved the story, the couple of friends I let read it were enthusiastic about it too. But kind words from a few people close to me were not going…

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Ticks

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Ticks

Ticks, as a student, are never to be feared.
They are good for you,
mark your rites of passage,
never catch on your skin
or bite into your beard.

Ticks in the woods creep and crawl,
people really don’t like them at all.
They fall and they climb,
bring diseases like Lyme.

Leeches are bad and suck at your blood.
They swell up with your juices
as you well knew they would.
But leeches don’t kill, as tick bites might.
So get out your tweezers and squish ticks on sight.

Comment: Ticks are about. Watch out for them and be very careful with them. Announcement on CBC Radio, 19 May 2017.

Weird

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Weird

Weird these words
dropping in inky
drops from pen end
poised above paper:
a variety of poses.

Not for me the key
-board’s voluminous
vocabulary, nor the tap,
tap, tap, fingers on lap
top to search for a word,
an idea, a distraction
just a tap away.

For me, the slow flow
of thought, the clumping
together of the mind’s
pretty litter of ideas
milked slowly, one by
one from a cornucopia:
happy creativity.

Triumphs

 

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Triumphs

Now is the time of minor triumphs:
waking to birdsong in the morning,
making it safely to the bathroom,
shaving without cutting my face,
getting in and out of the shower
with neither a slip nor a fall,
drying those parts of the body
that are now so difficult to reach,
especially between my far-off toes,
pulling my shirt over sticky patches
still damp from the shower,
negotiating each leg of my pants,
tugging the pulleys that permit
my socks to glide onto my feet,
forcing my feet into my shoes,
hobbling to the top of the stairs
and lurching down them, left
then right, one step at a time …

Bears

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BEARS

Think of pink salmon caught in pools,
plucked from water, tossed to air,
the catch stacked rainbow‑fired.

Winter now:
unsnubbable, lumbering overcoats
closeted, laid to rest;
seeking power in hibernation
till sun from summit melts frosty dark:
fresh heartbeats forged in forest’s night.

Think alchemy:
prime matter moved safely in flask or jar.

Think circus stars:
The Great Bear leads the Lesser,
dancing to the trainer’s whip,
tumbling from their pedestals.

Secure behind bars,
think fallen stars.