Category Archives: Poetry
Night’s blanket has been pulled to reveal a faint light
The Morning call rings out
Demanding that we push our dreams
Aside and attend to the business of living: lunch to make, messages to check, meetings to attend, bills to pay
Bodies move methodically in their daily tasks
Cars are warmed for the daily commute, busses filled
But somewhere between home and the place you will live most of your life there is calm-
A silent ululation
The day reveals a silent gift
The trees have been brushed with frozen water
They glisten like crystal
Setting an etherial glow to an otherwise normal morning
The hands are awkward
Determination of spirit keeps them moving
Patience soothes frustration
In the journey of beginning
The hands are cracked and the body aches
I am the old woman
Lost to dreams
Had my chance.
He seemed like a gift- unknown in my innocence.
Too soon domesticity became my God.
Four children followed three.
The silver moon never shines for me
It is over
The floors are dirty
Another child grows
Nothing to do but brood.
Blamed for my sex
Loving each wet face that is pulled from my body
Assured that they will be entrusted to me; penniless and alone
Only to be ripped from my embrace too soon to feel the imprint of my love.
Five children followed four.
And I become a symbol
Of cruelty- of anger- mother.
Please give me hope:
Show me the colour in the morning
The light in the day
The stars in the sky
So I might not dwell on
Mirror (Sylvia Plath)
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful—
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Cutting up onions makes me cry
So I bought plastic glasses
It doesn’t help
When a father’s grief echoes in my own heart
His child in grade one
One of twenty-six to die
He thanks the world for their support
Mourning his daughter
Extending an olive branch to the family of the shooter