We’ve moved to the suburbs;
evening walks are filled
with the silhouettes of tall trees
against the darkening sky,
their simple elegance poignant enough
to make me want to paint them.
As we walk along the winding sidewalks
and down the forest-lined road,
we are surrounded by the smell
of summer blackberries
bountiful enough to make me 12 again—
a grinning girl in cut-off jeans
licking her berry-stained fingers
and rejoicing in being
at home in this world.
There was another year of Covid,
but we crawled out of our caves
like newborn butterflies with sticky wings,
slow and hesitant in the spring sunshine.
We hoped to migrate to a new home
of our own, a fresh start…
but the inheritance was not enough.
Nevertheless the landlord said, “Go.”
A flutter of wings, a flurry,
a tiny hurricane of stress,
and searching, searching, searching
for a safe place to land.
A flying in the dark
—a trusting through blindness—
through not knowing at all
what was meant to be.
The summer sun swelled with heat
yet no shady dale
or safe valley dappled with sunshine
appeared—until it did.
And then it did.
Out of the concrete embrace
of the city we flew,
away from sirens and cement
towards the cedars and starlight.
Towards wind whispering in the fir trees,
the moon staring at me on my patio
and winking as I grin and grin
at the wonder of my new home.
And evenings filled with sunshine
sparkling in the sprinkler-kissed grasses
of the wildflower field
that is my unmowed back yard.
And glistening on the rosy skin
of my newborn daughter,
sleeping like a little wild nymph
in my joyful arms.
“And all is well
And all is well
And all manner of things
shall be well.”
Julian of Norwich
Tears for the fallen
Gather like crystal dew drops
Painful yet precious
A witch’s children seldom sleep;
they stay up in their rooms
conjuring up mythical lands,
building kingdoms and castles,
✨
or run through the house—
all wide-eyed wildness
once the full moon comes up,
and mirrors itself in their round, blue eyes.
✨
They dance, cackle and fly about the room
until a crash into the wall—or each other—
signals the doom-bell of bedtime.
✨
The later the louder;
the more tired the more terrible,
until their witch-mother’s exasperated hair
shoots out in all directions like flames.
✨
Finally, she has to resort to softly chanting spells
to soothe her tiny witches and warlocks to sleep.
✨
When their dark lashes lay on their cheeks at last,
they almost look like ordinary children,
but the witch grins to herself…
she knows better!
✨✨✨
Here’s another poem about my Dad from this summer, written in early July.
The Simplest Things
It’s been nearly eight months
but the simplest things can still set me off,
like dumping out Suzie’s Spicy Brown Mustard,
which I took out of your fridge after you died
and kept as long as possible
(even long after it expired)
just because I didn’t want to let any piece of you go—
anything that smelled like lunch with you, Dad,
like you visiting,
like you smiling at me from across the table,
and it being the best day ever
because you were there.
Until my October Garden post not long ago, I hadn’t written on my blog for so long. It is not that I stopped writing, but that I stopped sharing. Sorting through my Dad’s belongings this past summer while I cleaned out his apartment, I was at times overwhelmed with memories, longings and regrets. I read over old letters and cards I wrote him as a child. He saved every one in a special folder, “Anna.” Every one since since before I could spell Daddy.
The pain of having lost so much time with him as a child after the divorce, and while living overseas in Holland as a teenager, resurfaced. I didn’t want to talk about it, because I didn’t want to hurt my Mum, but silence is suffocating, at least for me. I need to let things out to let them go.
I did pour that pain into poetry, and as my Dad’s one year of passing approaches on November 9th, I am going to share some with you again.
Since losing a baby 7 years ago in labour, and losing my Dad last year to cancer, I have written a lot of poetry about grief. I wonder if this bothers some people in our “get over it and on with it” society. Am I that weird lady who always writes about death?
At the core of it though, I realize I am ultimately writing about love—because love is what connects us beyond death. Grieving is not being stuck in the past, but honouring the fact that parts of your heart have gone ahead to the future, leaving holes until you are reunited.
All we can hope is that the holes will make our hearts bigger, and let the light shine through from those we love, who are already bathed in heavenly peace. If this is all too cheesy and cliché, that’s just too bad. I am tired of not sharing. So with no more fuss, here is one of my poems from this summer:
1 July, 2021
I am sitting in the living room
folding laundry when I find a sudden sign of you
I inhale your familiar scent
lingering beyond the grave in your soft pillow case
I crumple and hide my face in it
faded and butter-soft from oh so many washing’s
I think of your quiet gentleness
your simplicity, poverty, and deep love of peace
I remember your arms around me
my eyes closed, my face resting against your shirt buttons
I breathe in deeply and the pain swells
my heart bursting with the bittersweet scent of you, Dad
Since the baby came certain things are on pause—
it’s hard to find time to write, to think,
to grieve, to pray
except through my body as I rock and sway,
rock and sway my little one to sleep.
Other things are going fast-forward—
there’s no stopping kids growing,
squabbling, questioning everything
and making messes everywhere I look.
In the anxious moments of early morning,
my mind tries to rewind,
to second-guess and over-analyze
but there’s no going back.
What I’m forgetting
as I grasp for control
and it slips like sand though my fingers
is the one button I need to press:
Play.
Play right now, as things are
in the mess and chaos of my 8 kids
doing silly dances and laughing,
finding a moment of togetherness.
Be right now—
allow myself to have a moment alone
walking under the cherry blossoms—
stopping to listen to the hummingbird
who sings above me
pointing it’s tiny beak heavenward,
little messenger of my Dad.
Embrace right now with its little inspirations to
to snuggle my down-soft baby
and write an imperfect poem,
unpausing my frozen voice which felt
unable to speak
unworthy of being heard
afraid to crack open bitter walls of strength
and cry.
Just press play.
One little baby awake…
Just the two of us here in the dark.
My lil’ hot potato, only three weeks old,
Groovin to Al green at four am in Mama’s arms.
I hope you’ll be back asleep before five,
Cause I’ve been asleep for less than six hours
And I’ve got to get up at seven.
Deep-throated daffodil,
blast out your message of hope!
Rebel against the weariness of despair,
the back-breaking burden of seriousness,
the meticulous dissection of fearful plans.
Daffodil, shout!
None of the world’s noise is loud enough
to silence the sound of your wordless proclamation:
“Have hope, hope, hope!”
The grimy winter is grinding to a halt
and from the earth’s breast,
goodness is springing forth once again.
A world of grey is shattered
by one shard of green and yellow life.
My blog has been rather serious lately, so I decided it’s time for a laugh. What better way, when up with pregnancy heartburn and insomnia, than to write a spoof of a Johnny Cash country song? When you’re seven months pregnant and can’t sleep, you get to do stuff like that—it says so in the manual, pg 136. (What manual?? This girl is making stuff up…)
So put on your cowboy hats, strum your imaginary guitars, and enjoy…and if you’re up with heartburn, too, just pretend your TUMS are marshmallows…
🔥 Burning Ring of Fire 🔥
Heartburn’s a burning thing
And it makes a fiery ring
Round and full of gas
I am a pregnant lass
🔥
I lay down and a burning ring of fire
Shoots up my throat like an electric wire
And it burns burns burns
That ring of fire
I am on fire
🔥
I lay down and a burning ring of fire
Shoots up my throat like an electric wire
And it burns burns burns
That ring of fire
I am on fire
🔥
The taste of love is sweet
But it keeps me on my feet
I lay down like a sleepy child
Oh, but the fire went wild
🔥
I lay down and a burning ring of fire
Shoots up my throat like an electric wire
And it burns burns burns
That ring of fire
I am on fire
🔥 🔥 🔥
Just East Of Crazy Land 