Now that I am back home,
there are still the birds
and the sky,
the sunshine on green leaves
and the fresh morning air
on my face
when I first step outside
to water the garden,
trying to make of my little home
a dwelling place of beauty and love.
Category: Poetry
It Is Worth It
It is worth it to stay up half the night
to see the misty moon
disappear and re-emerge behind the scattered clouds
that drift like silver ribbons across the sky.
It is worth it to peer up at the quiet stars
and hear above the faint roar of a few cars
on the highway far below
the gentle hoot of an owl.
It is worth it so see the silhouette of trees
standing like living paintbrushes
solemn and still
against the pearly grey night sky.
It it worth it to feel the summer air
on my skin at midnight
and know that the goosebumps
are more from awe
than the slight cool of the breeze.
It is worth it to stay up half the night
to be in love with the ever-changing sky
and write it poetry.
Creation is so beautiful—
my heart is bursting with it!
Can anyone feel so happy as I am
alone with the moon,
in the company of memories?
Ballad of the Pirate Bard
I am a pirate and I do not sleep!
I thief night jewels for me to keep.
My Lady with her treasures bold
is generous when the wee hours wax old.
The words upon her golden tongue
are by the midnight spirits sung.
I catch the songs in my jolly heart,
then bursting full I do depart,
‘n sail away to the break of day
to spread her tales far and away!
I am a pirate and I do not sleep,
my treasure is the tears you weep,
my prize is the laughter in your eyes,
for Insomnia’s bedfellow is a pirate wise.
sleep deprivation and my pirate pjs! 🌴
Back-Alley Beauty
In this time
when my heart is breaking
from so much pain in the world
I’ve been choking on silence
not knowing what to say
I felt that it was a time
for only words weighty with wisdom
words of solemn importance
and sorrow
But maybe in this time
when my heart is breaking
from so much pain in the world
it is precisely the time
to celebrate every bit of happiness
the day affords
To rejoice in each little buttercup
and bouquet of back-alley beauty
my children clutch in eager hands
and bring me while I cook dinner
And to wish and pray
with all my strength
many such simple pleasures
and calm moments of sweetness
upon each precious person
who walks the face of this earth
Recipe for Dying
“Don’t do so much,”
they say,
“You’re taking on too much—
take it easy,
relax.
You’re too busy
to add anything else.
Do less,
sleep more…
don’t push so hard.”
They mean well,
of course,
but to me
all this sounds
like a recipe
for dying.
Easter Sunday, 3 am
It’s Easter Sunday
long before dawn.
The moon lies low in the horizon,
looking slightly harried
from it’s all night vigil.
Across the road,
the forsythia is silent–
it’s bright yellow hues
dampened by the darkness.
The children are sleeping,
except for the toddler,
who briefly wakes
for a bottle, then curls up
and returns to her dreams.
The world does not yet know
that the glorious resurrection
is about to take place–
the silence of Holy Saturday
continues throughout the night.
With Mary, I watch and wait in hope
for the tomb to be unsealed
and Life to burst forth
in triumph.
Stardust
Yesterday, my sweet neighbour’s only daughter died of cancer, leaving behind a loving husband and two little boys. I am so crushed by this news, so in her honour, and in honour of all the many precious people who have recently died, I thought I would share this poem from my book unexpected blossoming: a journey of grief and hope.
As some of you already know, I wrote this book of poetry after losing my baby daughter Josephine. Peace be with all of you who are suffering the loss of loved ones in this crazy time.
Stardust
If it’s true that we are dust
and that from the moment of birth
we are heading towards death,
then are not all our words
like a dying breath—
an exhalation of hope
that our voices will be heard
after we’re gone?
Like the light of stars
shining for years,
sending light across the universe
long after the star has burnt out.
Are we perhaps,
though weak and frail,
yet destined for eternity,
little flurries of stardust?
Gentle Graces
Since I cannot come to church today
I’ll try to find you as I pray.
I’ll see you, my God,
in humble little places–
bejewelled flowers and children’s faces,
things of beauty, gentle graces.
Work Clothes
With coffee-crazed hands
I iron the shirts
I make them smooth
I tremble
I iron the shirts
the ones he wears on the skytrain
to the job he still has
to the office that’s still open
I make them smooth
I tremble
The steam rises up
like incense from my hands
I flatten the hills
make smooth the valleys
make straight his path
I work
I pray
I tremble
Haiku 22
I compulsively
eat chocolate covered cashews
when the stress wave hits
Just East Of Crazy Land 