Let businessmen wear black
and straight-laced grey faces,
but let poets punctuate
their wardrobes with patterns
that leave lingering traces…
Let bards wear bright flowers
and nice funky hats,
red shoes or loud boots
and snazzy jackets that shout:
“Oh, yeah, that’s right,
you know it—
you guessed it:
I’m a poet!
I’m a walking, talking metaphor—
a symbol in motion and what’s more,
a barrel of books, ready to pour
the golden brew of language
upon your heart’s door.”
Morning comes to the sidewalk. The long green grasses stretch their stalks in front of the grey cobblestone wall behind them. They tilt sideways, holding their pose in an elegant still-life ballet—perfectly confident—adorned with nothing but dewdrops.
The wildgrasses primly hold their brown tuft faces still, ignoring the rush of traffic on the wet pavement a few feet away as they perform their morning yoga.
People trudge by, clinging to their red Tim Horton’s coffee cups, their minds swirling with tasks and unaware of the zen moment occurring near their feet.
Amid the viridescent grasses, the dandelion puffs are tiny white fireworks, exploding with enthusiasm for the new day. Drunk on fresh rainwater, a perfectly organic energy source, the little lions laugh at the Starbucks across the road. No need for a cuppa joe here. They greet the world with bright-eyed grins.
The transformation of their blond manes to bursts of white worries them not a wit. They know nothing of paperwork, or headaches, or housework; nothing of gas prices, or housing markets, or wars.
I want to lie down in the grass with them, the invigorating rain water soaking into my skin. If I shed enough worry, perhaps I’d become light enough to fly away with the dandelion seeds. Perhaps the little spinning helicopters and I could land somewhere softer than the harsh sidewalk under my feet.
It is October. The garden sags under the weight of the year. Leaves wither and curl. Lupins droop and drag their seed pods on the ground. The Earth exposes her belly as the covering of plants dies away. Yet Winter has not yet wrapped her fingers around the life of this place.
Japanese Lanterns hang every few inches, decorating the decay. Along the fence, clusters of flowers bloom. In the lawn, sprinkled with patches of weeds, dandelions hold up their heads to greet the sunshine. Bees still bumble about the garden, resting on the centre of the blossoms before taking off, legs covered in the fairy dust they will use to romance other blooms into existence.
Just beyond the fence, cars whiz by. When the light turns, they idle in front of the house, their drivers unaware of the seasons turning in the garden, moving round and round, tunnelling through time like earthworms, causing everything near them to grow.
This was a little writing exercise I did for a wonderful creative writing course I’m taking with Jonathan Rogers called Writing with Anne of Green Gables . L.M. Montgomery is so talented at painting a visual scene with her words, but surprisingly, doesn’t rely that heavily on adjectives and adverbs. Rather, she uses really vibrant verbs and specific, concrete nouns. For our class we had to describe what we saw outside, but without using adjectives or adverbs. It’s a fun challenge!
And now, since this is my blog and not homework, here are some pictures of my garden! 🪴
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.
Shortly after my Dad died, I bought myself this amazing flower, an Amaryllis Lily. Its bulb is dipped in golden wax and it is self-sustaining. You don’t need to water it or anything. It just keeps blooming…these are the second set of flowers it has produced, after the first ones died off. The resurrecting flower. A sign of hope.
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
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.
Just East Of Crazy Land 