Show some respect.
Now is not the time, never now;
the time was yesterday.
Before.
So hurry, quick –
tomorrow’s shooter is readying.
Talk gun control today
and show some bloody respect for tomorrow’s victims.
Georgian Bay
I want to sit
on the shores of Georgian Bay
Sunny days
calm days or
full of wind and grey
Whitecaps and swells or
waves so sly
you hear the hissing sand complain
as each drop squeezes by
Days in damp suits and clinging sand
my burning soles seeking a place to land
Days with hood tied tight under my chin
Beer-cold water daring me to come in
Sitting and sitting
fingers siftingsifting sand
eyes on horizon
ears tuned to gullsong
Nose seeking sun-baked jack pine
And surprise
When my tongue licks my lips
And there’s no taste of salty sea.
Reflect
There is
no mirror
like a mirror-still river
to make you stop,
just as still,
and reflect.
Pride Day, 2017
Today I’m remembering a long-ago rush-hour subway ride. Settled into our confined spaces, pretending our butts and bits aren’t pressed up against strangers, politely not acknowledging each other’s presence. I gather little bits of awareness: the needles of a woman tatting lace, the huge size of a labourer’s lunch cooler, the Japanese lettering of a rider’s book.
Of a sudden, a switch turns on and I realize the weary middle-aged woman standing in the doorway “is a man.” Continue reading “Pride Day, 2017”
Au printemps
With every blossoming chestnut tree
Je me reviens à la ville de Paris
Strolling behind Nôtre Dame
Une glace Berthillon dans ma main.
Mothering
My Mother’s Day expectations have changed drastically over the years. In the early years, apart from handmade heart-melts from the boys, the pressure was all on my husband.
After we separated, the boys had to be trained to step up. Some years I was pleasantly surprised by breakfast in bed; other years I had to remind them, demanding ANY small token, like a cup of tea or doing dishes without dramatics. Continue reading “Mothering”
Thanksgiving weekend
Thanksgiving weekend. After a day of floating on gratitude for what I have, I’ve become immensely grateful for what I didn’t lose.
The week before Thanksgiving, the boys were all in the zone. My eldest son had a new job supervising others, and he was rising to the occasion. My middle son entered a training program; he was so proud, and leaving early every morning telling me he’s going to work. And my youngest got a glowing update from his school; so three check marks on my gratitude list.
I, Wood
Brisk march down the subway platform
One pulled-back panel of green tile revealing century-old rusty bits,
And one old wooden shim, woodgrain visible under underground grime
Of a sudden, in that glimpse, I’m thrown into its
Tiny beginnings,
Quiet whispers of time,
Years of baked pine-needle-and-soil smell
slowly passing like one perfect summer afternoon;
The boots
The sawmill scream
The sawdust air
The truck
The worker
The saw
The mallet
The muffled roar of time
The glance of a woman who thinks she knows where she’s going.
Mom turns 90
Kathleen was born in 1926. She was the youngest of nine, and had nine children herself. In 2016, at her 90th celebration, I captured a few quotes from those toasting her:
Granddaughter
What a ringleader and matriarch throughout the years! I’m proud to be following in your footsteps, becoming a nurse.
Son-in-law
The most welcoming of matriarchs, through good times and bad.
Niece
Across the entire Cahill clan- it’s profound, the influence you’ve had in all of our lives.
Current events, teen-style
Written in the wake of US police shootings in the summer of 2016.
I just had an interesting conversation with my teenage son, saw how much of this week’s anguish and anger had seeped into his brain.
He’s angry at my generation and beyond for blowing it for so long, letting things get this bad. Fair enough.