Sunday Scribblings: Hitched (Or, Tilting at blue skies)

Dear Mom,

Do you remember the flowers you bought me for $1.99, that time you came 

to keep me company after my operation? 

They were so anemic-looking then.

Dried up and weedy, and not a bud in sight.

It was difficult to imagine they'd one day turn beautiful,

but you told me they'd come back, so I believed you.

We planted them in rows, watered them, then had tea on the balcony,

listening to wind in the leaves.

Now, they've hitched themselves to the sun.

Delicate petals of yellow and purple,

tilting at blue skies and fluffy clouds.

I see them and think of you,

even though we are provinces apart.

Sunday Scribblings: The gift

The morning had passed in a blur of bright lights on the TV screen: talk shows, reality shows and canned laughter tracks. Pleasant, numbness distraction, only inches away from the comfort of her bed. All she needed to do was reach out her fingers and change the channel if the numbness got too - mind-numbing.

It was all so effortless.

Until the young girl with the frizzy blond hair interrupted.

"Do you think you might want to try sitting up?" the girl asked innocently.

It seemed like an easy enough task.

Slowly, the athlete rolled onto her side. With every muscle straining, she pushed herself onto her elbow. Then, using every ounce of strength, she pulled herself to sitting.

Focused on breathing deeply and slowly, then placed one foot, then the other into the waiting pink slippers.

"Maybe you want to try walking over to the chair?"

Once again, it seemed like an easy enough task.

Inhaling, she drew together every last ounce of strength, then pushed herself to standing. Shuffled one foot, then the other forward. Her slippers making shushing sounds on the floor; whispered secrets on cracked white linoleum.

Just a few more steps, and she was at the chair -- utilitarian, grey pleather, with hard wooden armrests worn with the palms of others who had rested there before her.

The young woman watched her silently.

Reaching back, she placed her hands on the armrails and winced, lowering into the chair.

It was at that point that the room began to spin. Sparkling lights flashed behind her eyes, and she broke into a cold sweat.

The young woman brought a cold towel from the bathroom, as she closed her eyes and willed the world to stop on its axis.

Five steps from the bed to the chair -- only moments ago, it had seemed so easy. Only weeks ago, she'd run a marathon.

Now, here she sat, having barely been able to walk from bed to chair without passing out.

Suddenly, the new weakness in her body scared her so much, she started to panic.

Placed the cold towel around the back of her neck.

Inhaled, exhaled.

Until the world stopped spinning.

She opened her eyes, and looked at the nurse.

"I'm feeling better now," she reassured.

It would take a few more hours before she'd be able to walk from chair to bed, then bathroom, without feeling like passing out.

Two days after her myomectomy, she is released.

Now, the athlete can't wait until she can run again. With each day,  she looks forward to the moment she can run around the block without pain. Step by step, she feels herself getting stronger.

And she cherishes the gift that good health is; looking forward to the day that she can move from walking to running again.

~ HRG

Sunday Scribblings: The next step

When the gun explodes, her heart flutters in nervous anticipation.

This is the day she has been looking forward to for months. She's trained for this moment and she feels ready. She is proud of herself. As she crosses the line with just over 100 other men and women of all ages, tears of happiness and nervousness forming in the corner of her eyes. She lets out a cheer with others around her, then focuses on the task at hand.

Lady Gaga is singing on her iPod, and she has stored a few hours' worth of songs to accompany her on this journey.

As they file down Main Street, the sun poking between highrises, she wills herself to relax and not start out too strong. Glancing down at her watch, she sees she has started out too fast, so she backs off. The leader she had hoped to follow isn't around, so she simply settles into a comfortable rhythm and tries to be in the moment, not thinking about the next few hours or when she will finish.

They head off the roads and onto the trails, eventually turning into the gravel paths through the marshes. The ground crunches under her shoes as they hit it in a steady rhythm.

Within a few kilometres, she begins to worry that something is not quite right.

Her left achille's tendon has starten to tighten up. Now, her left foot has started to fall asleep. It feels like pins and needles poking through her foot. As though she's running on a stump. Although her foot is asleep, it's strangely painful.

Worry and anxiety begin to gnaw at her mind. She begins to slow down, and more and more of the group begins to pass her by. The confidence and strength she felt only half an hour ago begin to fade away.

Something is wrong.

Should she stop?

Just keep going to the next station. If it's still bad, she can stop there.

Meanwhile, although the sun is rising, she worries that she may not have dressed warmly enough. Her hands are chilled, and her arms. But she tells herself to trust in her preparations. It will get warmer, soon. She hopes.

This isn't the way it was supposed to be. 

Despite the crowds who have gathered on the boardwalk to cheer them on, she feels trapped inside her own mental struggle.

She wants to quit.

The wind rustles through dry cattails beside the path.

Why is she doing this?  

As she passes the halfway mark, suddenly she remembers a Chinese proverb one of her friends had sent her before she set out:

“To get through the hardest journey we need take only one step at a  time, but we must keep on stepping.”

It's then, at the moment where she could have given up and walked back to the start line, that she looks down at the gravel path, takes a deep breath, and takes the next step.

Two and a half hours later, she finishes her first marathon, exhausted and drained. Her husband holds her in his arms, telling her how proud he is.

It will take months for her to come to terms with the fact that she did not meet her initial goals, and to realize that the biggest achievement was in putting her head down and putting one foot in front of the other, when all she wanted to do was quit.

Eventually, she feels pride again for the perseverance that made her take that next step.

~ HRG

Perfect peach pie & sunshine on a balcony

I'll never forget that afternoon
road trip with mom and dad through Niagara on the Lake

sudden discovery of a café
tucked into the front room of quaint clapboard house

I normally choose cake
but that day a slice of peach pie
a pot of tea
sounds lovely

on the wraparound porch, wrought iron tables & chairs
breeze flutters gently
sun warm on arms
bumble bees buzz from flower to flower
legs heavy with pollen
dozy kind of afternoon

fork slicing through pastry
crumbling just right
sweet Ontario peaches
mouthful of golden sunshine
syrupy ooze on porcelain plates

I'll never forget that afternoon

now, ever questing
for the perfect peach pie

~ Ceebie

Nature's bright ideas

 

Sunday Scribblings: December

Here is a poem I wrote a while back that I think is fitting for this theme (although it was written in November :) )

First snowfall

quiet night

seems like only yesterday
tiny spidermen, princesses and ghouls
clamored for candy on our porch
tonight darkness fell so soon
you on the computer, me
watching chick shows
comfortable in the knowledge
you're right
here

commercial break

you wander upstairs

to the windows that frame our door
the one you spent three days painting electric blue
last summer

beckon me over
to watch the world outside
car, trees, driveway, rooftops, last month's pumpkins, darkness blanketed fluffy white
big chunky flakes drifting
softly

quiet night
so quiet
think I hear the snowflakes fall
warm orange glow of streetlights
bright gleam of a neighbour's Christmas lights
two weeks early
we chuckle at his zeal

lean into the checkerboard of your flannel pyjamas
into the circle of your arms,
our house
cozy

together
breathe in the soft crisp whiteness
of the year's first snowfall

~Ceebie

Sunday Scribblings: Guidance

As this week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is "guidance," I was hoping to seek guidance from the group on this poem I wrote last week. It came to me at around 4am and I banged it out, and personally I've felt like it just came together, but I'm curious to hear your thoughts on it. I've also been struggling with the title, so any guidance would be appreciated. Thanks!

Untitled

the thing about poetry is,
once it finds you, it is very hard to let it go

suddenly it is everywhere
in the gush of a blueberry
running hot and purple on your tongue
when all you wanted was pancakes on a quiet morning

it is there at a street corner
in the slant of light through buildings,
the sheen of a puddle,
tugging at your sleeve as you wait for the light to change
it wants to dance a slow tango with you across Quinpool Rd
toying with you
till you want to share it with strangers

in the darkness of 4am
suddenly poetry is there with you in the room
there in the hum of words in the corner behind your right eye
roll them around in your mind like a marble
hear them like a new song played over and over again
can almost taste them, their metallic twinge
poetry is the imp at the bottom of the bed that takes hold of your blanket
tugging at the corner
there in the feverish warmth of the pillow that you flip over and over
searching for a cool spot to rest your cheek on
then when at last you cannot take it anymore
throw open the laptop
its quiet glow on your knuckles, your eyelashes
bang on the keys
words creeping black across the snowy wilderness of an empty page
hoping to stay the rush of words in your head
release the torrent behind your eyes
then

silence

for awhile...

because poetry knows that you'll be back

~ Ceebie

Sunday Scribblings: Antidote

long day at work today hardly came up for a breath
trying to keep up with all the moving pieces
putting out fires better than a fireman
reading through the proofs one last time
finding yet another mistake
another crisis brewing in an email
yet another person wants their copy rewritten
wants to use a new image
someone else worried we've let the delivery date slip
begging, pleading with designer, printer to help me, help us
scramble to keep up with my inbox
placing phonecalls to follow up on a loose thread
mad dash of production before we hit the presses
today gave me a headache, a jaw-ache, neck and back so tense
I am a jumpy ball of caffeinated nerves
funny
I never had a coffee

shut down the laptop
drag tired heels outside
turn the key in the ignition
mind still whirling reeling tumbling
green and orange bars of MacDonald Bridge flip flip flip by car windows
thrum of tires on tarmac over ebony water
BlackBerry message light blinking blinking blinking
buzz buzz of yet another email
barely notice how I made it across to Halifax

drag tired heels through your door
jacket, bag, everything feels so heavy
wait for you to shut things down

you hug me to your chest
plant a kiss in my hair
I can tell by the way your shoulders droop
the tilt of your head
you've had a long day too

but

in a moment, you have me chuckling
smiling
at a silly joke you just said
I make some witty rejoinder
suddenly we're both laughing

you're my perfect antidote to a long day

~ Ceebie

Breakfast at the Armview

breakfast at the Armview
ding ding of kitchen bell as a plate is slid out on the pass
flap flap flap of door on hinges,
fanning cooking smells into the dining room
Lenny Kravitz singing to a cab driver on the radio
slurp and burble of straw at the bottom of a young girl's
glass of milk

outside, the traffic on the Rotary never stops
round and around and around it goes

at the next booth,
family having an early lunch
easy chuckles and chatter on morning off from school
dull gleam of Formica
cracked pleather banquettes
chink of spoon in coffee mug

slow ooze of syrup
melting butter over pancakes
hot burst of purple on tongue

starting to see the world through writing again
a whole poem in a blueberry

First snowfall

quiet night

seems like only yesterday
tiny spidermen, princesses and ghouls
clamored for candy on our porch
tonight darkness fell so soon
you on the computer, me
watching chick shows
comfortable in the knowledge
you're right
here

commercial break

you wander upstairs
to the windows that frame our door
the one you spent three days painting electric blue
last summer

beckon me over
to watch the world outside
car, trees, driveway, rooftops, last month's pumpkins, darkness blanketed fluffy white
big chunky flakes drifting
softly

quiet night
so quiet
think I hear the snowflakes fall
warm orange glow of streetlights
bright gleam of a neighbour's Christmas lights
two weeks early
we chuckle at his zeal

lean into the checkerboard of your flannel pyjamas
into the circle of your arms,
our house
cozy

together
breathe in the soft crisp whiteness
of the year's first snowfall

~ Ceebie

Poetry Thursday

Uncomfortable poetry.

Writing about my family, particularily my dad, has always been uncomfortable for me. Coming from a strict British household where the world "love" was rarely said, but often showed, it was difficult for me to show my dad how much I love him. Even worse was seeing him cry for the first time ever when he dropped me off for my first day of university.

This is one of the first poems I ever wrote where I was able to break down those walls and show him how much I do care for him. I'm just not sure if he's ever read it, or if he would ever feel comfortable reading it...

Daddy's girl

Every morning,
he tames her hair
into two ribboned pigtails.

In the evenings,
pink fuzzy creature,
flurry of fat legs
and shiny Mary Janes
races down the pravement
to greet him home.

His china doll,
he likes to say
sitting tickled in summer grasses.

The day he drops
her off at university,
she knows he can cry.

Poetry Thursday supplement

Ok...I've been thinking about it, and one of the most romantic times of my teenage years was on a first or second date with a boy I was head over heels with... I'd had my eye on him for two years since we were camp counselors at the same camp, but never imagined he'd be interested. Until he asked me out. He used to drive his dad's light brown pickup truck, which for some reason I thought made him soooo cool. And he was hot. Smart. And he was interested in me!

So on this one particular evening, we were driving back from who knows where. Most likely dancing. We did a lot of dancing that summer. He drove us downtown, right across from the harbour at Harbourfront, to an abandoned parking lot. Turned off the ignition. Turned on the cassette deck (now I'm REALLY dating myself). We got out, and danced to "November Rain" by Guns & Roses....Funny how perspective changes everything!

first love

harbourlights twinkle across the way
head on your chest
we slow dance
body leaning into each other
your hands fit so nicely
on the small of my back
hoping you won't feel my heart
beating a mile a minute

breathing in your Drakkar
the guitar twang solo
Guns & Roses, November Rain
blares from the cassette deck
of your dad's brown pickup truck
I left the $3.99 cellophaned roses lying
on vynil seats

this empty parking lot
a perfect backdrop for first love
and a night I'll never forget

Ceebie

Poetry Thursday rough cut

This week's Poetry Thursday prompt is to write about a song or music that inspired you...Although I am a dancer and love music, it's always been more about the beat than the words for me. Then I remember the day my brother and I were going through my parents' LPs and threw on Pink Floyd. I remember thinking "what kind of stuff were my parents ON?" and looking at my brother in mock horrror. In the days of early 90s music, Pink Floyd was an amazing discovery for me...The way the songs bleed into one another...The metaphors that grab you, like the dark side of the moon...The guitar chords that reached deep into me.' In highschool, Pink Floyd became our unofficial mascots - we all sort of spontaneously rediscovered their albums, and they played in the background in the dimly lit basements of our parents' houses at house parties.

The other album which has stuck with me from those days is Harmonium - it's a classic Quebecois folksy kind of band.

Then there was the time when we had our graduation party at someone's parents' barn. It was probably the last time all of us were together as a group. My boyfriend and I had stolen to the loft for a 'moment' and when we came back, I remember my friends sitting around a makeshift table, playing poker, slightly drunk and Dominique singing "ne pleure pas" over and over again in the most monotonous voice. Can't remember who the singer was. All that's stuck in my head is the droning of Dom's voice as he threw down another card, looking as though he was about to cry any minute himself.

Now if only I could turn these thoughts into a poem! Maybe the other great PT writers will inspire me, as they do every week :)

Ceebie

Poetry Thursday

This week's PT prompt is poetry about food. Since this week was my first week at my new job (more about that in a future post), I haven't been particularly creative when I get home. I can say however that for years I had a very ambiguous relationship to food. My family isn't one that is crazy about food, and as a dancer and gymnast I had huge issues with eating for some time (not anorexia, but close enough). It wasn't until I took a cultural production workshop around food in grad school that I began to unpack the other cultural meanings food has for me...One day I may find a poem I wrote for the workshop and post it here, but for now, here is a poem I love by Joy Harjo:

Perhaps the World Ends Here

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what,
we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table so it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe
at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what
it means to be human. We make men at it,
we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts
of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms
around our children. They laugh with us at our poor
fallling-down selves and as we put ourselves back
together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella
in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place
to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate
the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared
our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow.
We pray of suffering and remorse.
We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at th ekitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying,
eating of the last sweet bite.

- Joy Harjo

The gits of earth are brought and prepared, set on the
table