I wrote this awhile ago- reflections of a bird

This cage is a curious thing
The bars are made of gold
in the corner sits a velvet cushion
waiting on me
sometimes I feel like I'm outside
Looking inside
at myself
in this cage
Alone.

This cage is a curious thing
sometimes I feel like I'm free
And then
Out of the corner of my eye
I glimpse the golden glint
the bars
surrounding me
no rescue in sight
Alone.

This cage is a curious thing
Sometimes it feels like home
But then I remember
What freedom felt like
I was alive, once
Alive
I was happy
but now, nothing
save gold bars
And me.

I still wonder

what you think of

whenever

you close your eyes

I hope you think of me

every once and a while

I hope you dream of me

I hope I make you smile

sometimes
And once again 
I am cursed by the wonder

the wondering

the wandering

do you care

the way I do

the way I want you to

the way you tell me to

do you care

do you love

do you think

do you wander

are you cursed

by the wonder

the wondering

the wandering

too?

do you stay up late

some lonesome nights

and stare out the window

at the stars above

wishing

and wondering

that and if

someone might love you too

I honestly hope

and I honestly wonder

that and if

you are cursed by this longing

too.

Something more to life than neo-pseudo-hipsterdom?

*bear with me, here comes some truly terrible poetry.  Don't hate me though,  after spending all morning brushing up on my rhetoric skills I was tempted to write an ode to parentheses.*

Sighing softly, in the afternoon, Helen poured herself another cuppa tea
Rearranging her face in the microwave window
there must be something more to life than this
sitting by the computer
typing out a paper
staring at the golfing green across the path
removing onions from chilled soup
with a pair of broken, faded, jaded chopsticks
there must be something more to life than this
blowing roiling steam
off a mug heated to high
reading an theatrical, esoterical, Socratical debate
why was Meno such an idiot?
and why am I such a judgemental, neo-pseudo-hipster?
there must be something more to life than this
there must be something more to life than this
I bet there is
beyond computers, paper bags, skyscrapers
on the other side of the fence
which none of us will ever reach
when we realize life isn't about what we are doing
what we call ourselves
what we think of the world
and each other
perhaps we will see
that there is something more to life than this
than us
something more to life than us, than this.

Canada, writes?

So, the Canada Writes short story contest (CBC) is open for entry.  I don't really know if I should enter or not- what I do know is that I want to.  I'm also tempted to enter something (poetry or prose, poetry or prose?) for the Vancouver International Writer's Festival, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to go out on a limb like that.  I'd like to though, and that's what it comes down to, isn't it?  Is it?

It’s been awhile

since we last met

on winding streets

in run down cafes

travelling the world

on our greyhound buses

it’s been awhile

since I’ve seen your face

and heard your laugh

but that’s the thing

about wandering friends

you don’t see them often

but when your paths cross

everything seems to fall into place

it's been awhile

since I've heard your voice

but I've got it in a recorder

inside my head

it's never been lost

and I'm never lost either

with it with me

like this.

it's been awhile

since I've read a letter

with just your name

in the return address spot

because you know

people like us

we never stay in the same place

for long.

it's been awhile

since we last met

in a bar

or a restaraunt

late at night

it's been awhile

since we shared a joke

about things we remembered

from before.

but that's the thing

about wandering fiends

you don't see them often

but when your paths cross

everything falls into place.