Take me there

Take me to where the tall grass grows
for miles and miles
from the dusty earth
to the tilting sky
in the blue
of a prarie
stretched out farther than my eye can see
Take me to that place
where nothing is noisy, is busy, is lazy
where the world works as a clockwork engine
up and down, round and round like a carousel
each person with a place and a pace and a job to get done
that place in which no one races the setting sun
and everything is finished by the time the ball drops
Take me far from the city
to a place where no one is concerned with just how many more stories
we can put on a high rise
we can tell to make us sound interesting
we can fit into an already jam-packed high-action movie
Take me to the place where the people still have time
to talk about life and love and why in peace
where no one is concerned with winning
or making it big
or making it anywhere
beyond making it right
and making it beautiful
and peaceful
Take me to a place where pretension doesn't reign from a gilt-golden throne
where no one wears a mask
to hide themselves from themselves
first and foremost
Take me there,
take me back
before we were civilized
before we were enculturated
into this monstrous thing
we call the modern world
this disgusting
appalling
ridiculous
daunting
painful
and wasteful
unreasonable
vicious
spiteful
uncaring
stone-cold
and cruel
thing we call advanced and improved
the modern world.

Drifting

out at sea
in a bucket
somewhere between
here and there
near and far
I sleep.
somewhere between
at peace and at ease
I am
now
drifting dangerously
much too close
I lie amidst
the place I've been
and where I am going
a bright new future
adrift
a raft
where
am I going
what shall I be
once I drift to shore
drifting
somewhere between
awake and asleep
one morning
I wrote
a poem
so beautiful
so true
defining my life
in a nutshell
but the way things go
is that you never remember
the things you realize while drifting
so much for profundity
so much for originality
we are only dreamers
adrift in the sea
of thought.

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.

The apologetic of being

For a day

I lived

for a day

I laughed

for a day

I loved

for a day

I knew

for a day

I was

and for a day

I will be

A part of me

is crying

is dying

is loving

is leaving

is living

is giving

is smiling

is laughing

is here

is there

is now

is later

is believing

is knowing

is thinking

is dreaming

is dancing

is being

is being

is being

is being

is being

for a day 

I was

and for a day

I will be

in a world

caught up

in doing something

in being someone

I'll be

be

be

For Alex, the way I recall him

I love you

I know.

it’s crazy and weird and you’re beautiful

and perfect and strange

and I love you.

for the way you curl your toes over the edge of the sidewalk

and the way you brush the hair away from your lips

and for the way you dance when you think no one is watching

on the corner of the street with your headphones on.

I love your smile

the way you laugh

the way you look at the sky

when you think it might rain.

I love your nose

the way it wrinkles

when you hear a good joke.

I love your eyes

the way they always seem so happy

even when you aren’t

I love you because you think you might be gay

I love you because you deny it so vehemently

I love you because you’re afraid and it’s beautiful.

you’re beautiful

and you don’t even know it.

I love you

I know

you couldn't understand it if you tried

because you've never seen yourself as lovable

it's sad

because you're so wonderful

and you

like everyone

deserve to know that you're loved.

She's a good girl

somewhere deep down inside her soul
she knows it
she thinks
but on this tuesday morning
the ground wet with dew
and the sky blue with a disapproving glare for the solitary runner
she can't quite believe it
she's something evil
something wild
and her feet pound the earth with the force just right
to force it out of her
send it showering into the sky through the tips of her hair
she hopes
but honestly
she knows
that she doesn't fit in a stained glass housefilled with stained glass light
in the shade of a steeple
where the pastor preaches love
and the people see evil behind every mask and corner
because if they knew her, they'd hate her
without a second thought
but it's dangerous to think like that
because she isn't there for the people.
she's there for the one who loves her
and wants her
thinking about the people is enough to send her running
back to the proud and the shackled
to laugh, and cuss, and drink, and smoke
and kiss the one whose heart she broke
again
it's dangerous to think like that
because she tells herself
she'll strive to be
the good girl she isn't
she'll try.

She sat in the forest

till leaves fell from her clothing

and the ends of her hair whipped up into vines

her hands rooted themselves to the powdery earth

and she slept like a tree in the winter

the willows grew around her

the years flew by like seconds

the dawning sun of each morning blending into twilight grey

the dew falling on her silvery shoulders

painting the grass and dirt

with starlight

birds nested in the crooks of her elbows

mice nestled in the folds of her eyes

the forest moved subtly

with each passing moment

alive and solemn and still

growing

as only a forest can

the sun danced through the gaps in the leaves

pine-cones fell to the springy earthy ground

the moon gazed upon the night

like a watchman from a tower

noticing each detail as a world of its own

the girl in the forest sat

a living, breathing thing

with a place in creation

of her own

then she awoke

and the scales fell from her eyes

and the binds from her wrists

the gag from her mouth

and she realized what we’ve missed

in the cities

and the suburbs

and the computerized

robotified 

lives we lead.

A librarian maybe

or a cinematographer

maybe a poet

or a midnight photographer

a conductor of trams?

or a sec'er'atary

a writer

a reader

collector of words.

a musician 

a busker

or maybe an actress

a woman with flair to be sure.

perhaps just a lady

who works in fact'ry

and spends the night trav'ling vicar'sly through books.

a wife

a mother

a lover 

a friend

a short order chef,

or coffee maker

the crazy lady who plays pretend

the designated cookie-baker.

a zoo-ologist traveling far away,

the one to arrange the set for a play
a visitor to the renaissance faire
a drifter who's always on the go
from ocean to mountain laden with snow.

a woman with flair

a woman with flair to be sure.