beating, battered and bruised her forlorn longing is not lost upon us despite splotches black and blue collected over years of affliction lol carrying on, day by day in an exasperated, and anguished type of way her incessant thumping, never halting, regardless of the purple & green that shapes mountains and valleys along her contoured
the snow is refracting the sun’s rays with an indistinct yellow aura – shades of blues and greens surround me as i walk through these woods block happy little trees dance in the breeze and i long to feel as free as these tiny specs floating through the air as the weight of the snow
we all need a reasona quantification of joy and sufferinga futile effort to veil our desolationperpetuated by our virulent fear of all unknown circumvent the unknownexist in the futurebecome like that of the futurenothing but mereconcept a concept died todaythere was no mourningupon its death it ultimately displayed vitalityas life in abundanceflourished from decomposition I
I got the material from a grandmothernot my grandmother, but a womanshe had borne childrenthey had borne childrenthere was a general striding of time that was appropriate to christen the cloth to make it deep with winter, spring, summer, Death to make the threadsto thread the threadsto ply the threadsto twine the threads with the
If you consider how many bears and humans are scattered across the north of Canada, it is incredible how few encounters there are between them. Despite this, I have had a few memorable encounters. The Scotland that I grew up in had no large wild animals such as tigers, lions, elephants or bears, so my
Bare rail bed, where tracks used to runcarrying ore and dreams of wealthnorth to Slocanbefore heading to the smelter in Revelstoke.The push for expansiona railroad rushing past homesteads in the lush valleypast lonely, wild places deep in the mountains. The path disappears into bright trees far ahead of me.An autumn sun, deliciously hot on my
If you don’t know the work of Susan Andrews Grace, writer, artist, teacher, it’s a good time to discover a poet and a visual artist who has accomplished a significant body of work. Hypatia’s Wake is Susan Andrews Grace’s sixth book of poetry. Author Sylvia Legris has described Grace’s poetry as “…fiercely intelligent with biting
It’s clear we can’t agree On the past, the present and how we came to be Our pain of not being recognized Hurts our decency So we treat one another With complacency space My parents come from war torn countries They didn’t want to leave their homelands, culture, family or friends They left for a
Along the cool sidewalk it crawls across frigid pavement wandering around in this late fall an October caterpillar with no expectations born too late an early expiration space Yet it goes on as if at the dawn of life not worrying of the dire future it simply lives on eats, loves, crawls its bliss is
the simple way we fit together interlocking with the shy mocking femme fatale – You’re butter on a poppyseed bagel or coasters on the coffee table my very own sea raven. you’re gin and tonic on a parching summer’s day a perfectly aged cabernet a prepossessing paramour. heavens sent celestial animation saved me by resuscitation
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