apparently the colour of magic
is an explosion of ultraviolet light
a luminous and deeply purple glow
in the presence of wizardry
but I know the colour of enchantment
is composed of lamplight and milky tea
a cream afghan and the black and white
of printed text
Thanks to Terry Pratchett for deciding magic has a colour. :]
it was cold that night
ancient stones bled the bitterness
of a ruin abandoned 400 years ago
but I remember being mesmerized
by the night sky
watching the dance
from a 150 feet closer to the stars
a memorial to war, this monument
holds all the grief
of those now silent
unable to remember
this grey green tower guards
the beauty of insignificant lives.
their memory lives
in the names etched on this monument
in the wreaths left to guard
against forgetfulness, a grief
worse than to remember
all these silent
why are you silent
are there too many lives
here to remember
too many similar monuments
all pointing to the same grief
all statues in the same guard
but this is why they stand guard
refuse to be silent
or to give up their grief
all of these lives
matter, even if it is only the monuments
that continue to remember
they call us to remember
to join their guard
as living monuments
no longer silent
about the memory that lives
the necessity of grief
there is deep grief
in those who still remember
their pain lives
carefully guarded
often silent
made visible in this monument
here stands a monument to grief
though silent, it remembers
and guards forgotten lives.
p.s. You can find a picture of this monument here.
the Bateman’s pug, Beanie, was always my favourite
she and the black lab lived next door
that summer their owners were gone
and we got to pretend to have a dog for awhile
one Christmas Sunshine came to stay
only he spent most of the day sleeping
and smelled as old as he was
the fireworks New Year’s Eve made him panic
when I was ten
I bought an encyclopedia of dogs
memorized all the breeds
and gloated over my favourites for weeks
by then I’d decided on big dogs
little ones were yappy, unimpressive
but lately the superiority of pugs
has reasserted itself
someday, I’ll have one
(named Beastly)
I have Dad’s green eyes
and the sweet tooth from Grandpa
Mom shows up in my cheekbones
and someday Grandma will leave her legacy in my laugh lines
but where does my soul come from?
is there some genetic map
highlighting trace elements of other incarnations
pointing down through generations
to place me here
at the crossroads of mystery and certainty
or is its origin unknown
and only my body bears witness to history
p.s. April is National Poetry month, so I’m participating in the Poem A Day Challenge hosted by Robert Lee Brewer at Poetic Asides.
Manitoba meant Falcon Lake
enjoying cousins and Grandma’s pies
while hating mosquitoes and the flatness
that continued on into Sasketchewan
Sasketchewan meant Dad’s college roommate
reading our books in the back seat past endless canola fields
ignoring the admonition to, “look out the window, kids!”
on the way to Alberta
Alberta meant Three Hills
Lacombe, Red Deer and Calgary in quick succession
before the adventure of the Rockies
took us to B.C.
B.C. meant the Tompkins
drinking pink lemonade and sleeping out under the stars
being spoiled by another set of grandparents
before it was time to fly home
sometimes lunch was just perfect
Mom’s whole-wheat buns
fat, round, homemade shapes with a slice of gouda
and crunchy cornichons carved very thin
over the layer of sweet, unsalted butter
faspa was always the best part of family gatherings
our Mennonite heritage spelled out in rollkuchen and watermelon
platters of cheese accompanying the jars of jam
with fresh white dinner rolls still warm from the oven
birthday breakfasts meant brezel from the bakery
soft, chewy dough eaten plain or fancy
cream cheese with blackberry jam
chewed very slowly to make every bite last
this daily bread
still better than a banquet
if this were a bedtime story
I would leave out the brother who murdered
and the one that raped
if this were a bedtime story
I wouldn’t include a father sacrificing his daughter
or a husband killed for his wife
if this were a bedtime story
I would skip over the helplessness, hopelessness
and the misguided dreams of humanity
if this were a bedtime story
there would be no confusion, uncertainty
faith would be easy
but it isn’t a bedtime story
and we are growing up
God came over to play one day
we raced outside yelling “last one
through the door is a slowpoke!”
and trying not to trip over our badly
tied shoelaces
I won (but God didn’t mind)
“lets build a fort”
old bricks and the loose bars
off the little wooden gate
dense bushes and a few buckets
to sit on
became a medieval castle
God wanted to be the jester
so I got to be Queen
and when we got tired
of ruling our kingdom
we rolled down the hill
at the end of the garden
careful to avoid the stream
screaming with laughter
when one of us came too close
I made daisy chains
and God blew dandelion seeds
into the wind
sneezing every once in awhile
when one tickled his nose
and then it was time
for God to go home
but I didn’t mind
because I was going
to play at her house tomorrow.
I am very small
unwilling to come out
from under the covers
I can taste fear
fresh and pungent
anxiety whispers cautious threats
and in the darkness
I am all alone
what happens next?
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