#NaPoWriMo - day twenty two

30% of people think reading regularly makes them better than others.
30% of people can flare their nostrils.
30% of people have two jobs.
30% of people don’t use bar soap.
30% of people will love you.
30% of people think most people can be trusted.
30% of people eat candy nearly every day.
30% of people believe they will live to a hundred.
30% of people have experienced some form of abuse.
30% of people lie about how much they give to charities.
30% of people are highly sensitive.
30% of people are overweight.
30% of people have snooped through someone’s desk.
30% of people are nervous to go out alone.
30% of people will decline to attend a wedding.
30% of people have dated a roommate.
30% of people will hate you.
30% of people have never been to a drive-in theatre.
30% of people will be replaced by AI.
30% of people have never built a snowman.
30% of people do not want to have children.
30% of people distrust science.
30% of people say they don’t know how to make friends.
30% of people leave something behind on vacation.
30% of people admit to running a red light.
30% of people don’t know how to drive.
30% of people don’t believe in God.
30% of people say they have never felt more alone.
30% of people think they’re great at small talk.
30% of people won’t cut and paste this.

#NaPoWriMo - day twenty one

I miss Prince.
I never saw him play live,
though friends and family have.
I admit to no small amount of jealousy.
I missed him here in Edmonton.
I would have loved
to see him play: Purple Rain, of course,
Controversy, The Cross, Kiss,
The Ballad of Dorothy Parker,
Starfish and Coffee…
but I really would have loved
to play basketball with him.
Something more personal,
intimate, human than a concert.
Pick and roll, fast break,
orchestrate. Defend, attack.
Set a screen. High five.
With or without heels.
 
And then pancakes.
Lots of pancakes.

#NaPoWriMo - day twenty

Dear Ms. Smith. Miss Smith? Mrs. Smith?
I only know you as poet, Patricia.
I’m reading The Intentions of Thunder
and I’m pummelled. Pummelled.
 
I’m drawn in by the language while
also distanced from it. I discover
how white I am. And Canadian.
I’m trying to hear the chorus.
 
How can a poem be so deeply rooted.
How does the voice move around
from body to body. Poetic forms
structure the narrative. Declare:
 
How poetry is always a witness.
What are we looking for. What
are you looking at. Are you looking.
How can you bear it. How long.

#NaPoWriMo - day nineteen

And has the weather finally turned?
At what point do we pull out
the spring jackets and summer shoes?
When do we pack up winter coats,
heavy boots, mittens and scarves?
 
I do not trust the vicissitudes
of wind and sun and cloud
any more than I trust fashion.
 
I can dress in layers but
there is always too much too wear,
and what changes if you drive your car
or take public transit or ride your bike?
Then how big a bag, backpack or satchel?
 
The morning is bright and sunny
(though chilly), the afternoon windy,
and the evening humid and warm.
 
“For everything there is a season”
and I’m done trying to reason it out.
Everything keeps changing –
wait five minutes they say –
but I’ve been waiting for years.

#NaPoWriMo - day eighteen

They came mostly from the rift lakes:
Malawi, Tanganyika, Victoria: Angels,
Compressiceps, Peacocks, Frontosa, Oscars.
 
In the afternoons, after Drama classes,
we’d get high and sit in the basement
watching them, feeding them, breeding.
 
O, the drama! Each fish establishing
its territory, invisible borders shifting;
colours flaring or dimming, depending.
 
They were so beautiful. And every day
after Drama class we’d get high
and sit in the basement watching them.
 
Encased by three walls of aquaria,
each requiring constant cleaning, monitoring,
exchanging water. Separating fish.
 
Each time I left the basement –
(and emerged sleepily into the light)
I’d wonder where the time went.
 
But it was time well spent,
that time with friends, getting high
on beauty, all that watching, all that drama.