tell me

is there a better way

to spend time with friends

than around a fire

with a glass of good bourbon,

knitting hearts together

or sharing heartache

or listening to songs

that move the soul,

blanketing each other

in grace even in the midst

of fear, or anger,

or uncertainty –

 

what a precious thing

friendship is. and how

fragile. i tremble

at the thought of it,

the weight of words,

the weight of silence

while we find ways

to name our pain,

braving the safety

of this circle, embracing

this warm spring

evening under open sky,

filled with light,

even now.

attention

i thought it was quiet here
at first. sitting on the grass,
enjoying the slight breeze,
my body slowly warming 
in the sun. 
                   but there
is never really silence. 

i hear the pop of tennis ball
meeting racket, the rumble
of skateboard wheels 
on paved paths, the constant 
distant whirr of vehicles
driving on hidden roads.
there are low murmuring voices 
behind trees, the random
cheep cheep cheep of birds, 
the erratic rhythms
of basketballs, the squeak
and squeal of a bike chain
desperately in need of lube. 

and then my own breathing.
suddenly deeper as i realize
how much is constantly moving
in and out of my life; 
how little attention i pay
to the little things, 
how often i forget to listen
to anything at all. 

there are different kinds of screams

evidently there are different

kinds of screams.

                             they tell stories;

how we move through the world,

the way the sound enters

the ear, fires the limbic system,

imbeds itself in the brain.

perhaps there’s something there –

that first scream after birth

silent, sometimes without air,

fighting our way into the light,

our entire body bearing down

upon the fear.

                       what is this new thing?

what is there here beyond heat

and the dull throb of heartbeat,

the muffled voices and

elastic stretch of membrane

and skin taut with promises,

the constant eruptions of sound,

how we communicate

    each moment:

the howl of existence,

raging against each interruption,

the surprise of joy, rapture

lifting us into song, and silence;

ruptures, and how we are bowed

by weight, curling in upon ourselves

until we find the words

to move out of our bodies

                                          once again.

 

use your words, we are taught,

but sometimes they are not enough;

or there aren’t enough words,

or there are too many.

it’s okay if there are no words

                                                 right now –

eventually you will find them.

line upon line

i’m constantly collecting lines.

i’m not sure that’s useful.

perhaps i could become a poet

of fragments, or find a way

to shoehorn them into ghazals.

 

i fill page after page

with these bits and pieces –

journals full of disconnection

while i try to find some shape

to form them into a poem.

 

i must be foolish to believe in poetry;

that it is so necessary. so urgent.

 

i chase down the words

before i forget them,

collect them like butterflies.

or marbles. or stamps.

 

sometimes i think it is enough

to simply gather them together,

display them in array –

let someone else do all the work.

                        it’s tempting.

 

maybe the poetry is found

in the gaps, the spaces between

the edges, where the line

breaks, where you and i dance,

and the whispering breath.

the weight of books

i’ve always

loved the weight

of a good book

in my hand.

as a child

in Toronto

i exhausted

my librarian;

how much

i used to read.

 

when visiting

second-hand

bookstores

i still look for

that series

about animals

i scoured

over and over;

where i learned

that ostriches

don’t bury

their heads

in the sand,

that tuataras

have a third

eye, that

hyraxes are

related to

elephants

and manatees,

that birds

of paradise are

gloriously odd.

 

in university

my backpack

was full of books,

how satisfying

the thick thud

on study tables.

i discovered

other beauties:

van Gogh and

his passions,

Klee and his

moodiness,

Mondrian and

his measured

stillness,

the Abstract

Expressionists

and all their

spattered glory.

 

i still carry

every page

with me,

the body’s

memory

curled

around

each book

cradled

in my hands,

the turned

pages like

feathers.