Category: Poetry

Alone in Loneliness

Grey-haired, stomach-turning,
I am outside of it all.
Someone who doesn’t fit but refuses to turn,
to be broken, so I fit into a mold.
And where I’ll find my place
and fold onto the board.

Someone not seen, and not heard,
a silhouette of who I am.
Except when whispers echo down long hallways,
and with a pointed finger, they’ll say,
“Why can’t she play the game?”

I am alone in loneliness when I walk,
and sometimes on an early morning run,
or if I stand in the kitchen with a wine glass in hand
where I’ll wonder, how even as a child I felt unknown
and an annoyance, somehow, at the same time.

I walk alone in loneliness, and the lyrics of a lullaby
drum a melancholy beat of stargazers who meet—
the cast-outs on the outside. The outsiders looking in.

My father’s long gone—
But from a photo I saw when he was a boy . . .
He wore shorts to his knees, a white cap, and a shirt,
after he landed on these shores.
He came to Canada as the place
he was born lay in ruins.
He brought with him an unsayable name,
he changed to something sayable.

And now I know, I am alone in loneliness.
I exist on the outside. Somehow, though,
it’s reassuring that I am not alone . . .

Because this feeling from within—
this solo sense is short-lived.
Because the lullaby hints,
others have felt this way.

And this shared shadow of loneliness links me with others and reminds me it will be alright.

Shell & Sea

A gurgle of laughter from a nearby child makes me turn,
and a boy bounces a ball down the driveway.
Sun beats warmth on my skin—
and the rays of happiness sting.

I stare at my feet when a neighbour passes.
Keep my head down, pretend I don’t see her.
I know she may mistake distance for unkindness.
But if I talk, tears may fall—
And I don’t have the words to explain it.

If I were a turtle, I could retreat into my shell.
Everyone would know, it’s just about protection.
And if someone knocked on my door?
I’d pull my house up and toddle along the shore.
When waves lapped at my feet, I’d swim far away into the sea.

When Heroes Die

He strolled with a scar on his 
chest and a shine in his eyes 
and kept his sword close
as foes followed nearby.    

Blue-bruised skin told the tale
of treachery. Still, he laughed 
a laugh to convince passersby 
he was supremely fine. 

He rebuilt fences, 
and defended the defenseless 
who lived under the crush 
of gold-lined fingers. 

His pace slowed and his hand 
held the helm of his weapon.  
But he rubbed his knuckles
when the fight was at an end. 

Air swept up his capri blue cape, 
and it swirled as he sat on his steed.
He was worn yet
stood by his solemn oath.  

It happened the way it does . . . 
a spirit dragon called his name. 
And he answered—
and the light went out again.

FIFTEEN YEARS

No card, call, on my birthday. No, From Us, To Him labels on gold wrapped paper that cover boxes. At night, dizzying lights spin like a mirror ball against snow bloated trees and pin hole stars. No world events—did you hear what’s happened? What about that? Solar and wind and electric cars? How do they run?

Yes, time had passed, and I babbled on about you. Then, no, no—

In a chair, I tell your story, the clouds of smoke, you’re fourty-plus year habit. It crept up like a hand over a crypt that poked me in the eye and made my cheek twitch. It’s been fifteen years—what the hell is the matter? I blink the tears, take a breath, and straighten in my chair. No, no, yes, I’m fine. Yes, yes, I’m fine . . . this is the rhythm of time . . .