Sign posts

The tender leaves brushed golden by the sun
Float lazily in the warm wind. The wind the tugs them out of their reverie.
“AWAKE! The summer is not yet over. You have more living than harvest left in you!”, the sun jeers. “Some tired and lonely day you can choose again. But, now… now, you must open, thrive, time to be alive”.

So thrive, green, time to be seen.

In time within time

A

space

between

the pause

and then

the stop

the start

begin again.

Joyfull new beginnings

Joyful new beginnings surround me
As I step from old to new.
The pace of life ebbs and flows like the soft tug of the moon on the massive ocean. A tiny tug that whispers, “Over here! Over here! Follow me! Follow me!”. The long space between waves, the held breath. Poised and waiting for the next ride.

Where wisdom lives

In the arch of a foot
In the peal of laughter
In the deeply drawn breath

A tiny wish
Please notice the sun today. She waited all this time for you.

In the deep unfolding of a patient flower, is the nectar of your own true nature.
Drink deeply.

Five favorite words

My five favorite words, in no particular order:
• succulent
• crunch
• transfix
• weird
• delicious

Yours?

From the stars

In every full moon
Every setting sun
Every full bloom

We see you shining
Light up
Here.

Moments

Tangerine streaks across lavender.
Chasing indigo and periwinkle.
Shade outlined on crisp relief.
soft tipped coal presses to the outline
violet embraces midnight.

The soft pause at dusk.
held, intake, waiting
pupils spiral outward
a still hush
before raucous song
erupts as one last defender
shouts triumph
the day’s long slumber, over.
Night awakes to her feasting form.

Crimson devoured
ochre eaten
vermillion carefully prepped and supped.

Hearth heart gold,
flickers, flickers, flickers,
out.

Till
still,
still,
still awake
momma and babe.
Her soft ink cloak thrown over their heads.
Held in tender darkness,
Till,
till
till
Morning breathes in russet, ruby, carnelian, amber, ember, remember, ever, every, early, morning, held, momma, baby, baby, mommy, mine, mine, hold me, hold you, love you, love.

What is good writing?

What makes a writer good? What makes a written piece good? There is form, grammar, emotional content, clarity, so on. There are conventions of what makes any craft good. And there are pieces of written work that most people can agree are very, very well crafted and written. But then there are also the rule breakers and innovators that create whole new forms of expression just by following the impulse of creativity.

Even more, what is ‘good’? Who decides what good is? Publishers? Editors? Critics? The public? It seems more than a little subjective.

I get caught up sometimes in the sea of my own ego. I naturally want what I write to be good, great even. I want others to read and enjoy it. I think that is pretty normal. But I don’t want to be harshly criticized either. Who wants that? Where do you draw the line between helpful feedback and soul crushing criticism?

I think writing, all creative works really, has stages of growth. In the germination stage the work is percolating in the mind and the author is gathering information, writing drafts and testing ideas. Then is the sprout stage, where the work has taken shape and is moving along; the author is writing, rewriting and shaping, but there is more work to be done. Next is the plant stage, where the work has matured and is fully functioning, all the parts are there, it is all hanging together; most of the work is now done and the author has a pretty clear idea of what is important in the work and what is not. Finally there is the full flower, the work is complete and ready to be launched and published and polished.

I think editing and revisions, feedback and critiques, are best left until the plant stage. Jump too soon into the reviewing cycle and the creative juice can get squashed. Having spent far too much time thinking about writing than actually writing, I know how easy it is to get too far ahead of yourself, demanding that a seedling be a flower with no room for error. Creation is a process that is sensitive at the beginning. You are baring your soul and getting vulnerable. This is not a time to start asking anyone what they think. At this point, the only person that matters is you.

Later on, when the ideas and the work have matured, it might be wise to get unbiased helpful advice from a mentor or friend. Be clear about what kind of feedback you want. Are you curious about the clarity? Do you need help with grammar? What about structure and flow?

I have more questions than answers. What I do know is that I love this safe haven I have created for myself in this blog. I gave myself two rules: write from the heart; and write everyday. It has launched in me more ideas than I thought possible and I have witnessed my writing grow and develop. I seem to learn best by just doing it, just letting go of fear and starting where I am. I write.

Calgary

Memorial Drive looking west from the Zoo bridge (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Calgary
It is home to me.
My family tree,
Started me
and my roots here.
But I stayed and planted myself
Here.

And why?
Why linger?

“Because I love her.”
Seems to be the only answer.

I cringe at my melodrama
I really want to be
cold & practical,
like the shell
of simple stories
that outsiders tell.

But, I love her.

Her, by the way, is her gender.
A single glance,
at the simple shell,
could confuse you.
Because she looks like a man.
An oilman,
a land man,
an old time pioneer,
all cowboyed up
and ready to domineer.

But no.
That is not her.
Or,
rather,
not all of her.

I stay for the city
that simmers
beneath faux buckles and fresh new ten gallons
beneath the ten days of infestation
while tourists ride the rides
the real Calgary,
She hides.

She is so much more than a mile of
red, drunk and topless,
Or a blurry night
of Buds & boots in the office.

Frontier fictions
hide the genuine.
She is the fragrance of damp grass,
let go from winter’s tight clasp,
while arching winds
rip our branches off
and beat them against
our house tops.

And, She is the surprise flurry
that catches budding leaves
AprilMayJune
and folds them in white
while we hurry.

And, She is poppies on Memorial Drive
And Deerfoot
where you don’t drive.
and Forest Lawn
where you can get sixteen bowls of Pho
in the same block.

She is not
white
either.

She is Multi
coloured.
Multicultured.

Bubble tea & Bul-go-gi
Philharmonic Strings & Blues, beers and wings

She is…
Poetry.

Yes.
Poetry!
In Calgary!

She is socialist peaks,
mountain peaks,
that share
the fine view
anchoring our western compass
no matter what the status,
Everyone
gets a peek.

Oh,
but it is dangerous to fall in love
and be blinded to
long lines & long waits,
too many poor trying to
grab a plate.

He looked at me with time weathered eyes & said,
“I’m not from here. I met a girl who was, and I fell in love.”
But,
I wonder,
did he fall for the girl
or the place?

Love,
You could fall in love here.
Fall in love with Here.

I love it here.

And so I stay.
Keeping the family tree
rooted in Seuss
for my new offshoot.

This is the place you go
when you fall in love twice
with the city you know.

To Run

Wild horse above Campo Imperatore (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Pushing forward.
like the thoroughbred being squeezed into the starting stall.
Trying to coax this wild horse to go through an unnaturally small
opening.
To do what? To run?
To do what is natural, you must do what feels unnatural?

NO. NO. NO.

STOP!

You must not think about domestication.
You must not even try to run on the track that is set for you,
for another’s pleasure.

You must run free.
You are NOT a tamed & bred & fed thoroughbred
but a wild one.
A wild horse, feral, free.
No, not feral even,
wild, wild, wild.
You are not from this place.
You are pure wilderness,
condensed.

Do NOT go back into captivity!
You must RUN.
Run free.
Be free.

Be free & wild & natural.
Release the cage clasp
held tight
in your tight grasp.

Release the need
to need
another,
even one other
to feed the ego chip.
The chip carved deep
into shoulder & neck & shoulder.

“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN DIFFERENT!”
You shout.
But, seriously,
let it out
already.
You are trapped & caged
now by your own hand.

So let loose your reins,
it is time to reign.
Time to claim
your rightful
reign
over your own crop & field & wild reel.

Run.

Just run.

Let loose & run.
run, run, run, run…

Us runners share
the nuchal ligament
a strong filament
to reach the firmament
of Earth & Stars.

To have my foot
touch & stomp & stride & step
and have small swirls of dust
rise around my instep.

foot
fall
& off and gone
off, gone
up & gone
a step & stride
stride, swing, step, move
arch, move, foot
move, leg
swing, swing, swing…

Graceful ease
fills each track
& where soft dust
swirls & swirls & swirls
Eyes are filled with visions
of swirls & swirls & swirls
of stars & galaxies
and stars &

endless black

endless night

eternal light.