“Sunshine” featured on Autumn Sky Poetry Daily

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Very excited to have my poem, “Sunshine” featured on the Autumn Sky Poetry site today!

I wrote this poem, along with two others, for this year’s 48-hour poem contest, but didn’t enter this one, so thought I’d submit it elsewhere instead. Of course, now I’m thinking “Doh! Should’ve entered this one.” But there’s no point in second-guessing, and I’m thrilled to be part of this great site.

National Poetry Month is half over…which in a glass-half-full kind of way, means there’s still two more weeks to celebrate whimsical, wonderful words. Yay!

 

Get poeming, peeps

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It’s April! National Poetry Month in North America, and I say WOOT! to that.

Normally I spend the month in idle appreciation. Reading poetry. Thinking about poems. Thinking about why it is that most people are so darn daunted at the idea of poems. But this year I decided to get active. I’m doing the PAD (poem-a-day) Challenge through Poetic Asides at the Writer’s Market site.

One week in, three more to go. Some days have been easier than others, which is to say some prompts pluck at my grey matter a little easier to get the ideas churning. But I think there’s something  just as worthy in the poems that have to be coaxed out, as there is in the ones that explode into being. I like to think I can stick it out for another three weeks, so I can say I did it, and have 30 new poems to show for it.

You will never convince me that poetry is dead, but maybe it can do with a little CPR to keep it going. Everyone can read a poem. Read a poem this month. Or better yet, read one every day. You don’t have to delve into an epic or stumble through something surrealist. You don’t have to “get it” or analyze it or memorize it. Just read one and try to feel. Check out one of my favourite sites, Rattle, to get you started. Click on the “random” tab and see what comes up. Or search the names of poets in your own city and see what they have to say. My own city is chock-a-block with spectacular scribes.

Everyone can write a poem too, though I know many people think they can’t. Go on and pen your own little poem this month. You don’t have to show it to anyone, but you might even want to. Post it in my comments and I will send you “super extra happy yay you did it!” vibes.

Happy NaPoWriMo!

 

 

Drabble Challenge — My Word

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I decided to take Chuck Wendig up on another challenge because a) it’s fun, b) it gets me writing something and c) this one was short and tricky! Write a little piece of fiction in 100 words or less. It’s called a “drabble”, and here’s my drabbling today:

 

My Word

“I give you my word,” he says.

What a leap of faith we take — to trust words. I took the leap with Jake, five years ago on our wedding day. I believed my Mom, when she swore I wouldn’t always feel as hollow as I did the day our baby died.

Then there’s this man, with his rotting teeth and red rimmed eyes. Even through my blouse I can feel the cold blade against my belly.

“Give me your purse and I give you my word, I won’t hurt you.”

I have no choice but to leap.

poem: Flight Song

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I’ve recently discovered and become rather enamored with the work of American-British poet Robert Peake. On his site he has a poetry prompt thingamajig, which randomly generates words to use in a poem. I was feeling a little stuck today in my writing, so decided to see if this tool could fix me up.

I tried for ten words and got: hens; undulating; harp; agreed; anew; expectations; treasures; encounter; ham; reefs.

This is what, and who, sprung to mind and I decided to post it as it came.

 

Flight Song

 

It was agreed that Vicky would get out

before she knew how to crawl.

Sitting on the filthy shag rug

in a soggy diaper

listening for treasures in the harp-string

melodics of her mama’s voice.

Gooey smile

answering her mama’s invocation.

 

Yours will be a life anew,

hummed Vicky’s mama to her

undulating babe on the rug.

You’ll hit green summits,

plunge to skeletal reefs.

Encounter men with a natural knowing

of how a woman should be touched.

Have expectations

of being loved.

 

No truck stop life for my babe,

crooned Vicky’s mama to Vicky.

No serving up fried hens and greasy ham,

prying slimy fingers off your hips

when you come to refill the coffee.

No wearing some stranger’s old coat

to fend off that shrieking January wind.

I ain’t gonna buy you a mockingbird,

Vicky’s mama sang,

but I am gonna teach you

how to fly.

 

 

March

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February is gone. The longest shortest month, especially this year. Rally for March — the strong verb month. The month that moves forward, takes charge. The month that starts in the dead of winter and forges to the start of spring. The cleaner what wipes up February’s sloppy romance, the heartache, the emotional frenzy of births and deaths, the bone-cracking cold and the still-late dawn. March is a month of madness — not lunacy, but anger. The month that fires us up for something better. Brighter. Lets us shake out the rage, the hurt, the sorrow. Burn away. Readying ourselves for April’s revival.

Happy Groundhog Day. Happy Groundhog Day. Happy Groundhog Day.

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groundhog

I was just reading about the history of Groundhog Day because I have long been a fan of the husky little marmots. They’re not common where I grew up in the prairies. There, I was much more likely to see ye old woodchuck’s smaller and somehow more pesky cousin, the gopher. And I like them too. But they’re not quite cool enough to get their own day.

In the mid 2000s I was visiting my friend in Ottawa. It was late spring and as we walked near the National Gallery, mommy groundhogs and even cuter baby groundhogs dotted the lawn. My excitement at seeing them was definitely as high as my excitement at seeing Parliament for the first time. In fact, I held more reverence for the little furlings than I did (do) for any politician. I tried my damnedest to pet one, which my friend found hilarious. Predictably, most of them immediately scurried away in fear, while others first took a little run-step towards me with teeth bared. I got the warning, but I still think they’re adorable.

A couple years later when my husband and I moved to Ottawa, groundhog sightings were a regular thing, but the thrill didn’t wane. I was working a job I despised that required a 45 minute meandering bus ride through the city. The highlight for me was passing through the Carleton University campus, where it would seem groundhogs outnumbered students 2-1. I would count them, and if I spotted 10 or more I’d take it as a sign that my workday would be somehow bearable. I have no idea why I decided groundhogs would be my talisman of workplace fulfillment, but sometimes it seemed to work. Maybe if I carried around one of their little paws, like a lucky rabbit’s foot, I would’ve won the lottery by now. But I could never commit groundhog-icide.

My incomplete and non-extensive research into Groundhog Day has taught me that its history is tied both to German weather lore and the Celtic festival of Imbolc or St. Brigid’s Day. A-ha! Loving the groundhog and the day in his honour is born in my very own German-Irish blood. Actually, I suppose weather prognosticating really is in my blood to some degree because my Dad once dreamed of being a meteorologist and is probably the most enthusiastic weather watcher I know.

The Germans of Pennsylvania considered the tradition of groundhog weather prediction important enough to make it a regular thing starting in the mid 1800s. I guess we saw all the fun going on south of the border and decided to celebrate Groundhog Day with our own furry weather men. In Canada, the celebrity groundhogs are Wiarton Willie (Ontario) and his less-famous brethren Shubenacadie Sam (Nova Scotia), Brandon Bob (Manitoba) and Balzac Billy (from my neck of the woods in Alberta). They all live in protective custody, so to speak, and are reluctantly nudged from their winter slumber to pop up every February 2 and look for shadows. Whether they see them or not is fairly moot up in these parts, because we always have winter for 6 more weeks. Usually 10 more weeks.

Still, I love the tradition and nerdily check the news to see what the whistle pigs from coast-to-coast have to say each year. I do have affection for the most famous groundhog of them all, Punxsutawney Phil, but I feel allegiance to the underhogs of Canada. Plus, that Phil is a little big for his burrow anyway, since Bill Murray went and made that movie about him. Though it is pretty cool that a silly ’90s comedy gave us a whole new meaning for the term “Groundhog Day.”

So, Happy Groundhog Day to you, whether you’re in the grips of winter (and will be until April) or you’re basking in a long hot Australian summer (like my snow-allergic sister). And if you get caught in some do-over time loop, just say a prayer to the pagan goddess Brigid, or shut your eyes and count groundhogs the way you count sheep to go to sleep. I heard counting them brings good luck.

Monk’s Hood

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I needed some writing motivation this week and decided to try another Chuck Wendig challenge. This time it was to put together three things chosen with the random roller. I got “poison”, “a shopping mall” and “a box of photos.”

Monk’s Hood

Charlene wasn’t good at much, but she never forgot a face. That first day he turned up at her counter, ordering a cinnamon raisin bagel, toasted, and a hazelnut coffee, she knew it was him.

“Just opened up the hat store down at the end of the mall. Think yours is the only place in here that has flavoured coffee, so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” He winked, and pushed his fifty cents in change back towards her hand. “A tip.”

Charlene couldn’t speak, but she nodded and he sauntered away, whistling.

When she got home that afternoon she kicked off her boots, threw her coat on the floor and thundered downstairs to the storage room. It had been years since Mom died, and she probably had the will now to sort through the boxes and suitcases without too much wallowing, but today she was on a mission for one particular box. She ripped tape and cardboard, tossed garbage bags full of clothes to the side, and finally found the grey shoebox. The lid was taped on all four sides, and written with black marker, in her Mom’s neat printing, was the word “photos”.

Her Mom only showed the photos to her once, that she remembered, and that was only because she needed a few pictures for a school project. She begged, and her Mom relented, but as she pried off the lid, it was clear she wasn’t looking forward to a stroll down memory lane.

It surprised Charlene that her Mom kept the photos at all — or specifically the two she had of him. But she suspected, hard as it was to think about, having those photos kept it real and present. Knowing his face was down there, locked away safe, but with her nonetheless, made it easier to keep the hate alive.

Charlene rifled through the pictures. Some had water stains and stuck together. The two of him were piled on top of one another, stuck between Charlene’s own grade one photo — the one where she had the missing front tooth — and a photo of her Mom and Aunt Joan, posing at mile zero on the Alaskan Highway. She’d taken that photo herself, the summer she turned fifteen and her Mom decided the three of them needed a northern road trip.

She gazed at the unbreakable sisters against the vibrant blue sky, then set it aside and turned her eyes back to him. She’d been right. Decades later and he still had the same crooked nose, cleft chin and deep blue eyes.

In the first photo, he stood with one arm draped around Aunt Joan, beer bottles in both of their hands. Aunt Joan was caught with her mouth open, in the middle of saying something, but he donned an easy grin.

The second photo was of Mom and Aunt Joan, their faces pressed close together. Back then, with Mom’s hair dyed blonde, they almost looked like twins. It would’ve been a beautiful photo if he hadn’t stuck his head in at the last minute. Cut off at his shoulders and hovering at the edge. He didn’t fit the photo. Just like he didn’t fit in their lives.

Charlene kept the two photos out, then closed up the box and threw it back on the disorganized stack. She looked again at his face and wondered how long after these pictures were taken that it had happened. Even when her Mom finally came clean with what he did to her, she didn’t give many details. And knowing how hard it was for her to talk about, Charlene never pressed.

But then, and a few times after, she said to Charlene, “It was an awful thing that happened. Awful for me, awful when Joan found out, but you were what came of it and I always focus on that. You are the beautiful flower who grew from a terrible place.”

She wondered if Mom, wherever she went after her death, could see into Charlene’s own brain and heart now and know what she was planning. She wouldn’t like it, but maybe she’d understand why it needed to be done.

Charlene went back upstairs and turned on her computer. It was time to do a little research. There was no doubt she wanted to shatter him, just like he shattered her mother. But she didn’t want to get caught doing it.

Monk’s Hood. So pretty and blue. She knew exactly where it grew, in the mountain park a little outside the city. Her Mom had pointed it out on their hikes, and always told her to stay away from it, but she had no idea it was so toxic.

She waited, and like she figured they would, his morning stops at her booth became regular. It was hard for her to hide her disgust, but if her smiles looked fake or strained, he never seemed to notice.

After a day or two, he asked her name. “It’s Charlie,” she said. No one called her that, and she was sure he didn’t even know she existed, but just in case his appearance in her life was more than coincidence, she tried to cover her tracks.

“And yours?” she asked.

“Darryl. You sure do make a good cup of coffee, Charlie. And I always like to start my days by looking at a pretty face.”

She nearly threw up at that one.

On his twenty-second appearance at her counter — and yes, she was keeping track — she did it.

“Oh, looks like the hazelnut ran out. Got some more brewing in back.” She took his styrofoam cup with her. She didn’t need more than a few drops, and mixed with all the cream and sugar he put in there, she knew he wouldn’t taste it. In a minute she was back with his full cup, and the new carafe of coffee.

“Have a great day, Darryl,” she said, flashing a genuine smile. She watched him walk back towards his store, sipping his coffee as he went.

Forty-five minutes later she heard the sirens outside, and watched as paramedics rushed through the door with a stretcher. A small crowd gathered as they wheeled him back out. His face was grey and twisted in pain. He clutched his chest.

“Looks like a heart attack,” an older woman next to her commented. “The poor man.”

“Yes,” Charlene said softly. “the poor, poor man.”

Hate to Love It

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There are many things in life I love to hate. Freezing rain. Parrots. Bigots. Those who refuse to accept that climate change is an actual thing. Vladimir Putin. I try not to be too negative, but a little ire in life isn’t such a terrible thing. Worse, for me, is admitting the things that I hate to love. Shameful, silly, frivolous or purely escapist things that should cause me to retch. Instead, I harbour affection. I feel like admitting this is the first step to recovery. Or maybe something creative can come out of it — a poetic riff on the self-loathing I feel whenever I click through a slideshow of the best-dressed women at the Oscars, for example.

I like lists. So here, in no relevant order, are five things I hate to love:

1) Maroon 5 songs: Let me be clear — I am not saying I love the band as an entity, but rather the music they make. I don’t really know anything about them other than the fact that frontman Adam Levine seems to be everywhere, and appears to take himself way too seriously. He’s sort of re-invented smarmy in a way that apparently appeals to the masses. He and his crew churn out tune after tune and I want to hate all their hits, but I don’t. “Moves Like Jagger” is one of my favourite songs from the last five years. I don’t think it’s deep, but damn if it doesn’t make me want to dance and sing. It makes me happy. I was hooked way back in 2002 when they came out with “Harder to Breathe”, and I STILL like that song. Then this new “Sugar” song comes out and the video! Well, it’s unbearable. But again, the song worms its way into my psyche and has a little party. How embarrassing.

2) The smell of gasoline: I know I am not unique in liking this nauseating scent. Lots of weirdos out there do. And I feel the need to clearly state that I don’t huff the stuff or anything. But that little whiff you get at the gas station? That’s a pleasant experience for me. Maybe I’m getting just enough benzene in that sniff to get a tiny buzz. Maybe it smells like happy childhood memories. I don’t know.

3) Cheezies: The colour alone should be repellent. Nothing in nature has ever been that vibrantly orange. Not even a majestic monarch butterfly. Or an actual orange. Reading the “nutritional” information on a package should be enough to put me off for life, but I’m more likely to rip open the bag and eat them by the salty, crunchy, fatty handful. Then have the perma-orange fingers as a guilty reminder.

4) Charlie Sheen: Why do I find this disgusting human somehow endearing? I cannot answer that question. It’s not his “bad boy” quality. The alcohol and drug fueled tirades are pretty sad, and the allegations of violence against women should land him squarely in the “Love to Hate” column. But despite all of this, I think he’s pretty human, funny at times, and enjoyably honest in his own messed up way. There’s something about Charlie that just makes me want to give him a second chance. Or twenty. I blame his short but sweet stint in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

5) When figure skaters fall at major competitions. Especially the Olympics: This is a hard one to admit, because it might be a big dirty window into my psyche. I actually smile a little when the shimmering skaters go up for a fantastic jump or spin and then come down with a boom. This is so horrible! I know it. With that fall often comes the collapse of years of training and talent, so I know the appropriate response is the collective “aww” of disappointment and sympathy you can hear in the crowd. But there’s just something so satisfyingly human about the seemingly infallible skater taking an ugly bite on the ice. I feel bad that I take some twisted pleasure in it. And I don’t like watching them after, all teary and torn up as they wait for the terrible scores. But the moment of the fall…it’s just fantastic. Note: I don’t care who the skater is or what country he or she represents. All epic skating fails are equal in their awesomeness.

My angry call to Santa

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I am a liar. A big, fat, Santa’s jelly-belly sized liar. I try to be honest in most aspects of life, but when it comes to perpetuating the Santa myth in my house, I weave that lie good and strong. My husband goes along for the sleigh ride, but I’ve never heard him busting out the Santa tales the way I do. Or the Santa threats…but I’ll get to that in a minute.

Apparently there’s a new movement in parenting to be completely forthright, and tell kids from the start that Santa’s not real. In these households, even three-year-olds know. They’re too streetwise for this North Pole crap. Ain’t nobody got time for that silly stuff…and hey Mom and Dad, I know I’m only in pre-school, but why don’t you shoot me a smart phone in my stocking? I guess I get the idea of not lying to your kids, but in this instance, it makes me kinda sad too. Kids grow up WAY too fast nowadays. Can’t we do this one small thing to keep the fun and innocence in childhood?

For me, perpetuating the Santa myth wasn’t even a question. I loved believing in Santa when I was little. It made Christmas so much more exciting and magical. It added a sense of wonder and sparkle to the holidays, that no Christmas since my “discovery” has ever been able to match. I held on to that belief years longer than I truly believed, because I thought abandoning the Santa myth would ruin Christmas. When my older sister basically told me to cut the crap and that I was too old to believe in Santa anymore (which I was) it resulted in a tearful, melodramatic display complete with me shrieking “But I’m just a little girl!” This became a running family joke at my expense for years. I like to think they were laughing with me, not at me.

But even that harsh dose of reality was worth it for all the years of fun. All those fanciful thoughts about what he would put in my stocking. Would he remember that Cabbage Patch Doll I was dying to have, or surprise me with some fantastically perfect gift I didn’t even know I wanted? What would he say in his note? (My dad, a storyteller by nature, wrote epic letters from Santa that somehow thrilled us kids and entertained the adults too). Santa was omniscient, benevolent, comforting and jolly, and he had those amazing flying reindeer to boot. Sacrilege here, I know, but Santa was a god.

With the red-suit in charge, Christmas rocked. So when my kids got old enough to participate in the excitement, I was more than willing to build-up the big guy in their minds. “We have no fireplace, how will Santa get in?” my older daughter wonders. “Well, he can come in doors and windows too.” (Santa is a master B & E artist, after all). “How does Santa know what I want, Mom?”. “Well, he’s always listening, and watching, and we can write him a letter too — just to be sure.” And my favourite question, a statement actually, came this year from her five-year-old mouth: “Mom, there are two great mysteries in the world. One, what exactly made the dinosaurs go extinct, and two, how do Santa’s reindeer fly?”. The juxtaposition of legitimate scientific query and childish wonder had me laughing inside for days. And of course I had answers, even if they were crap: “Um, might’ve been a meteorite or volcano or something for the dinosaurs, but as for the reindeer, they fly with magic dust .” Naturally.

I like to think that I’ve painted Santa in a positive, sparkly light. Yes, they know about the naughty or nice stuff, but I’ve also mentioned that Santa’s pretty forgiving and if you’re mostly a good kid, he’ll drop by. He’s all about generosity, love and joy, after all. Until…until earlier this week when I was feeling particularly crushed by the stress of a billion “to-dos” of the season, suffering from sleep-shortage, and just not in a good place to deal with crap from my kids. This is precisely the time when my three-year-old decides to use her mighty will to refuse to get ready for bed. There are adamant shouts of “No!”, followed by hysterical screaming and flailing, then the super-effective “I will go completely limp” strategy when I try to physically compel her to move. “You are acting very, very naughty right now and Santa will NOT be bringing you any presents!” I bellow. Idle threat, apparently. “I don’t want any presents!” she proclaims with pouty lip. “I’m calling him right now. I’m telling him you don’t want or deserve any presents!” And as I walk to the phone I am already thinking how completely stupid this is. I’ve never won an argument with a toddler yet. But I’m just as stubborn as my kids — they got it from somewhere — and so the script proceeds. I dial five random numbers until the Telus lady starts beaking in my ear about how my call cannot be completed as dialed. I put the phone to my three-year-old’s ear long enough so she can hear there’s a voice, and then tell her it’s Santa’s elf line and I have to leave a message. This is the point where my five year old, whose been silently observing the whole time, starts to freak. “No Mom! Don’t leave a message! She’ll be good! I’ll help her get ready for bed!” I leave the faux message anyway and older sister starts to cry. Three-year-old is completely unfazed. “Why are you crying?” I ask my older daughter. “I didn’t tell him not to bring you any presents.”

“I know Mom, but she gets good toys too, and we can share, so if Santa doesn’t come  for her, I only get to play with half as much stuff!” I admire her logic and reasoning, but am also sad she’s apparently got a huge case of the greedy guts…already.

Once three-year-old has calmed down, and come to her own decision that she in fact will get into her pjs and brush her teeth, older daughter implores me to call the elf-line again. So I do. “Hi Santa, it’s Kim. Please ignore my earlier message and keep both my girls on the nice list.” Five-year-old is visibly relieved. Three-year-old still doesn’t care. I, on the other hand, think WTF did I just do? These silly threats and my big show did nothing except taint all the wonder of Santa I’ve been so keen to build. Is this what my daughters will remember about Christmas –anger, punishment and Santa withholding — more than the ideas of generosity and kindness? Plus, I am a bit disappointed that they didn’t even call me on the fact that I don’t make the naughty or nice list — Santa does.

I silently resolve to cut the seasonal Santa threats and try better parenting strategies to get them to behave, for the sake of behaving instead of for the promise of material goods. I will still build the benevolent Santa myth though. There will be cookies eaten, and personal notes with Santa’s signature catchphrase (“Ho ho ho and away I go!”).  We’ll watch the Christmas Eve Santa tracker on TV to see how close he is before bedtime, and if it’s not too cold, there might be “reindeer tracks” in the snow to discover Christmas morning.

I’m gonna keep spewing the lie, in the hopes that it’s even half as much fun for them as it was, and is, for me. And as for the fall out when some non-believing kid spills the beans at school? Well, I’ll cross that bridge when it comes. And hope my kids see my good intent in being a big, fat liar.