Seascape

The silent, random landscape seemed
to him almost lunar: rocks,
hairy with limp seaweed, tiny shells that
shattered like dry bones as he walked,
and flat sand.
His footsteps in that place could've
been the first.

Except it wasn't dead dry. Underneath
the stillness he caught
the creeping sense of wet life and the
smell of decaying
fish flesh.

The seamud sucked at his
shoes and bubbly seaweed burst,
splattering salty juice when
he stepped on them.
He nearly tripped over a
dead octopus clamped
to the ground. It looked
up at him. Its anatomical
jelly was both soft and firm
underfoot.

On a hanging
rock formation he
saw a girl, reading,
oblivious.
He could've
imagined her there.
Perhaps she
was part of
the landscape, like
the sea,
the shells,
the octopus,
the sand.

Silenced

A shipwreck on the sands
I'm falling apart a bit more with every crash
of the waves upon the shore
already broken but intact enough to keep breaking

This week long breakdown
isn't constructive
isn't helpful
these tears aren't healing
aren't soothing
they are just angry and frustrated
hot salty waste of time and energy

These words
I don't know what else to do
what other escape I can take
what other release is allowed myself
because I have no one
and the people I'm with are just making me feel
so much
more alone

I feel better outside in the cold
warmer and more whole
than inside with their eyes and their constructive criticisms
comments about my passion and aggressiveness in issues I care about
well I'm sorry but I was never
lead to believe there was anything wrong with that

I must be mistaken

but these issues matter so why shouldn't I voice my opinion
these things need to be said and need to be heard
so why isn't the public the perfect venue

right now I feel trapped
and silenced
trapped in this house and silenced in my head

I really really really don't
want to cause anyone pain or harm of any kind
but I don't think these thoughts should be silenced


(alternate title; what does it mean when all the valentines you get make reference to your passion and enthusiasm in conversations about issues you care about)

space

Though this isn't home
I feel as if I might not have
a home to come back to

Surrounded by sky I've never felt
so complete, completely alone and
completely myself,
here with no skyline telling
me where to go or how far I can reach

It's been too long and
I don't know if I can go
back to what used to be
a me-sized space.


(I realize this still needs work, but I wanted to share, I miss our meetings!)

Alberta winds (my physical synonym)

I am still alive,
lights still shine from my eyes,
glimmers of hope glint in my smile,
though lately I've been tired, bone-dead and tongue-tied
something about the winter but
that's just an an excuse
that doesn't hold water 'cause
last time it was something about the autumn,
but the cold freezes my jaw
and seeps into every fibre
and the cold is my all too concrete metaphor
for being

this
lonely.

(This is an incredibly late testament to my state of being alive. Katimavik is crazy busy. Comments are always appreciated. All my love fellow heart-raped writers! I miss you.)

Stranded

This was not written in my free hotel room in Amsterdam

or in one of the endless lineups at the airport

or in the plane, waiting for another technical issue

to resolve itself.

("The problem has disappeared", announces the captain.

Am I supposed to feel relieved?)

I kept thinking: I have to write this down

I have to write about this

But I didn't.

I just wanted to get home.

So here it goes:

Thousands of people were probably thinking

the same thing as I was.

Or were they?

The bitch whom the attendant refused at the gate

So that I could get on the plane —

I felt bad, maybe for a minute,

before incredible relief kicked in.

Or that little lady with the broken English

Who inserted herself in front of me:

"I was here, I was here before. Ask the gentleman in front."

You're going to london anyway, I thought.

Heathrow is closed today and tomorrow,

Go get a hotel room.

Which is what I did in the end,

Besides, I was in the wrong line.

Humans become cattle

queuing, shuffling;

kicking their luggage around,

too lazy to pick it up,

dozing on the floor, against pillars;

everyone is a potential angered customer

and lineups are calculated in length of wait

(averaging around 2.5 hours).

Every so often they send someone

to calm people down with desperate smiles

and a fair amount of shoulder shrugging.

They hand out water bottles and chocolate bars.

(Damage control?)

I become a specialist of air travel lingo:

Misconnections, short connections,

re-bookings, flights cancelled or delayed,

luggage rushed, lost, or on-hold;

I know what it means to be stand by,

not to have a seat on that plane you see outside

until the very last second,

to be alone, yet constantly surrounded

by people with the same problem.

I know what it means to be

stranded.

Bristol6

Do you remember, November,

the chills we caught

when the days grew short?

Your cold-kissed cheeks

blushed raw —

your hard numb knuckles

which I longed to

suck on

and feel soften in the moist warmth of

my mouth.

We watched the silver-haloed moon

sail through threaded clouds,

behind the lacework of bare, brittle branches.

You said it looked lovely.

(Oh! The things you say

my sweet November!)

I found it rather dreary.

When I finally extended my hand

to take yours,

my fingers grasped only icy night —

and no November.

You were gone, already.

Bristol5

That's when it started raining

on our used dishes,

strewn about on gritty counters —

numbing dribbles of November drizzle

at first,

then hard pellets of hail

that shattered our charity-bought crockery.

We were clever, then —

read books,

studied words and symbols

(they would eventually tells us to turn our backs on these and find real jobs) —

but this, we failed to comprehend.

They offered no other explanation

than empty upturned pockets.

Bristol4

nothing ever really finishes —

you always end up some place new

after where you last were

and somewhere else

after that

my life fits in 2 suitcases and a backpack

and even most of that is superfluous —

i don't need 9 button-down shirts

and 28 pairs of socks

or so many books

i hoard in order to feel rooted

as i move to bigger, better, brighter

i seriously consider

scattering my stuff on the way

like golden leaves in the autumn wind —

shed my leather coat and posh boots

walk off barefooted to see things

instead of owning them

Bristol3

Have you been out on the downs lately?

Have you seen the crows there?

Maybe they are ravens.

I wouldn't know the difference.

Let's say they're ravens —

It sounds more literary.

I went jogging there last Tuesday

And noticed them,

All squat and ugly

In the long, wet grass.

They bob along awkwardly

Between the runners

And footballs and students.

Sometimes they croak —

I suppose that's to be expected

Of a raven.

Sometimes they fly,

Wings folded back —

A flight full of effort,

Quickly finished.

They are dispersed —

Just a handful of them —

Black specks in the green.

They are waiting for something,

Stationed there like bodyguards

On a landing pad.

Bristol2

Nose clogged with cold

Cheeks flushed from the walk's mild effort

Shoulders borne down with books

I bite into my apple

The fruit's firm flesh

Tears and cracks open

Sweet, tangy pulp fills my mouth

Crisp juices burst and

Tickle my gums

Out of breath

I inhale through my mouth

Opened wide

A generous smile

I taste Autumn air

I breathe apple

Bristol1

It's very wet here —

Although that's to be expected,

From outside one thinks of England as a grassy rock

Thrown against the fog and hail

Moulding there in the cold winds

Like a piece of old cheddar

In the channel.

The humidity seeps through

Thick socks, sweaters, woolen scarves

Looped thrice around the throat —

Any fissure and your pale, tender skin

Will prickle and shiver.

The clammy cold chills through knits

And flesh

To the bone.

Inside,

The kettle whistles

Blows a hot welcome geyser —

A jet of steam around which humans huddle.

Wrap your fingers around the mug

And already you feel the stiffness smoothed out —

Released, knuckles bending/unbending again —

But is it really good, to add more fluid to the balance,

To gorge yourself with more wetness?

Meanwhile,

Windows steam up, blown opaque with humidity —

They perspire, pearls of water forming —

Sliding down the panes —

Clear rivulets in their wakes —

A crystalline pointillist map of droplets and

Cold, warped smears, glistening beads falling

Collecting themselves,

Running down in branched streams —

Creeping, alive —

Wet.

Hand me the towel.