PRECIOUS POETRY: 2022

The Stupid Ones

Someone today remembers

The one they lost to death

A young man’s blood on a battlefield

In his brothers arms drew last breath

What drew that man’s blood was not a gun nor a bomb

But still a series of stupid events

His blood on the ground like that of a soldier

Didn’t make a whole lot of sense

Where some blame bombs and guns for their loss

All she has to hate is the booze

What gives some a great deal of pleasure

Gave him a way for his life to lose

War to her never made sense

And neither what happened to him

What kind of fight must continue

So more don’t die again

Today let’s not forget the stupid ones

Because we know not all were brave

But their loss hurt us just as much

When blood spilled on their last day

Poet's Note: Written November 11, 2022

Today, people are going to choose to remember the brave ones... today, I will remember the stupid ones. Because their blood matters just as much if not more to me. Maybe in the big picture... they were all stupid.

"A new consciousness is developing which sees the earth as a single organism and recognizes that an organism at war with itself is doomed." Carl Sagan

I left my iPhone behind today

and let my eyes take all the pictures

of the beautiful colours

of the coming sunrise in the clouds

the dancing crimson leaves

in the early dawn breeze

I left my iPhone behind today

and listened to the birds

sing their morning melodies

tuning out every noise

that blocked their song

I left my iPhone behind today

instead I took with me

a pencil and paper

and I wrote this poem

I left my iPhone behind today

and faced the world

naked of technology

just me

my senses

and my breath

Maybe I will forget it all

but right now

in this moment

I watch an orange sun

peek up above the poplar trees

and I do something

I can't do with my iPhone

I imagine

Poet's Note: This morning I wrote this poem, but this morning was not the first experience of leaving behind the phone for an embracing experience with nature. I am a memory hoarder. So I take pictures and videos to remember the beautiful moments. But what kind of illuminating experience do I have looking at photos of sunrises. Can they even begin to compete with the actual experience. So why do I take pictures of them. Does it enlighten another soul when they see those pictures. Maybe instead of the pictures, I need to pass along an invitation to seeing nature's beauty bloom in person. Maybe I do a disservice to another human being by providing pictures, when what they really need to fill their soul is a walk without the electronics.

The Song of the Wild Oats

I found a place

where I am beautiful

I found a place

where I can stay alive

where I can grow

unhindered by death at least for now

I found a place

where my beauty meets the sunrise

I found a place

where I am not an embarrassment

to those that own the ground beneath me

I found a place where I can contribute

where my leaves can provide

the air they breathe

I found a place

where every morning

the sun rises

and smiles upon me

and embraces me

and welcomes me

and helps me to grow

I found a place

where I can belong

unashamed

undamaged

and not

unwanted

Poets Note: Written September 25, 2022

The sunrise was beautiful this morning, so I went out to watch it emerge from the eastern horizon. My heart was heavy. I was feeling much like the desiccated Wild Oats in a Bean field I was in yesterday. But this morning as I walked out in an open hay field and watched the sun in all of it's colourful beauty, I found some Wild Oats very much alive and growing tall and proud. The field had already been cut for the year, so these oats had grown in after. I found myself grieving for their distant cousins that I saw yesterday and then I found myself attracted to their beauty and magnificence. They stood tall and met the morning with a kind of stubborn purpose. Somehow they grew because they believed that they mattered in this world.

I found myself envying and longing for the same stubborn purpose and stance. I thought again of the dead oats in the bean field. They grew where they were unwanted. They were a hinderance to a much more preferred plant and were an embarrassment to the farmers. How were they supposed to know that ground was sacred and set apart for something other than them. They didn't, so they died not understanding why they didn't belong.

I'm a poet, not a farmer. If I was a farmer, I doubt I could afford to feel for Wild Oats. For the farmer, it has always been unwanted. But this morning, I found myself understanding its purpose. If only to remind me of my value in the world I live in.

Her

Her smile

Her wit

Her colourful dresses

Her love for critters

Her endurance

Her gentleness

Her grace under fire

Her love for her family

Her monumental marriage

Her appreciation of nature

Her presence as a woman in leadership

Her seventy years of commitment and dedication

Her love for Canada

Her service to the Commonwealth

Her devotion to the World

Her

Poet's Note:

Written September 10, 2022… in honour of "Her"... Queen Elizabeth II. She passed away September 8 and left a mark on my life. I wrote of the things that impress me about that woman. I struggle with labels and hierarchy rules. I struggle with power and position that elevates some people above others. I struggle with the pageantry that seems old, outdated and inauthentic. I struggle with the sacrifice her family had to make because of her position. I struggle with the wealth. I struggle with how the religion is so tied to monarchy and the monarchy is so tied to religion. I struggle with monarchy and its purpose in this day and age. I struggle with a lot of things that have wrapped themselves around "Her"…

But I can find things about "Her" that I don't struggle with. I can find things that inspire me. I can find things that I can honour.

Love sits on the fence

Love sits

on the fence

Watching

one side and

the other side

Love invites

both sides

Away from Fear

To sit

on the fence

with Love

Then

When everyone

becomes uncomfortable

sitting on the fence

Piece by piece

the fence dissolves

At the hands

of those who rather

dwell with Love together

than with Fear apart

Poet's Note: I have ideas that might make a book one day, but it's so much easier to write a poem. Maybe we don't always need a lot of words. I don't imagine Love destroying the fence, that isn't Love. But Love just sits on the fence between both sides and invites them to come to feel what it is like to sit the fence. Maybe when both sides feel the fence, it won't take much effort for them to take it down.

Sitting on the fence isn't comfortable for anyone. Sitting on the fence isn't even comfortable for Love. But where else would Love dwell... Love doesn't take sides.

Love is Enough

Love is Everything

Love Unites

Love Hugs

Love Laughs

Love Enriches

Love Evacuates Fear

Love Electrifies the Universe

Love Sits beside

Love Waits

Love Asks first

Love Asks again

Love Listens

Love says "I wouldn't do that to you"

Love says "I have many names"

Love says "I have many faces"

Love says "I'm enough"

Poets Note: Written April 6, 2022. I got a letter this week. The message… "Love isn't enough". Everything in me is struggling to hear Love tell me "I'm enough". But those empty words still echo. Do I shut out those voices for good? Do I say good-bye, just because they can't hear Love whisper in their ear "I'm enough".

All I have in me is to reach for Love. They don't understand this. They need me to buy into creeds and convictions. They need me to follow rules and perform rituals. They need me to be someone I can't be. This leaves me feeling empty… until Love whispers in my own ear… "I'm enough."

IKIMPA UMWUKA

God: I need to be worshipped

Creator: I want to create

God: I need to be noticed

Creator: I want to display my handiwork

God: I need to be obeyed

Creator: I want to facilitate change

God: Build me a house

Creator: Plant a garden

God: Read my book

Creator: I’ve woven my message into nature

God: Pray to me

Creator: Just breathe

God: Love me

Creator: Love can’t be commanded

God: Love me

Creator: Love isn’t needy

God: Love me

Creator: Love you

Poet's Note: In the tongue of Kinyarwanda (official language of Rwanda), IKIMPA UMWUKA translates as "It gives me breath". After writing this little dialogue between "God" and "Creator"... I found myself accepting that every definition of atheism is a disbelief in "God". But I don't see it defined as a non acceptance of Creator. So maybe I am atheist (a verb, not a noun). I am atheist towards this "God"... but wholly embracing "Creator"... that which I call IKIMPA UMWUKA. Umwuka means breath, but also means spirit. The connection is significant.

For me, it's about language... words have meaning. I write to attempt to convey how I understand the world I live in.

Paintbrush

I walk in the crevice of Paintbrush

Giving space for my soul to remember

Giving ears to the beautiful flowers I see

Listen to my joy

Listen to my memories

You taunt me with your beauty

Your mystery

Your illusiveness

Your wonder

And your tolerance for where you live

You are not all the same

There is beauty in every different expression you have, you hold

Let me take a piece of you home

So that I might remember

And let me come back again to enjoy you

Thank you

Paintbrush

Poet's Note: Created orally on June 27, 2022, while returning from a camping expedition with my hubby.

How can I say I wrote this poem. I didn't write it, I created it as I walked alongside a highway ditch flowing with the beautiful red, orange and yellow collection.

My childhood on the farm in northern British Columbia is riddle with these wild, bush blooms. I am captivated by them. They are part of my story. I long for the coming of the end of June when I might go on a short journey west to find them again.

This year I have been attempting to create poetry orally. Instead of having a pen and paper or a computer with me... I just recite into my Iphone camera and take what comes out. Nature really inspires this in me. This poem is not edited… I wrote down what came out as I walked in the ditch.

Watch the Youtube video "Paintbrush" … It gives life to the words. The words alone are not enough this time.

If only I had a voice

TO THOSE IN POWER

I am a consequence of sex

Maybe planned, maybe not

What do I have to give the world

Maybe something, maybe not

You see a future taxpayer

I see a life of debt

You see a future soldier

I see a killer of life

You see doctrine and dogma

I see religion's chains

You see more children in the playground

I see more children in the ghetto

You see purpose

I see pain

Maybe I am more than a consequence of sex

But what if I'm not

How dare you place such a burden on my mother

Don't you love her

I guess not

To you, she is just a machine to make more taxpayers

To you, she is just a manufacturer of soldiers

I love my mother

I will love my mother

I would give my life for my mother

If that is what I need to do

In twenty years

You will sign me up to fight in your war

I will be asked to give my life for my country

Today, can I give my life for someone I love more

Why won't you let me fight now

Why won't you let me win now

Why must I breathe if only for your bloody agenda

I want my life to matter

Even if it is only for this brief moment in time

My life does matter

But not in this way

SINCERELY

YOUR UNBORN TAXPAYER AND SOLDIER

Poet's Note:

Today the American Supreme Court overturned abortion rights. Google it… it's all over the news.

I wept today and wanted to find a river that would accept my tears. So I wrote this letter, this poem.

Who am I to have a voice for the unborn? I am Canadian. I live in a country that legalized abortion and has stood by that decision.

Who am I? I am a woman who cries today. I am a poet who can only create a picture. I can't turn any heads. I can't change American policy. I can only weep and write. I hope it is enough.

Pray or Don't Pray

Don't pray for me

If all I am

To you

Is one lost soul

Don't pray for me

If who I am

Is someone

You don't know

Don't pray for me

If all I am

Is the cause of

Your great pain

Don't pray for me

If all you can do

Is hope

I believe like you

Pray for me

If who I am

Is someone

That you love

Pray for me

If praying

gives you peace

And gives you hope

Pray for me

Because the one you pray too

Is your friend

Not just your god

Pray for me

Because it tells me

When you do

You think of me

Pray or don't pray

What matters to me is your love

Poet's Note: Written June 18, 2022

I have a tortured relationship with the practice of prayer. This morning I felt like trying to communicate what it means when others pray for me. But like most attempts at communication... I feel like I have fallen short.