New Year, Fresh Success!

Happy New Year everyone!

Sorry I've abandoned my blog for so long, but all the typical excuses apply.

The good news is, I'm starting the year off on the right foot, with a poem appearing on anderbo.com.

This marks my 3rd publishing, but it feels like my first. I don't know if it's just been so long, or if it's because it's my first international acceptance, but it feels fantastic. (The other two, for those keeping track, were in Circa 12/25, which should be impossible to find by now, and Lickety Split #2 which is still available through licketysplit.com. It's a fabulous publication, Montreal born, but it is a proudly artistic smut mag, so uh Dad, don't buy the one I wrote for.)

With all this positivity coursing through my veins (additionally, I am in deep love with my day job), I want to encourage everyone to take their life by the reins, don't let the odds stand in your way, and refuse to settle for less. You are infinite, beautiful, and you deserve more than you believe. The only one standing in your way is usually yourself.

As I resolve every year, I will take better care of my precious blog, but only if you promise to keep reading it ;)

Long Gone

Frosted night bus shelter

When I was 10 years younger

(Or more).

You were in your layers:

Band shirt flannel corduroy

(As always)

And you rubbed me warm

Through the hole in my jeans

While we considered what more our markers could say across the small turf of our wind-block.

All of this was romance then;

Long before dramatic teen-aged heartbreak,

Years before the real world settled upon us and into our pores

Like a fine weighty dust.

After the bus pulled away with you I

Lit my cigarette in the safety of the shelter

Popped my collar and stepped into the cold.

Around the corner

Snow under foot and hormones cluttering my inner narrative

I rubbed cinnamon gum on my fingers

To hide the smell of tobacco.

Practice

As of yet

None of my poems

Have been a true or adequate tribute to spirit;

Though union is continually achieved

Through the sticky act of my creation.

Small Thanks

Thank you for the air
That rushed in through my bus seat window today;
The air that was briefly without car exhaust and construction dust
And was in fact like fresh cold water on my dirty face.

Query

She stopped --

Eyes hard,

Lips down-turned --

And asked

"Why must you walk through the grass when there is a designated path?"

Which there was, and on which she stood.

It meandered through the greenery with intentional curves

Meant to insinuate an organic nature.

I grinned;

My feet firmly planted, and my toes touching life

And asked in reply

"When did walking on concrete ever make someone smile?"

My Nature

Growing up

The field across the street from my home

(Sturdy squat apartment building

Proud of its small mark on the skyline)

Smelled of chamomile through the summer

But I didn’t know what chamomile was

And only knew that it smelled like field.

The tiny cluster of trees in that field

Huddled together against the encroaching city

Sheltered bears and rivers and snakes

In my youth

Despite being across the boulevard from a mall.

And while it would be nearly a decade before I saw a bigger forest

I have yet to sleep under the stars.

In Memory

My Bubby passed last Tuesday. Anyone who knows me or is a regular reader here, knows the depth of this personal tragedy.

In addition to being an all encompassing grandmother who could transform a can of Campbell’s chicken soup into an event, or keep me enthralled with a sink full of water, a few kitchen items and her uncanny knack for improvisation, as I grew I saw her as the whole and wondrous woman she truly was. A woman whose face lit up when she recounted the dinners and dances of her youth, someone who would smile at your naiveté, let you choose your own course, and be there with open arms when you fell, offering love, hope, and a small sermon on the subject that left you wiser. She had a strength and fire that propelled her gracefully through her 95th year. She was God loving, not fearing, though she believed in universal balance and counted on it often. A skilled storyteller, she jumpstarted my imagination, and in the decades since she has provided me with vital recharges as needed.

She wanted to be a Rabbi before a woman could be, and though people laughed at her, she didn’t stop telling people her dream. She grew into my own spiritual leader, and the spirit she introduced me to is pure, and transcends religion. She taught me that prayers, spells and rituals are all equal, the magick is the intention behind them.

She was the matriarch of my heart, and charged me with the task of continuing to tell my own stories despite my periodic disappointment. She planted the seeds and tended to a part of me that no one else has ever touched, and now in her absence, I must flourish in her honour.
When we buried her on Thursday, the first day of summer, under perfect skies, across the street from strawberry fields, I marvelled at how right it all was; such an appropriate final chapter for a wise pagan and proud Jew. We had said our good byes many times (just in case), and when she went, it was with a smile. No one can ask for more.

I am rerunning the pieces I have written about her, including one that was never posted. I expect that she will continue to inspire and affect my life from her place in the wind. While I will miss my Bubby, I know she will make a wonderful angel, and I can sleep soundly knowing that now, she can dance again.


God’s Light

I sat with the oracle
One Sunday
As she ate sparkly pink marshmallow hearts
That are not good for her diabetes
Which is of no concern to either of us
And I asked
If there was enough light
Because I wanted her to see
How my daughter has grown
And she smiled
And said that
Only God has lights
Bright enough
For her eyes
But that my daughter is gorgeous
A real shaina maidelach
And I promised that for Easter
I would come back
With marshmallow chicks
And brighter sunshine

Smile =)

She taught me the power of crystal

Then showed me that power in everything

She taught me to see in tea leaves, cards, and palms

And then taught me how to read people

She told me to stay close to God

And then years later that god is Love and Joy

She taught me to improvise

But never compromise

And to smile

But not too much

Or people will think you're stupid

Butterflies

I still remember walking through summer

Hand in hand with her

Before I knew she was magick

Or even a woman

Only that she was my grandmother

There were more monarch butterflies then it seems

And they say calmly

Elegant here and there on the leaves and concrete

But when she tells the story

The butterflies are endless

Wings the colour of sunsets and moonless nights laid out like a tapenstry before us

And suddenly I

Remember it that way too


A Thought For Today

This past weekend I had the pleasure of sitting down with my grandmother. My Bubby: quick witted, strong willed, right about 95 years young, she's my favourite lady in all of the world that I've seen thus far. I bet that despite whatever travels I may yet have, she will remain as such. Proud and honest, uncompromising but always improvising, she is a pillar in my life, a role model, and my soul food. Even if she wasn't prophetic, spiritual, sharp tongued and at peace, she would mean just as much to me, but of course, she is all these things, and days later I'm still glowing from my brief time with her. I feel inspired, uplifted and renewed, and while I know that not everyone has a Bubby (for which I really am sorry), I hope that you can connect or reconnect with someone who brings you the same joy.

Go get 'em.

Change

My poetry comes out differently now

It floats out when I breathe

Spills from my eyes

Locks up my words

I can walk away now

From a blank and longing page

And my soul still dances in time with cosmic winds

And though on occasion

My poems still do leak through the nibs of my various pens

To fill the pores of this page

Canvas to my imagined genius

For the most part now

I inhabit the spaces between words

And each breath is a volume

A universe unto itself

The Night Of

Mid winter vision quest
With a fresh subconcious seeker,
His skepticism washed away with the moment,
And a silent type
And me.

I feel like a fly
As on so many walls before
But he thought I was an angel
Or a witch,
And maybe we are all both
Once we get past our dogmas and jean size.

I am reminded how much
Summer nourishes me
And how very far away it is
But I am whole
Filled to bursting.

And come morning
Just myself and you
With your starlit memories
I know that my quest is complete
And my journey has just begun.

On The Bus

I find myself in the back of the bus again

Scribbling bumpy lines to pass the time again

And I'm feeling like joining the ranks of the indelible and indecipherable

The esoteric symbols and names of the latest phase

Those with enough passion to feed their protests

Pointless and otherwise

And there is a small sanctuary found in the youthful ease of steel toed boots

Worn bright and arrogant

Ready to shitkick the world

And there is cool comfort in the company of those

Who still have the energy and naivete

To believe that they can change the world

Before it has the chance to change them

And though I still tend to be a proud member of a limited breed

The enraged vigilantes for beauty and civility

I am aware of all the cocoons I have sprung from

The countless daily concessions I make to compensate for my cosmopolitan cravings in this instant's society

But I still manage at times to muster the spark to design a few signs

Walk a few lines

And in flashes that seem on occasion to be

Duller and fewer and farther between

I find the fire to fully believe

That I can create art from this ongoing calamity

Build my own future

Buy a farm

Find my rhythm and learn to drum

And finally drop

Into something greater

By dropping out of this