Feels like poetry tonight . . .

A glass of wine to ease the way

A cup of red scented sweetly as bruised roses

Warming the flesh and humming along bones

Alive with memories of days long past.

The storm came and drenched the road,

Ragged clouds harried before by mighty wind gusts

emptying torrents of rain on the blanching grasses

and jewelled leaves still clinging to the trees.

There is a waiting about the air,

A pause in the atmosphere,

A stillness in the movement of time and tide

while the planet hurls itself through space.

The season changed, but the earth resists,

delaying the fall into barren branch and frozen earth

as a woman plucks her silver hairs

as a man fights the aches of age.

And now, a poem: September Haze

September haze 

Warm and sweet with the scent of gentle rot

Thick air like soup blurring the moon

Pockets of yellow on shields of green

Heavy dewfall soaking the earth

Last breaths of summer slipping through the chill

A season on the fence, teetering uncertainly


Unwilling to go

Unable to stay.

A gory, gross poem about my housefly

The housefly disappears when I bring the swatter out.

I can hear it buzzing in its slow flight,

roaming the humid air of my home.

How does it know to evade?

Does it sense its imminent death on the psychic waves?

Can it see the shape in its multiple eyes?

Do flies tell stories about the swatter

from one generation to the next

passing down cautionary tales?

And why won’t the damned thing settle?

I feel the impatience of the hunter stalking the prey

Wish for the reflexes of a cat

and the eyesight of an eagle.

Stop and rest your wings, fat housefly,

so I can squash your shell into your brains!

No sticky ribbons for you to be trapped,

feebly wiggling your legs in a futile reach for freedom.

No empty glass to release you into the wild,

for in your stupidity you will bumble back inside.

It is only, for you, a great smashing swat,

and your body will pop out of living existence.

My apologies if you are the spirit of an ancestor,


I am disgusted when you land on my face as I sleep

I dislike the scratch of your legs on my calf

I hate that you crave my food without providing in kind

And I know that you carry germs on your hairy bits.

Come to me, round insect,

Come to me and accept your fate.

Waiting for the Perseids — a poem

With time to kill under the darkening sky,

I stoke a fire with cardboard and dried rosemary,

Listening to the crickets and frogs and loons,

and the distant rumbling of the night train.

The fuel catches and flames churn upward,

Flickering in broad leafy columns, never still.

Grey flakes wander lightly down through the evening air,

Harbingers of the long winter yet to come.

The chugging roar of my fire echoes the train,

air conditioners and rooftop fans nearby.

So bright, the flames, my yard is illuminated,

In the cool darkness, the heat is welcome on my legs.

When the rush dies down, the smoke is scented

sweetgrass and thyme rising and falling about me.

More stars speckle the midnight dome above

than I could ever hope to count in a lifetime.

And the Perseids come.

Am I imagining the streaks of light?

Brief lines of white?

Are my eyes, adjusting, playing tricks?

Or have I been welcomed by the universe?

I recognize satellites, and familiar patterns in stars,

as my head rests against the top of my chair.

And then — out of nothing — a bold lashing white

As a piece of a comet’s tail burns into our world.

Ode to a Storm

The wheel of the year has turned, 

and it has brought storms in its wake. 

Distant rumbles, unremarkable at first,

could be passing trucks or a load of timber.

Looming clouds block the summer light

with jagged edges and smooth front lines

as the front pushes itself overhead.

Infrequent growls, the great animal rises

its approach marked by gusts of wind.

Flashes of light announce each giant step,

booming echoes, crackling sound waves

shaking the house and frightening the dog.

And then the rain, cascading in sheets,

pounding in random rhythms on the roof. 

Close the windows to keep the room dry.

Open the windows to soak in the petrichor.

glad I came: a poem

Belly laughs until the tears are falling

Splashing in rolling frothy waves

Board games in the waning light

Floating in tubes along the glistening sunset waters

Lunch in the shade of elms and oaks, talking

Movies in pyjamas

Sharing space companionably

Dares and stories and memories…

Sleepovers are not only for children,

And vacations are not couples-only.

When two friends meet for days of R&R

Even Nature smiles.


Reflection (in poetry) on Rehearsing The Comedy of Errors

I spent most of today in a long professional development workshop, learning about our new school board-issued iPads, and for the most part, helping my colleagues who were struggling to set things up or learn how to use features. And then this evening, I got to spend time in rehearsal with adults I know as volunteers and teenagers I know from my classroom — which rather felt more like professional development than the other. I’m not in charge in any way, shape, or form, in this production. I have to memorize my lines and portray my character using the director’s suggestions, decisions, and feedback. I have to work in tandem with the rest of the cast, rather than giving orders (as is my usual role with a production filled by student actors). And I have to practice the skills that might normally be teaching. For years, I have advocated teamwork, laid out how to prepare for a performance, taught projection, advised young people in how to memorize their lines. Now, it seems as though I must put my money where my mouth is — walk the talk — in order to help this performance shine. It is an effective challenge. It’s both intense and great fun. Only six nights of rehearsal remain until the official rise of our metaphorical curtain. This poem is composed of some of my thoughts and reflections while in practice tonight.

Unknown-10edging closer to opening night


preliminary blocking complete


the lines are fragments still


that i stretch to bring into order


with timing and emotion


for the work of the Bard


a handful of days remaining


work and play both demanding effort


dedication to the words


markings by ink, scrawlings of lead


copies of what has come before


through years and decades


actors who are students who are actors


watch the young man memorize while


to also write paragraphs and reports


feedback that he uses to grow


while i struggle to memorize while


grading and exams and reports


what is the beginning for them


the play is the thing


an exercise in hearing and listening


patiently gathering wisdom


the student is the actor is the student


wondering if they see me as i see them


our positions change

Ode to the Procrastinating Student

Guzzle the coffee, chug a can of energy,

the deadline is just hours away!

Stay awake through the night, alone in the dark,

while your family dreams of summer days.

What happened to promises of time better spent?

Calendars marked and alarms put to use,

spreading out tasks in workable chunks,

to avoid the last minute push, as you do.

Eyes bleary and sore, neck tight and cracking,

fingers numb and wrists ache while you work;

your shoulders get knots, you can’t feel your bum,

no extension from your teacher, the jerk.

The word count is your focus, not spelling or grammar;

she probably won’t even read this, you think.

If I make the font larger, and increase the space —

please don’t let me run out of printer ink!

I’ve been where you are, dear procrastinator,

writing on essays until the light of early dawn.

I know the pressure and the rush of success,

and the pain when you save but your work is gone.

Beware the computer crash: save often, use the Cloud,

and next time, do your work ahead of sched.

The adrenaline’s addicting, the bragging is fun,

but you’re better off using your head.

Remember that kid relaxing, playing games ’cause he’s done?

That could have been you, had you tried!

Instead you’re hunched over, losing sleep, stressing out,

and tomorrow you’re going to be fried.

I appreciate the effort, you’re doing your best,

believe me, I’ll pore over your every sentence.

Think of your teacher with her piles of assignments,

and know that I’m stretching my own patience.

When the sun is hot and the sky is blue,

the last thing we want is to be staring at pages.

We have that in common, pupil of mine,

because summer comes to school in stages.

Denial: there’s lots of time to finish up!

Anger: what happened to the rest of the year?

Bargaining: can’t I have until the very last day?

Depression: this desk will never get clear . . .

Acceptance: I’ve got to get moving and finish the job

or repeat the damned class next semester.

The good news for you, kid, is when you pass, you’re gone,

while I’m still going to be here.

So stay awake and complete what should already be done,

hand the work in, then hit the beach.

Take the break that you’ve earned, even if it’s last-minute,

celebrate the goal that you’ve reached.

A Poem about a Lilac Tree

The lilacs are blooming

sweet perfume so thick in the air

you can almost touch it.

Bunches of pale purple pink white

Thumb-sized bees bumbling over

and around

and through

slick green leaves and twisting branches.

But mine

My little lilac did not survive the winter.

Two years planted

Two years growing

One month too long in deep snow

One week too long in deep cold

One day too long without . . . something




Too late.

I saw buds try to sprout, valiantly pushing

points unfolding

tips reaching out

Not enough.

The branches reach emptily to the giving sky

Withered twigs holding still

Frozen still

Nature’s artistic impression of cracks in stone

Lightning reversed in its bolt and encased

like Medusa’s victims of old.

All else is blooming and green and fragrant

My lilac tree shies away

lost in the background



grey and colourless

no new shoots

but weeds all around

waiting for new purpose —

its shape to be adapted in form.

Shall I rebirth it as a tiny house

and furnishings for my garden fae?

Weave the narrow branches

into a picture frame?

Soak and twist its fibres



binding into place

what once was living wood into a case

for holding precious memories —

for the giving of gifts —

for the nurturing of seeds?

If everything has a purpose



my lilac tree’s journey has not finished

at the end of my backyard.