Category: Poetry

Held in Liminal Space

Portland remembering

This morning’s weather reminds me of when I was younger. It shows just how Portland I am.

It’s grey everywhere except for the explosion of some small Spring flowers. It’s cold. It’s raining but not pouring but it’s constant.

The wind is blowing. It’s blowing hard enough that I can hear the bells hanging on the porch.

The trees are still barren with just small buds of green showing. The exceptions are the Magnolia and Tulip trees that have full blooms, now drooping and dripping. The Japanese quince, stiff and thorny, is showing pink.

I walked the dog and I was reluctant to come back into the house. But Yum Yum was wet (her least favourite state) and ready for her treats.

Now, I’m sitting in my room and the rain is tapping on the windows. The big and old trees are swaying slightly against the wind.

I can hear the heater motor and see the fake fire inside my electric stove. Somehow warming.

The cat is sleeping on my bed so there’s no reason to make it up. She has made beautiful swirls in the blankets.

It’s very dim in my room and I don’t want to turn on any lights. I like this gloom and deep shadowed corners that are inviting and welcoming.

I think I will have a cup of tea and a little bit of dark chocolate and slices of the orange sitting in a ramen bowl.

I don’t miss the invasion of the bright rays of the sun that is hiding behind the charcoal clouds as they scud by, pushed along by the wind. There is a brightness in the far distant horizon where the clouds have thinned.

I might even doze a bit today. The gentle pitter and the patter of the rain are the perfect lyric and rhythm that can enduce slumber for any troubled mind.

I’m held in the arms of Portland weather and memories. Let the world go by. I’m not interested.

To My Family

I want you to know

That wherever I live

You have a place with me.

No matter your troubles

Even if I live on the floor of the forest

Or on a cliff overlooking the sea

All that I have is yours.

You need not worry

Where you will find a home.

Small Gifts

Too many times I’ve brought you dust,

Empty shells and things that rust.

You’ve turned these small gifts into gold,

Something warm from something cold.

Paper, metal, cloth and clay,

Bits of earth, broken shards,

A hundred stones turned into stars.

No one’s heart holds half as much,

As little bits of this and such.

Summer for the Senses

The air is soft and heavy.
The scent of jasmine and orange blossoms.
A boy sits by the lavender.

Where’d you get all those scars?

Born tiny but came tough.

White blonde. Green eyes. Under Mercury.

Born into deep love. Enough to keep me safe? Nobody knew.

That dark morning when paralysis came. Then months in helpless isolation.

I’m in the middle

Only to fall. The pavement won. Muscles failed to protect. A broken skeleton.

I came tough. Rose up. But was knocked down again.

Saws, knives… cutting into bone and flesh.

Shoulder bolt. Only to bend when met with a wall.

Again deep bone cutting. Another bolt. A scalpel slip.

Pathways of feeling and blood severed. Spilling everywhere.

But I came tough. Big, deep, wide painful scars encircles shoulder and slices across my chest.

Forever a reminder; I came tough. I can carry that cast.

I can carry pounds of plaster, though it leaves a dent in my hip and covers just one breast.

I played hard. I was not crippled or disabled Mom and Dad said.

I danced, played music, wrote stories, played sports. Kissed boys.

I fell but got up again, bleeding. Scars on my knees to prove it. I came tough.

I’ll leave here tough.

December Morning

Sitting in my warm bed covered in a wool shawl. Candles and incense are lit with a cup of fragrant coffee at hand while the rain pummels the world outside in the dark morning light.