Greyed out

Old lady with grey hair, grey eyes and grey clothes,

you showed me your Ipad.

The screen was all grey.

Only thing left to restart and try to get back those vibrant apps,

That fill your life with rainbow colours.

Nothing came back just grey and

old lady you look lost.

Standing alone in a sea of grey.



This was the view

Lots of water, bridges, sky,

a ship.

Thar’s when I said, ‘I was alone’.

I did not look at you ,

I stared into the scene to make it appear

a dream.

Then as now 8 telephone engineers

knocked on the door to put in the cable.

The police lady took off her hat

and held it her arm like

a big pot.






How many kinds of sweet flowers grow
In an English country garden?
We'll tell you now of some that we know
Those we miss you'll surely pardon
Daffodils, heart's ease and flox
Meadowsweet and lady smocks
Gentian, lupine and tall hollihocks
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, blue forget-me-nots
In an English country garden

There I see you, you are looking at the garden.
I see your hand on the phone
delicately reflecting in the pale light like a ghost.

You arrived after me, yet went before me
traveling to the garden, you find space.
You put flowers in your hair and wander.

You smell the lilac, sweet peas and lilies of the valley.
Your name is Tara, you are the Goddess of compassion
my name is Jane, I am the grace of God.

Family Ties

The murderer and the murdered

I feel like Agamemnon as he sacrificed Iphigenia.

I am Iphigenia as she died at her father’s hand

a rag stuffed in her mouth.


I am a myth

open my mouth.

I left, leaving the mother who will

kill from revenge.




You are the first nations, the first people.

As I was coming in you were going out

You held the door for me and said, ‘good timing.’

I asserted, ‘Yes, indeed good timing thank you.’

Ascending the stair I felt my settler state.

My emphases extending everywhere

your body, your speech, your land.







There was a man

outside Tim Horton’s  –  fast asleep.

His whole world tucked in around him

Himself splayed out, blissfully asleep on the street.


The thought of sleep how I sleep, how you sleep

how we all sleep.

With our world in disarray around us from concrete to mega thread counts

our mouths hanging open as we sleep and retreat.






The Grounding

A green tree, a pink tree,

a bird house, manure and daffodils.

A beautiful speckled bird on the slop of a roof

it flew away from me and made a cheery chirp.

I could see red feathers on its underwing

a white pom, pom  plume  in the middle of its back.

I thought that was so beautiful that the two of you took the house because of the pear tree in the garden. I saw the picture and knew that was all I ever wanted a tree that blossomed and swings for my kids to play on. I would bring my tea out to the garden and sit in peace and sip my drink . My ideals are shattered as I struggle to find a voice that says,’ hey back off mother’. This is me and I have to write me.

When I was growing up there was a blossom tree next door and every year pink petals would fall all over green grass. The pink petals, touching the green grass slightly as if in remorse for the inconvenience of falling. Then the new neighbours came and cut it down and all that was left was a stump. Maybe they never knew about the falling blossom, I remember both know and can see the grace in the fall and the violence of the cut.

My mother said, ‘don’t you dare cry.’  but the loss of innocence was just too much. I became very  ill and never shed a tear or told a soul about what I had witnessed. She put me in bed and left.

I did see my mother through a crack in the curtain, she stood in the carpet of pink and green and held in her hands a heart she squeezed tight and held it up high. as if  in triumph.  The blood trickled down through her clenched fingers forming riverlets on her hand that gathered and ran down her arm in dark tears.  she caught my eye and I hid behind the curtian.

I will write a thousand words in correct form, using proper tense and share them all on the world-wide web. My words will fall  everywhere like the blossom petals and each word will touch many hearts.

I have opened  the Pandora’s box of mother.

Memory Foam

I visited the bed shop

the customer service lady showed a memory foam bed.

As I lay down the foam took me

the most gentle grasp shaping around my prone body.

I lay as if in a body bowl.

When I arose the memory of me disappeared

and I thought of the dead.


The dead, who died in hospital on foam mattresses covered in plastic.

We washed their soft skin

lifting limbs and wiping gently, taking off signs of life.

Silently we dressed them in a shroud

the mattress kept its sense of shape long after the person departed.

Storing the body story.