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.

The First Modern Japanese

A biography of a famous Japanese poet. The book explores Ishikawa Takuboku’s (pseudonym of Ishikawa Hajime)  intent to be a writer at all costs. His poems are easy to read and he is a master in the art of tanka. He passed away at the age of 26 of tuberculosis.

File:Ishikawa Takuboku.jpg


Here’s a tanka from the poet,

Seeing off at the train station

My wife came with our daughter on her back.
I caught sight of her eyebrows
Through a blanket of snow.

tree dream

I had a dream of a modest monk

He was walking around with a bonsai tree

growing from his head.

Althouugh this looked extremely painful

it was in fact very beautiful.

I want to dream the dream again

I want to look at that wonderous tree

and wander aimlessly with the monk.






Each Poem

What if each poem was a masterpiece

Afer all I did sweat under the toil of creation

There was an intricate handiwork

Similar to a surgeon or a sculptor.

I guess after all, I lost 46 poems,

It was as though I didn’t care or is in the showing

of the leftovers that my puny pith will be,

seen as pain.

There was once a poem that went by the words,

‘I am going to bake me a cathedral.’


I want to let go –
so I don’t give a damn about fine writing,
I’m rolling my sleeves up.
The dough’s rising…
Oh what a shame
I can’t bake cathedrals…
that sublimity of style
I’ve always yearned for…
Child of our time –
haven’t you found the right shell for your soul?

Before I die I

bake a cathedral.