Through the Window

Through my window I see the sunset in spring.
From my comfy chair I watch the traffic going by.
The busy flights of birds through a tangle of branches.
I feel the world moving all around me.
Some parts fast on their way to who knows where.
Others in their pace set by nature and instinct.

Through my window I wait for the late spring leaves.
From my comfy chair I watch the lights flash by.
The busy noise of trucks and cars on the highway hum.
I feel myself in the moving of the world around me.
Some parts of me willing (and able) to go with the flow.
Others resisting, instinct and nature wanting stillness.

Through my window the world goes by and sometimes
I don’t see or hear a thing as I sit in tears in my comfy chair.
The busy noise of coming and going passes me by.
I feel myself pulling back to hear birdsong and wind.
Some parts of me wanting to move on, others to stay.
Others wanting a space between to rest, and breathe.

Through my window I see sun shine and storms rolling.
From my comfy chair sunny days and starry nights.
The quiet of a curtain of rain makes the world smaller.
I feel a tiredness lifting, sheltered from the noise around.
Some parts growing and some healing, still some being.
Others being still in the moment, power in being.

We are human beings, not human doings. We are able to do so much and yet we seem reluctant to do the one thing that might best of all for us – to just be. To rest. To be still. To treasure something small. To let a wound heal. To rest in faith.

Mad Dance

They who dance are thought mad by those who hear not the music. – 1927

The struggle to understand, to be understood.
Comes down to such strange things.
Brain wires, glasses of perception, experiences lived
Culture and education, acceptance of what you can’t
understand but can sense a connection to.

Arguing about the shades of a blue pen
Seems mad, almost without purpose
But when blue is your world the shades matter
When blue is the color you see
understanding blues is a big deal.

Struggling to put complex feelings into words
A poetic crisis of faith, a true crisis of life
When those feelings demand their words
be spoken, be understood the world can crash
down and become chaos in the places misunderstood.

Knowing what you know, without words to say
Feeling the feelings large and ravenous
Speaking them to be hushed, quieted by
Those who can’t hear the music you
are compelled to dance to

Fighting so hard for the words to be not heard
but understood, accepted, with their feelings
fraught with emotion, tension, hurt and love
To see them swatted away with platitudes
and shrugs because you are being TOO MUCH

If you hear the music – DANCE!
If you feel the words – speak Poet, SPEAK!
If your heart hurts let the tears FALL.
If they don’t want to understand
Say a prayer and walk away.

It’s no fault of yours that your brain
Was wired different from the start
Neither is it theirs that they don’t see
the world as you hear it, sense it.
The pen is still blue – start there.


She’s gone, around a corner I cannot follow.
To a place free of pain and fear, she’s gone home.
We are left here. The space she filled is empty.
We don’t miss her hurt or her suffering.
We miss her. Her smile. Her laugh. Her.

She is gone, around a corner I cannot follow.
The sun shines there, but here is shadow.
We are left here. Grasping our memories.
We don’t miss the worry or the fear.
We miss her wit. Her touch. We miss her.

She’s gone around a corner I cannot follow.
To a place with no time and not a care.
We are left here. With the space she filled.
With her she took a piece of our hearts,
We miss her. We love her. We just do.

My mom is gone to heaven. No more pain or suffering. But outside of the big thoughts my Mom is gone and that knowledge hurts my heart so much. No more chances to do more things together. Even to sit and look at pictures or color flowers.

What we don’t say

It isn’t easy to not know what to say
When questions are not in formula
Answers don’t easily come out.

How are you?
Isn’t answered by busy.
Staying busy as opposed to?
Busy is what you are doing.
How are you asked
How is your being?

Are you okay?
Okay so often has a silent preface
Can you hear it?
I am (not) okay.
But we happily skip past
Okay is easy, neutral, bye

When the answer has the ‘not’
or the “I am having a hard time”
Can you be present and wordless?
Can you be a listener and still?
Can you help me hold and acknowledge
This pain, grief and hurt?

You don’t have to be comfortable.
you shouldn’t be, I”m not.
This hurts. It sucks. It’s raw. Ugly.
It’s confused and it’s unsure
My ‘being strong’ is a facade,
It is a shield for your comfort.

It feels so lonely, and unfaithful
To want so badly what can’t be given
Won’t be given. Either way.
Falling apart isn’t an option
Strength required and needed.
Salty tears burn quietly
Polite acknowledgement of
your distance grants a pass.

I won’t stop asking after your heart.
I won’t stop brushing past the busy and okay
I know how that (not) feels and
I honour it with my concern.
“Thoughts and prayers” are good
But are no replacement for
being present, being there.

It’s not easy, never said it was.
If it’s hard for you to be here,
imagine if you will
How I’d love to be anywhere but.
And can’t. Won’t. Because
Someone needs me more.

I wish I was strong enough
to shake you free from your
safety and your platitudes
But I don’t have the energy or the will
When I am slow to come back,
understand the miles I’m walking alone
I don’t blame you, but I miss the idea that you’d
be there as I’d try to be for you.

How long can you stay in a stage of grief? How much preparation can you imagine and still not be ready? Grief isn’t a line, or a road, It’s a twisted scribble full of traps and triggers. It may get straighter, or so they say. All I know is that as hard as it is for you to be there for me, it’s harder to be alone in the middle of it.

Black Galaxy Marble

Perfectly smooth, perfectly round
Swirled depths spots of light
in darkness.
Cool to the touch
but warming hard
Always the same
Different at each glance

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The Ones who Don’t Cry

Strong. Reliable. Present.
The ones you lean on.
They struggle in quiet.
Their tears run unseen.
Anguish saved for private.

Listening. Watching. There.
Hearing your hurt.
Holding your hand.
Their own pain silent.
They are just there.

Invisible. Isolated. In pain.
Their burdens they bear alone.
Keeping their pain apart.
Quitely reaching into
empty space alone.

Okay. Busy. Fine.
Each one a careful lie.
The truth: (not) okay
Busy but struggling.
Fine = won’t bother you.

Exhausted. Drained. Done.
Too tired to explain.
Worn out from masking.
Creaks showing through
Pain leaks out unexpected.

You flinch. You deflect. Diminish.
You don’t know what to do.
You don’t know what to say.
You disappear, silent.
Loneliness a chill shadow behind.

But…but…what can I do you plead?
Asking for the easy task
The hard work is to be done.
Be present. Be there. Listen.
You don’t have to do, just be.

It’s incredibly hard to be present and not do anything but be there. And yet that’s a critical task. And it’s a task so many cannot or will not embrace. It is one that can heal hearts, bring comfort and will be treasured. You don’t know what to say? Then feel okay being still and present. You don’t know what to do? Just be there. Being in pain, feeling hurt, scared, alone or sad isn’t wrong. Or bad.
It’s nothing to be fixed. It’s something to work and walk through. The strongest people cry alone, work through their grief doing their best not to be a burden. Don’t leave them do so this alone.

In My Shoes

Here, take them, have a walk
in my shoes. A mile (or ten)
I have a beach with waves
to wash over my tired toes.

Here, take them, have a time!
My shoes know the paths
to wonder, hope, despair,
frustration and pain.

Here, take them, these things.
They won’t feel good, worn
to fit the shape of my feet,
the shape of my walk (life).

What? You don’t want them?
Then stay in your own shoes.
And stop telling me how
to walk in mine.

Do you ever with you could just have someone listen, and be there, without trying to tell you how to walk your mile, your ten, your valley or mountain?

I hear you. Next time tell them they should, but they won’t like it. They never do. After all isn’t the walk they want, it is the control over you.


Pardon the mess.
and I mean me.
I am busy learning
how to heal from
being broken by
you trying to fix
what wasn’t broken
but was different.
It didn’t’ fit so push
pry, chop, mash
squeeze and tape.

Pardon the messy
and I mean me.
I am busy learning
how to love who I am.
Not who I was supposed
to be, or how I was
supposed to be.

Pardon the tears.
I am using salt and water
to cleanse wounds
and old scars.

Pardon the burnt timbers.
some bridges just are
made to be burnt.
I will draw new dreams
in ashes and tears
across my arms and chest.

Pardon the frustration.
would it be easier if I was
quieter, or maybe angry?
Quiet you can ignore.
Anger you can get mad about.
I am just figuring out
a lifetime of crossed wires
and mixed signals.
Coded messages I couldn’t
crack because they were
a language, not a code.

Pardon the rambling.
Some things are not
made to be put away
neat and tidy in a box.
I know you are uncomfortable.
I won’t stop healing
but you can have a nap.
The easy things you’ll see
the hard work – no.

Pardon the acceptance.
I won’t be less for you
to feel like you are more.
I won’t hide the scars.
They prove I made it out.
I honour them now.

Pardon the mess.
I am busy trying to
heal what was broken
while you were trying to
fix what wasn’t broken
in the first place.

Doing deep work in therapy. Finding my way. It is helping. And it is exhausting.


afternoon shadows stretch long
last piles of dirty snow melt in silence
smudge of winter forbidden

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You Move Me

Nothing is more patient than water. 
It moves at a pace set by the stars.
In forms we only think we understand.
Dividing mountains and plains.
Sweeping across the land voracious.
From one tiny droplet in a cracked stone
to a mighty storm surge hurricane fed.

Standing in the Rockies, on the stones.
Geologic babies still sharp, still wild.
Standing on a frozen lake, fed by glaciers.
Standing on a frozen river.
Hearing the water from the waterfall
still moving stones, mountains.

Our plains are shaped by wind and water.
From prehistoric lakes and inland seas
to carved peaks and rounded old stones.
Trees and plants cling, dig in, embrace.
Reaching for water, for life, down deep.
Animals follow rivers like a highway.
Sometimes becoming lost in our cities. 

Humans dig, pile, plan and dam against it.
They attempt to tame that which is world
shaping and wild, living and breathing.
Nature won't allow her children to stay
trapped by us forever. She will let them
break free in a fury of wildness and
violent creation. Recreation. Rebirth.

Grind down. Build up. Bind and rend.
But when I am in the mountains.
On that frozen glacial waters I don't
think of that ancient lake, or the flooding.
I think of the beauty wrought from the 
fluid upheaval of rock, the shaping of
wind and water. The wildness is a way
to find my calm. My centre. It soothes.

What changes will spring bring?
Floods and storms ravage the earth.
We cannot hold her back when she
is determined to blow, to flow, to break.
We can only seek shelter and rebuild.
From what she leaves behind.
And we mourn what we thought
to be permanent and should have known
was more fleeting than a breath.

Yes I am standing on a frozen lake, and a frozen river.
And I felt the river flow below me. It was , as it should be, wild. 

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