Poem: Absolut Apeach – with Song and Dance


I don’t know what the future holds, it’s vapour and ash in the palm of my hand. I try to tell myself, time will tell, but my thoughts are a muse that inspires; the present feels like I’m singing an epicedium, a word that has meaning to mourn;

It’s so challenging to be sitting here and waiting for the funeral to end; hello, Adele, can you hear me crank up something with a beat and dancing feet will swarm. I am looking for that lamp that always guides my feet, to take me out of depressing hymns and into the feelings of the warm breath of dawn, and life, and being a part of something outside myself and my musings. 

Sing a cheerful song, grab a partner and make a connection, a reflection in the looking glass; the print of today’s paper is bigger, but so was last night’s complications, corrections, don’t be so dull or forlorn. I am waiting for such answers, a teacher marking tests, never finding the perfect words, until one student finally understands the form. And with all of this frantic writing, we need translation we need more words, slang, and hyperbolation is the night’s score;

A rhythm finally knocking, some tapping, the sound of a thousand voices humming, to the typing of a sentence, say the right words, let learning explode. Implosions are the stars delight, it implies a meaning that can be found, in the exestential crisis explained by all this science; faith is not only one word.

And you might go hopping quietly down the rabbit hole, but drink the tea and eat the cakes, now your bonkers it’s too late; in all the madness, and hats that we wear in life, to let the mouse out of the tea pot and bring peace to so much, guiless sneaks evil, in the form of mockery, and jesting — it’s just a joke that a cat can only understand.

If we pick up some beats, will slumber cease, can I find some elaboration? One time, on hellos, and goodbyes. I’m not coming back, the grass is greener here. Don’t you know that’s not always just some saying, to keep people from being escapists and running to the otherside.

Ground at our boots, lets let the melody unfold in loops, candy canes on parade, no Christmas yet; there’s snow to make us tremble, the semblance of the night is roughly raging and you can’t just go inside you need to stay and improvise; it’s a party for the roaring of the singing voices, and those that dance suggested.

I implore you listen and read into the gestures made awkwardly by the person talking; can you think for yourself, see the truth in motions, not emotion, that could be fake; no liars here, they can disappear. They are oblivious to these simple truths we hold so dear, keep the bell ringing for tonight we gain a truth; instead of lies, it’s a surprise, now appear. Bow low before the crowd you’ve enchanted with a voice so clear.

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Poem: Hallowed Faith 


How do you let your children out, while spirits whirl the earth; the forlorne dead they swirl out and surround your younglings softly.

Do their cute costumes scare the vapour away, while they beg for candy? Or, do the undead reach out for them because they know vulnerability.

I pray that if the door creaks extra loud in your dark basement you won’t think ill of all dejected presences. For where there is bad, there is always good and good is always stronger.

Don’t fear for the little ones on the streets, or in the shopping malls; pray and provide for the little ones who have had nothing to eat and can’t afford clothing (never mind, a costume.)

In the dark cementaries, the dead abide, but I think the soft murmers you hear are stirrings of your heart, for loved ones lost, holes inside you that will live while you do.

Though evil and horror exists, it’s found surface in people — the terrible demons in history. Look at the cross, don’t let evil win, and forget about the spirits dreaming. 

Your happy loved ones who had faith, they went to heaven and their timeless paradise; they feel no pain, they are not moaning for you. They know you’ll come home soon — to them your life is seconds. 

So, while spirits may tremble at the evil that walks, it’s because he is real but he hasn’t a shot, at your dear ones who have learned their prayers, and know what is right. 

Children laugh at the figments of imagination that inspire a hallowed time of year; where candies mean more then the wandering spirits; and scary movies are fun, if you know there not real. 

And while the zombies assemble, you watch the Simpson’s Halloween 2015. And your son or daughter will have M&M’s and Kitkats and you’ll take all their Reese’s Pieces –because they could have peanut allergies, you say.

Poem: One Day at the U of A (and thoughts).


The swirls of the smoke coloured sky, scintillating and swarming as it deepens to ebony, a black blush of thoughts blanketing my mind. This is the evening time of reliving the ravages of day. 

I went out into the torrid of the thoughtless crowds, university students sighing and harassed by midterm exams. For a moment I held faith with them as I wrote, before remembering I was someone else.

Caught between two spheres, the adult who should be solidifying her career if not for a fatiguing sickness, and the ever determined student delving  deeper into knowledge once she learned the more you know, the more you do not know. 

A paradox indeed, that going to school for what seems like a seamless and unending time, has left me the truth: you know nothing even though you’ve been in school since you were six, you only can perceive that a person cannot know all there is to learn; no wisdom here but the air between your ears.

And I pass the swirl of bodies in modern university garb – ankle boots, and pea coats; skinny jeans and knee boots; sweat pants and running shoes. I do remember those days when I wore what they wear. Now I go out, I dress like an adult, classic, I think; but the staff on campus look at me as if I’m a young student, lights dim, it’s nearly been eight years.

But I found through my minds persuasion of lurid purple thoughts and intriguing segways, that there are many paths to knowledge and many ways to gain it; Pathways of pink and plenty into the working world, could be wonderfully convenient one day if I train myself for jobs with adult education. 

But for now I’ve accepted to attain the unattainable and focus on one course and apply for a masters, when next spring comes about. I figure that an MFA in creative writing cannot make me know nothing if it’s all fictious because I formed the story myself. I know what I know, especially if I made it up.

Clouds of cotton fluff in the air, sunshine soothing on my face, no wrinkles to create I wear serum with SPF. Still Green grass in October with orange fire and red fire leaves. I walk home, hop on a train, the bus. Hurriedly, pull myself beneath the covers. One day down, sleep in the breath of cold air tonight, arise fresh and freezing to winters bitter blow. 

Poem: Waiting to Shop


I would be thrilled if I could go shopping, 

I enjoy it online or in some stores, 

I don’t buy too many clothes, but when it’s cold,

I like to buy opaque tights, blouses, and boots.

A few pieces that show I’ve kept up in fashion,

I am on trend, and I look put together,

See before you, the image of a fashionable girl,

But I’m trying to lose weight and go down a few sizes.

A problem because my wardrobe is built on 

All my favourite clothes but in my current sizes.

So if I buy even a piece or two more, that is just

More clothes that don’t fit at a size or two smaller

That gape at my waist, and look as if they’ll fall off me.

At least that’s how I imagine it would be,

I’ve got months ahead of me and the problem is,

I can’t do any shopping until I am sure,

What size I will be, or what size I will not be.

And it’s not an issue of money. I could shop if I want.

But the practical voice inside tells me, wear your wardrobe 

And wait for spring shopping,

Then you will see, if you’ll be how you’ll be.

Or if your clothes all still fit and you can buy the same sizes. 

A first world problem, indeed. 

Poem: Midnight 


What do you write at midnight? You write a midnight poem. When the spirits of the dead arise and tell a haunted tale with their moans.

What do you do at midnight? You stay inside, try to sleep. But the moon is blood red and it’s dripping from the sky. Crimson drops on a wandering person, out when he should be home.

What do you say at midnight? You say “I cannot sleep. For nightmares abound and the images of goriness, I can’t get them out my mind.”

What do you play at midnight? Well, it’s almost Halloween. Put on your costumes, scare the hell out of a stranger. Let the spirits howl in their graves, gather your candy and run away.

Whom do you seek at midnight? I seek the siren’s singing. A voice as compelling as fine chocolate absorbed by your tongue. A voice of creamy dark delight ensnares a fool who dares to taste the musical sound. 

What do write at midnight? Of strange happenings and wild youth under the blood moon. Full moons change people, it lets the monster come out. Be careful who you play tonight, your act could be cut out. 

What do you yearn for at midnight? I yearn for an evenings walk. To promenade on the   shrouded dark street and let loose the demon inside; at night she can arise to join the shadows until she finds daylight. 

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers – A Glass of Poison


Merida watched from a distance as her cousin and bestfriend Meredith was encircled by people at the summer party she was throwing. An almost full moon shone eerily upon the tables and decorations. 

Meredith found Merida with her eyes and motioned with elaborate hand gestures for Merida to come join the circle, much of which was filled by men enraptured by Meredith’s vivacity. But Meredith was married and cared only for one man, her husband, Kieran. 

Merida was pretty, but she felt as if she were some cheap wine next to some expensive Cabernet – Sauvignon that was Meredith. Despite the fact that Meredith tried earnestly to introduce her friend Merida to some handsome and often, wealthy men, Merida never liked any of them.

As the night wore on Meradith and Merida found themselves talking about some good times they’d experienced together at a small table. Kieran found them, bringing his wife wine, and began telling funny stories.  He drank in Meredith with his amorous eyes as he talked, mostly ignoring Merida. 

Suddenly, Meredith collapsed on the table, dead still, after tossing back her wine. Merida secretly gave Kieran, her innocent accomplice, a sinister smile. Merida had loved Kieran once. It seemed fitting that he brought Meredith, his wife, the drink that would kill her. 

  
Thanks to  Priceless Joy for hosting! 

Sunday Photo Fiction: Gram’s House


” Look what I found?” Tia cried, from her Grandmother Ida’s attic.

“What? I can’t believe people use to ride bikes like this, talk about instability” Shauna replied.”What are you doing up in Grandma and Grandpa’s old attic anyways?”

” I was just look in’ around” said Tia, “I love to see Grams but she’s ninety-three and starts to repeat herself after a couple hours. Glad you came with me this time, where is Grams anyways?”

” Taking a nap in her room,” Shauna replied, “She’s doing really well for her age. I think that bike has got to be older then Grams, it must have belonged to her Grandparents or something.”

“It seems pretty sturdy, the pedals still turn, and nothing is rusty. I think we should take it down to the front of the house and ride it. I don’t think Gram’s would mind.”

” Okay,” Shauna said and both sisters managed to maneuver the bike downstairs to the front drive. Shauna helped Tia up on the bike and held a hand to her sister’s back. 

Suddenly, there was a buzzing sound and a flash of light. Both sisters blinked in wonder to see their Grandmother’s house not in it’s dilapidated state but painted white with blue trim.They examined their clothes, shocked to find themselves in 1930’s dresses. A woman came out of the house and put her hands on her hips. 

” Who might you be? ” cried the young woman, “I’m Ida Sinclair and what are you doing with my Great Uncle’s bike.” Shauna and Tia were flabbergasted.  Somehow they’d gone back in time to when their Grams was a young woman. 

” Well” Tia replied, “that’s hard to explain, but we’re relatives who have come for a visit. . .”

“You talk strange,” said Ida, ” But I guess you can come in for tea, and tell me all about yourselves. I do seem to remember you two from somewhere.” Tia and Shauna carefully, put the bike in the front yard and went to join their young Gram for tea.

” We’re going to need that bike to get back later,” Shauna said. 

“No, I don’t think we’re going back Shauna,” Tia shrieked, as the bike disappeared before their eyes.

  
Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting! 

Weighting to Exhale 


I have some thoughts to share tonight just about my life and hopefully some of you out there can relate. I have touched on this topic before but not for awhile.  Weight is always a touchy topic because it relates to body image. 

We are taught these days that women are beautiful at whatever size they are, a size two or a size twenty-two. I think that’s wonderful and I hope that girls can be satisfied with their weight and looks as they grow and become young women. I’m happy to see models in fashion shows in New York and Toronto, who are plus-sized models because the average size for a woman is around size 12 to 16 in North America at least. 

 When I was young (maybe six or eight) I was shamed for being fat. Body image is something that it is engrained in you when you are young. I ate healthy food and only small amounts of junk food. We had a large garden, raspberry bushes, and an apple tree — all organic food. My Mom froze beans and peas, we always ate whole wheat bread, we hardly ever had sugary cereals for breakfast. We biked and walked regularly. But fat has always been something I’ve been afraid of being. It’s a demon I left in childhood only to be met again in my mid to late twenties. It’s too late for me I’ve already developed in my mind a picture of the ideal woman figure. I was never her, even when I played sports and/or worked out regularly. I was always that fat little girl, and in my mind I still am. 

Currently, I think for me body image and fat are something that I’m struggling to reconcile. We all have that number on the scale that we think, we are very overweight if the scale reads that number. We feel that we’ve got a major problem on our hands because the number is too high a weight for our bodies. I have reached that magical number and I am pulling out all stops to get back to a healthy weight. Believe me it’s going to be a lot of work. 

You see, as much as I want women and girls to be satisfied with their bodies, I also want them (myself inclusive) to have bodies that are healthy, whatever size or number on the scale that might be. It’s all fine to say that you are happy being over weight and you love your body; I’m glad if you do. But lately, I don’t feel that way because I’m not fit and I’m not eating right. If I don’t develop some type of plan to deal with my body, fatigued or not, my weight will only increase, and my physical health problems will increase.

Some of my weight issues probably have to do with genes on my Dad’s side due to the fact that many of my relatives put on weight as they get older. But also, having a mental illness and chronic fatigue almost all the time has lead to my weight gain. Mostly, due to weight gained through the side effects of medication — clozapine most recently. I put on roughly ten pounds each time I am on a psychiatric medication for awhile, they usually all cause weight gain. I try to be okay with it. I’m too fatigued to do significant cardio to counteract the weight gain.  But I think part of my problem is not paying attention to what and how much I am eating. 

This means going back to portion control and also not drinking my favourite drink that’s bad for you – Pepsi, especially in copious amounts. It means not ordering burgers, even though my smaller and fitter mother does, and ordering a salad with water not pop. It means trying my hardest to do some type of exercise a day, this will require all my effort. 

I’m trying to do two types of exercise: yoga, just some gentle stretching to keep me limber, and walking for 20 minutes, even though it still feels weird walking without a dog. Sadly, I will feel worn out after 20 minute walks for awhile, that is what seven years of fatigue does to you. It makes it harder and harder to be physically fit. 

The last part of my plan is that I am trying  a few products that have worked for some people I know to lose weight, but they are the kind of products that could work or could not — you never know with diet products. The first is a product that involves drinking veggies, so I receive all of my veggies in my diet; the second product is a product that helps break down fats in your body around meal times; the third product is wraps that help break down fat in your body from the outside  (I don’t know about the wraps but maybe they too will work). I will try these products for three months and if they work they work, if they don’t, it’s no significant financial loss. But I am hoping the products help together with portion control, adding back in some exercise, and getting rid of Pepsi by drinking water and green tea blends. 

If I can lower my weight I can improve the image I have of myself because I’d feel more positive about my body being healthier, especially around my middle. Your stomach is the worst place to have extra fat because that fat is visceral. In addition, I would feel and be healthier because my BMI and waist would be smaller. These are two major indicators of good health, although, they are not one-hundred percent accurate. My limbs would also feel less stiff if I did yoga and my cardiovascular activity even walking would be better then just sitting. And clothes would fit better as well.  I could even drop a size or more and have  a greater of variety of clothes to choose from. I’m a size 14 US right now (sometimes a 12) and not all stores go that high in sizes. 

 I know my weight doesn’t devalue me as a person, it doesn’t define me; weight doesn’t devalue or define anyone. But in my case, I feel I have little control in my life, especially with my health. That is another reason losing weight appeals to me, because it is a small piece of life that I have some control over. I can do little to change my mental health and the fatigue it causes, but I fight it because at somethings I can win. Maybe, I will never be a size 8 again but being a 12 or a 10 that’s in better physical shape then I am now, that is worth the effort, worth the fight.

We can’t control everything about our size or our weight. Woman exist into a variety of shapes and sizes. Weight is often a grave subject to talk about because many woman can’t do anything about it due to health problems such as medication, thyroid issues, having kids, lack of time to exercise, and many other reasons. But there has to be a point where you say I will control what I can and at least change that. Take the initiative to be healthier, no matter how small the change. Make changes you can live with through out your life and keep your body physically healthy. 

Literary Lion – Thoughts on the Edge. 


Standing at the edge of something is a difficult place to be but it’s a place we regularly function in, some of us better then others.  It’s just like looking over the edge of the whirlpool, waiting to jump in, knowing what’s on the otherside may make you sorry that you missed it. But it may also destroy you or define you, as poet Margeret Avison describes in the poem “The Whirl Pool.” 

Stevan Tyler of Aerosmith sang that living on the edge, “you can’t help yourself from falling” and I think he had a good point when it comes to living in this world, we are always on the edge of choices and decisions. 

Paul Brandt sings in his song Risk, ” I’d rather stand on the edge of a cliff and hang my toes over a bit and jump even if it scared me and I got hurt. I’d rather live my whole life with a sense of abhandon, squeeze every drop out no matter what happens, and not wonder what I had missed – I would rather risk.” I think that says it all, he would like to live without regrets. 

Imagine standing at the Grand Canyon and going out onto that glass look-out point, the one you can see right through at the rapids far below you and the layers of brick red, dirty orange, vanilla, and brown canyon as far as the eye can see. Or imagine waiting at the falls at Niagra and watching the water going over. The edge is a difficult place to be but there is often this sense of freedom and no regrets associated with the word; but not always. 

Think about someone being  mentally and psychologically pushed over the edge due to mental illness or something they can’t handle. This is a vicious place to be for someone experiencing mental trauma such as psychosis, depression, or anxiety. And the majority of these people just need your understanding, your help, and your friendship. 

 I think mentally and psychologically, the edge is a hard line to define in exenuating circumstances, where people become violent.  For instance, no one knows what makes killers of unhappy people on campus, when they go and shoot everyone they can put a bullet into. Is there a point when this could have been stopped? Citizens know that with tighter gun regulations these type of events go down dramatically as do gun related deaths. That’s an edge to me, an edge the US government and citizens have fallen off of and will continue to do so until laws restrict guns. 

As for myself, I face a different kind of edge dealing with a life on the edge of exhaustion. I’m always trying to push myself past my limits, only to be stuck in bed the next day because using all my energy has made me ill. So, when I’m out, I must keep track of that three hour mark, knowing that if I let myself go past that edge I will deeply regret it  for one or two days after. That three hour mark is an edge I balance on as I plan what I am going to be doing each day of the week and how I am going to manage if plans change, as they often do. 

I use to live on different edges — the edge of drinking, that point where you have had a lot to drink but not so much that you will regret it the next day. Or the edge of a relationship. At what point is enough enough. When I played sports there was that edge, at what point do you pull someone off for not playing well and put someone else in? At what point when you are losing does the team collapse and fall apart and start getting mad at each other. When do they start to learn how to get past that drama and play well anyways. 

Edges are despicable places to be, but they definitely define us in a moment, a split second of choice; a mental, emotional,  or psychological decision. Here’s to you as you face that edge and I hope the edge you face is good place to immerse yourself in. May you never be afraid to step off it, thoughtfully, in the right moment.  May you have the courage to help and face others who have wrongly stepped of the edge, and lead them back to stability. 

Thanks toI Smith Words for the prompt edge.

Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers – A Sleep Like Death


” What should we do tonight? ” Brian asked his wife Kate.

” I don’t know babe” Kate replied “Same thing we do every night after supper?”

“Nah, it’s such a nice night outside, lets go take Kreacher and Daisy for a walk. There getting fat. You give them too many table scraps.”

Brian and Kate embarked on a walk in the forest by their house. The dogs were running all over and chasing each other until they came upon a wealth of mysterious plants. Kreacher sniffed at one then snorted and walked away. 

“What’s this?” remarked Kate, ” It’s growing all over. I’ve never seen it before, and we’ve lived here ten years.”

“Huh” Brian said and began to finger one of the plants. But when he looked up both the dogs and Kate had collapsed on the forest floor where they breathed deeply in sleep. Brian yawned, and fought the wave of lethargy overtaking his body before he too slept. 

A passing sorcerer smiled darkly at the sleeping bodies. Didn’t they understand, they had crossed into her backyard –an enchanted forest. Any human or beast who smelled her favourite flowers fell into a sleep like death. No telling, who or what would wake them. Certainly, not her. 

  
Thanks to Priceless joy for hosting; she does a fantastic job!