When Words Are Not Enough

Last Words

If you were born with a special gift

a talent, a unique intelligence, a stunning beauty

or if you possess amazing courage

sparkle with optimism

express great wisdom

full of compassion and deep curiosity

yet remain the most humble servant

if you are the dancing queen

if you win awards, publish books, sell  songs

create movies, run the marathon

you will be hated by some and adored by many.

It’s the troll factor, the bully playground

for those who were taught they are worthless

useless, ugly, clumsy and stupid

when what they needed most

was to to rise above contempt, to be loved

and the more you shine

the more they shrink

and every happiness you earn

inflicts another cut to their flesh.

But we are wrong when we say they are useless

they are very useful to the puppeteers

who lay steel across nature’s blossoming fields 

for the sale of war, slaves and the eternal triumph

of fear.

Defending Civil Society

"If our politics is becoming less rational, crueller and more divisive, this rule of public life is partly to blame: the more disgracefully you behave, the bigger the platform the media will give you. If you are caught lying, cheating, boasting or behaving like an idiot, you’ll be flooded with invitations to appear on current affairs programmes. If you play straight, don’t expect the phone to ring." George Monbiot, Bring on the Clowns

If you are feeling your world is no longer recognizable avoid blaming the average person who may be somewhat impressed by the novel trends.  This breaking apart of civil society is being achieved by powerful dark money as well as the people who are desperate to keep their jobs.

What I hope for and depend on, for the sake of my mental health and the well being of my children and grandchildren, is the waking to our personal realities and by choosing where we find our community.

I have found, like millions of others, the goodwill in friends, family and neighbours who have not invested their belief systems in celebrity, capitalism, and material trinkets. I buy local goods made by people of integrity wherever possible. I buy natural food. I donate to organizations that challenge injustice and work for the greater good of all.

All the above are ways in which I am supported by good people, and although I am concerned about the influence of machiavellian "news" outlets and toxic propaganda, I do whatever I can to support peace and social justice.

My letters to the editor rarely get published but I send them anyway. My books of poetry haven't won awards or contests, and my blog is mostly visited by porn sites. But it comes down to this:

There is only a short time on earth for me to witness, create, or judge what is going on around me, so I will do what I can to create a better world along with the inspirational people I meet and work with.

One thing has become clear to me: elites of all kinds whether in media, school or government do not have a monopoly on the meaning of life.

Happy Father's Day

I am remembering my own father who died suddenly in 1977.

He was determined to remain strong, drove to distant places to hold a job, insisted that I organize parties for his grandchildren because he thought the joy would be greater for the toddlers than my fatigue, never let us know he suffered from ill health or pain of any kind, took an interest in the larger world, travelled, made lots of jokes and told stories all the time. He chose to love life, good food, laughter and was loyal to his friends.

I have inherited some of his habits and bombastic personality, but most of all he taught me to be engaged in the world, to participate and to be myself.  

Unfortunately he never learned to reveal his sensitive self and so I didn't get to know him well. He didn't take care of his health and never appeared to be vulnerable. He believed that being a father was about protecting your family, being a fortress, and I would have loved him better if I'd seen more of his true feelings.  It seems that men are taught to be strong all the time, always winning and never losing, but I think we lose our authentic selves when the emphasis is on the role.

Today I think he would have loved to see his grand-children grow up, get married and have their own children. But he didn't have that opportunity.  He died of a heart attack in his late fifties.

Wishing fathers all over this planet, a day where their relationship to those who depend upon them, tells them they do not have to be in control - no matter how much they love their children.

Misogyny

After reading The Preludes to Assaults by Jane Eaton Hamilton I was compelled to post this poem on here.

Forget history, culture and knowledge. Break free

of your hoarding of facts, dates. Forget right and wrong.

Nothing means what it intends. The opposite is true

until we recognize it and then it becomes a lie.

The ideologue is the great virus, scourge of this planet.

He climbed down from his tree and turned it

into toilet paper. He tore open his mother’s flesh

to mine for gold.

Hated his kind, moulded it into a sword

made of his mother’s blood and slew his brother.

Sold his children into slavery and called himself

Ruler. Warrior. God.

Gaia is a whore and man is her pimp.

Our laws, our art, our songs, can’t rid her

of this storm, this swarm, this pandemic

this era of man who descended

from the awe and beauty bestowed upon him

by a power he could never deconstruct

this creation larger than his knowing

the stars he couldn’t reach, so instead

he sought revenge and created the order

raping every vessel of hope, each womb

of enlightenment, churned our mother’s milk

into grease, a war to be won.

So when we talk of misogyny as though

it’s simply the fear and hatred of woman

remember – it is the seed of homelessness

entrenched so deeply we blame nature

say it is natural law, say boys will be boys

corner them by two converging walls

of a doctrine so bricked no light can enter

no doubt allowed to breathe

trapped in the construct even she defends

his privilege by love’s failure to disarm

the earth he has littered with weapons

against the distant bird singing at dawn.

published in Eyewear Blink September 2015

National Observer lists Ontario Budget Cuts for 2019

Ontario budget cuts for 2019 - this list found in the National Observer:

Legal aid for climate emergency
Money for First Nations Wildlife Protection
Paramedic services
Support for Refugees and Immigrants
Legal aid and crime victims

"The 2019 budget forecasts that Ontario’s public account will not reach balance until 2023–24, one year earlier than the prior Liberal government of Kathleen Wynne had proposed but beyond the current term of the government’s mandate, breaking one of Ford’s key election promises." (National Observer.). But it looks like people who really need help to survive and the environment will suffer.

This morning as I waited for the ferry I struck up a conversation with a woman who lived in a luxury high-rise condo who was upset that homeless people made her and her visitors uncomfortable as they sat on a bench near the shopping mall asking for change.

I confessed I felt uncomfortable that people are homeless. It seems to me their plight is way more damaging to their well-being than having to say no to people who ask for a handout.

But then that is a sensibility that predates the concern for balancing the various budgets. The flurry of panic headlines that worry about government debt don't include the costs of homelessness on a societal level -- a kind of blindness we maintain as if life itself is a nuisance, undoing our vague sense of security in the abundance of things, entertainment and nice homes. When people suffer they seem to get in the way of being organized.

The Price of Freedom

Homo Sapien

 Thomas Paine's answer to the price of freedom is eternal vigilance.

Vigilance to what? The many ways humankind has chosen the will to power which normalizes oppression. Below is a list of habits that will maintain our relationship to the world and silence the fear that leads to hate and search for the scape-goat.

1. Question every decision that will affect the most vulnerable.
2. Reject notions of superiority. You are not superior. No-one is.
3. Listen to others.
4. Eschew violence wherever it is.
5. Admit to being vulnerable because we all are.
6. Write a list of all the times you felt oppressed but kept silent.  What kept you silent?
7. Apologize to those you have hurt.
8. Engage in difficult conversations with an open mind and heart.
9. Let go of being right.
10. Ask your inner child for their opinion of who you have become.
11. Know you belong here.
12. Get used to the fact that all who are here belong here.
13. Don't attempt to make others do what you want them to.
14. Take care of your home and all who live in it.

There is no magic in this. It is not a recipe for saving the world. It is a primer for keeping a society civil so that we can live together without causing harm. Be prepared for hard work without thanks. As the poet Mary Oliver says - you do not have to be good.

Locating the Soul

- glosa  on Jan Zwicky's poem "If there were two rivers"

If there were two rivers.

If their water were clear gold.

If it were a flood, a homecoming, and where they joined,

a standing wave, its crest of white.

“If There Were Two Rivers,” Jan Zwicky

What if the soul could be found

if it were a place, a destination

or a mark on a map to say

this is where we are from

this is where we began, before bones

were covered in skin, before altars

were built on balanced stones

words like wings imagining form that conjures

a rod, line and hook used by fishers.

If there were two rivers.

What if the soul could swim

like a catfish suspecting the bronze hook

purposely baited with its own end game

just as a fable knows the ending before

it shapes a beginning like a rod and line

something hard, smooth and shiny to hold

the old stomach’s memory of hunger

perceived, understood and told

floating in currents fast and cold.

If their water were clear gold.

What if the soul were a glacier melting

into the unseen river. Not the one used

to baptize the innocent, to carry our warriors

and waste to the sea, where fish are farmed

and trawlers give up their catch for tankers

a teeming current, water purloined

— but the other one flowing through veins

beneath the bank recounted and coined

as something owned. And what if it were a flood,

a homecoming, and where they joined,

outlying peaks merged beneath a pink sky

the sun rolls down like water, behind

those mountains, in protest against tectonic plates

that fought and caused the earth to quake

the dusk air curls and softens hard edges

fading, departing, almost dissolving but not quite.

Then a fleeting tease asking why you came

like an urge that lies silent, timeless, polite

and in that distant diminishing sunlight

a standing wave, its crest of white.