This is my interpretation of Seasons in Ontario:
January: cold.
February: cold, few days of Spring, cold.
March: cold, week of Spring, cold.
April: cold, week of Spring, cool.
May: cool, warm, cool.
June: hot, warm, hot.
July-August: hot.
September: hot, warm.
October: warm, cool, warm, cold.
November: cold, cool, cold.
December: cold.
There is something that’s bugged me about winter: the claim that you can be just as active in the winter months as in the summer months. I believe this is annoyingly more difficult. These are my reasons:
I wanna move down South! 🙂
in a scorched red building
on the thirteenth floor
see the ten candles sliced
watch as they drop down more
out the window a new hill
wasn’t there the day before
(wasn’t there the day before)
after pilots set their gaze
through the blackened night
death-grip on a promise
eyes frozen on site
out the window another pile
tell me now are you still right?
(are you still right?)
charging for the gates
tens of thousands of men
taste of fire and blood
drop to the hills again
all the faces blinded
bit by the dogs that guide them
seeth at the dogs that bind them
throw the flowers to the soil
they’ll never grow
see the luna moths congregate
decimate
affiliate
then burn in the flames
simple ones to tame
belly-up in the lake
no weapon but the knife in his back
belly-up in the river
blue with the cold shiver
slivers of his spine
scattered along the shore
with pieces of his “holy” mind
and the sacred child
it’s all just rust and coal
you can see the cursed depth
of everything that won’t be left
rust and coal
stop beside the road
see the black plumes rise
sever the cloudless skies
and mark the stones with peaceful lies
sending them back
to the arms
of America
Copyright L.M. 2008. (written May 10th, 2008.).
I heard it
hushed
rushed
like when the phone is dying
and I knew who
but I ignored it
just like you
earlier
afraid I would hear
I knew then, too
and I can’t look at you
not right after
for fear
I knew you’d see
my face gives me away
so if you don’t look at me
you’ll never see my pain
and we can carry on this way
because you chose it
how’d I have no say?
well, that’s the way of it
and every single day
I wait
and every single day
I cringe
I crawl
a little ball I am
and I try to ignore the fact
that I’m in love
and that I want to cry
and that I want to hit you
for hurting me
for not telling
for not thinking about it
just because you’re happy
doesn’t make it okay
for the rest of us
I want to collapse in your arms
and cry until my heart feels again
it isn’t easy keeping it cold
it isn’t easy being numb
but I know how you feel
and it would take just a minute
to realize
that there must be a problem
if you aren’t sure of love
you aren’t in love
it’s as simple as that
time won’t help you decide
trust me, I know, I tried
love isn’t comfort and trust
love isn’t passion and lust
love isn’t measured in time
and I know, love isn’t just
love is not wanting to leave
love is a mental reprieve
loving should not be a crime
for lovers are far too naïve
but the story here, far too sad
is in parallel
and I’ve played the role before
from a different seat
but it was just as bad
I can’t help you see
how you would have so much more
with one less
without you asking me
and even still
it seems so contrary
you probably wouldn’t
even believe me
but I’ve watched you
when you weren’t looking
and I don’t see a man in love
I don’t even see a man confused about love
I see a man confused and saddened
by the loss of a first
that was really good sometimes
and really hard
though that’s easier now to forget
since she’s allowing it
though she’s not aware
just how much you’re testing it
I’m the only other one
who knows what’s going on
and my heart is breaking for you
for me
watching your guilt
take a life of its own
and the longer you wait
the more it’ll have grown
when you finally decide
to tell her the truth
it’s selfish what you’re doing
I don’t want to sound mean
but you’re aware that you’re hurting
and destroying self-esteem
and you know what your instincts
are telling you to do
so if you won’t do this for me, or for her, babe
do this for you
Copyright L.M. 2008.
my hands are dry and rough from working
my eyes are small and used to squinting
my stature average, verging on petite
I have thin skin and veiny feet
my complexion’s poor, my tone is pale
genes say my bones will be quite frail
I have no nails as they are weak
my voice is too high when I speak
my mother thinks my hair’s too long
I think all compliments are wrong
I’m a sceptic, sometimes too much so
though I try to be fair to friend and foe
my opinions strong, my manner shy
in public you’ll never see me cry
in private I keep emotions tame
my anxiety has that cause to blame
I hate to shop, but buy a lot
no place could ever be too hot
I dislike snow, I dislike cold
I’m terrified of getting old
I have good friends who understand
I’m always later than I plan
I’m sensitive, and feel more pain
than I let off, or care to explain
I never intentionally drink alcohol
and for this, flunk social protocol
I dislike freckles, and have a bunch
I bend, I slouch, I slump, I hunch
I get depressed but never treat
I just stay up late and never eat
somehow, I’ve seemed to manage this wreck
to keep my addictive tendency in check
though these faults I easily admit
I’d like to think there’s some good to it
I’ll never regret the time departed
for when I love, I love whole-hearted
Copyright L.M. 2008.
like in movies
you can’t see the top
every one looks the same height
with trees disguised as shadows
and now the snow
lays accent on the slopes
peppering the hillsides
like cold sprinkled sugar
then we pass the slanted walls
pencil straight incisions
mark layers of sediment
showing hints of age, life
as the water tickles, trickles down
let’s raise those to the level they ought to be
oh gorgeous grazers of a sometimes He
Copyright L.M. 2007. (written in Virginia — ha! — on way to Florida.).
I have a sight
I thought somewhere near
takes me a while to
to…..
well I should have lost it
perhaps
maybe
somehow
did
inside it burns
and I shiver
you know it’s cold
so very cold
I’m not hopeless
just delusional
apparently
and to make up
for all the lost time
somehow started
to believe in fairytales
masochistic? probably
I’ve heard it heals
or bides time
with other distraction
sort of like me
I guess that’s ironic
but really, not hopeless
that’s part problem
you see why
it’s the hope that kills
if I were numb
oh to be numb
I would lose fear
I would lose pain
I would lose anger
I would lose love
well, you’ve taught me
you can’t win them all
in my year of luck
my precious months
a troubled match
a frightened soul
helped onto my plate
peppered with perfection
here and there
and when that bell begins
I will be a mistake
and another chapter
in a drama
whose clout extends
far beyond
the amusing present time
I’m sleepless
and you know why
and you won’t tell me
I’m walking the lines
with chains around my neck
ball bearings in my throat
and hands behind my back
and I say “I’m starved”
and you say you’re tired
but give me food
that I can’t eat, smell, see
and say it ought to be enough
but death takes its toll
bending all rules
portraying life as such
well you feel remorse
but upon the next
bestow a fresh nothing
ready to be devoured
and kill another
just like before me
me
and after me
I’m still sleepless
could you tell me why?
I did have a dream though
yes I had to wake you up
you transformed
into the jerk
and I couldn’t get you to leave
I awoke frightened
with the door open
do you realize
character and honesty
can both be judged
by ignoring words altogether
and looking
solely
on what you do
so in this pretend world
this fantasy of yours
some things bleed
into mine
and I try to see
subtract the you
subtract the me
to look right through
to reality
but look at me
I play the fool
I’m just the tool
to set you free
of memory
of any need
of honesty
responsibility
respectability
honour, value
worth, and truth
you see, all these
I could be for you
but that fantasy
well it bleeds too
into one which you
have saved for me
I still can’t sleep
and I blame you
Copyright L.M. 2007.
swirling
I thought I saw an icicle
stemming from a cushioned write
it’s dog eat dog tonight
clasping
sentiments historically benign
tumbling down the courteous ravine
spelling my saviour’s name unseen
tracing
necklaces with shimmery cold
a paradigm wrestles common sense
and serves the muse’s bitter defense
closing
a time with the wild
synchronizing all the notes of the break
and lulls me into a new awake
Finished: 6:42 a.m., Tuesday, November 27th, 2007.
Copyright L.M. 2007.
I guess I was overcome
so cold, so frigid
snapping crisply
I went to control my actions
and found it closed
so I walked
I found my step
along with cranberry thoughts
and I knew I was alone
for the good and the bad
I stomped out the march
of my walk
imagine my surprise
when my eyes grazed the snow
and the indents were fresh
but they weren’t mine
someone else had come
for my walk
oh how the mind reels!
alas I’m not so alone
this arrogance of mine
just wanted to sulk
in its singularity
on my walk
so I rounded a tree
traversed back behind
crossing new paths
with each little dance
to remain with my stance
and my unparalleled walk
Copyright L.M. 2007.
In high school, I came up with a shade of blue.
It was beautiful — a combination of sky blue, light mauve, baby blue.
Every day as I’d walk through the hallways, I’d look up through the windows as I passed to see if today was a Beautiful Blue day, and, if it was, it was a good day. It became difficult in winter to keep my spirits up, as the cold depresses me sometimes, but if there was a patch where I saw Beautiful Blue skies, it would lift me up and give me strength.
I love nature like others love religion. In fact, to a certain degree, I equate the two. This is really very personal but why not…… in my egotistical mind, I would see the colour showing up as a sign, a spiritual offering of a hand to help me stand again — or, if I was already standing, would help lift me to happiness — or, if I was already happy, would help lift me to elation. Natural beauty is something that never replicates; each instance really is a moment in time to treasure. You will never have that exact opportunity again to feel its presence, its power, your part in it all. All you can hope for, if you shun that moment, is another chance. It is likely for this reason that I have become a fervent advocate of spontaneity; part of carpe diem requires the ability to forgo plans and live for the moment as it presents itself. Part of beauty is unpredictability.
Beautiful Blue might look different to others. As much as I describe it, I will never know if anyone else sees the exact shade I do — not that I believe myself to be the only one capable, but when you take into account differences of perception, differences of colour receptor cones in the eyes, differences perhaps of data transmission between cones and the brain?…… but this Beautiful Blue, to me, is nothing less than hope itself, embodied in a shade of pure beauty.
A couple years after I’d begun this tradition of sky-searching at school and elsewhere, I was listening to the radio and heard the DJ mention a new song was going to be played by an artist whose songs I knew and liked. The artist: Holly McNarland. The title: Beautiful Blue. This initially stunned me. Then, my senses came around and I realized: to others, they were simply two words strung together, and could be used to describe a multitude of things…… I suppose. This is what she has to say about her song:
“The big song [on the cd], ‘Beautiful Blue,’ came a week before the
last time we went into the studio,” she says. “That was shortly
after September 11. It’s not about that, but the whole vibe, the
whole doomsday thing, was pretty apparent, and I was just
hanging out with my son. In the middle of all of this tragedy,
I would wake up and have this perfect little angel by my side.”¹
It’s a beautiful song; I loved it immediately, and not simply for the connection I had with it. One day I’d like to perform it live — in a way, to realize another dream of mine, as I’ve already recently been given the opportunity to realize one of my life dreams of being part of a band. I don’t want to suggest it, as it’s not particularly in the style we perform, but I figure that the opportunity will somehow present itself at some point in my life — just like the song did initially — if it is meant to be interpreted by my (in comparison) highly unqualified voice. This is not a case for carpe diem, after all; this is a chance to see just where my Beautiful Blue will guide me next.
So, my dear readers, after I expose my vulnerable nature to all your mysteriously faceless souls, I ask you: what is your Beautiful Blue?
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