My Wardrobe

I began my life with hand-me-downs       

From my older siblings, then two and four            

My mother was adept at scrimping,         

Having lived through the 2^nd World War 

 

We circled items in the Sears catalogue,

Circa 1968                                                       

A green fur coat! My face lit up,

Was christened Christmas tree by my bus mates  

 

We had to wear our rubbers when it rained         

But I disdained them, suffered writing lines         

98, 99, 100 times,                                                        

To deter getting ‘soakers’ the next time  

 

My mom adored red and deemed that I must, too -

Scratchy woolen toques, plaid pants in grade four             

Mostly she wore a faded tattered house dress     

While she baked, or waxed the tiled floor             

 

When I was ten, I wore my brother’s denim       

When the knees wore out, scissors made them shorts       

When they were stolen from the change room at school                  

I was a surly girl, quite out of sorts                                        

 

In grade 8 I was allowed to shop

With a $25 monthly stipend                                                     

I would also borrow trendy outfits                          

From my sister or my best friend                             

 

After many years, red has returned                         

And polka dots have never gone from style          

They’re even on my black rubber boots;                

Now when I see puddles, I wear a smile               

 

I have one drawer for dressing up                           

Crammed with wigs and hats and gloves               

I’ve kept one sweater that my mom bought                         

In blue, the colour that I love                                                                  

 

Now second-hand clothes are my go-to                 

And my closet bursts at the seams;                         

It’s a battle to thin out my wardrobe                      

But I won’t give away my red jeans           

Craigdarroch Castle

As a young girl

I toured the castle on the hill 

Climbed its 87 spiralling stairs 

To dizzying heights --

No doubt, the pinnacle
Of my visit to the capital city

Upon settling here,
I led my 6-year-old daughter
Through the first of many meanderings 

Of the former coal baron’s
4 storied edifice,
With stained glass windows,
Intricate oak details,
And lavish Victorian furnishings
In its thirty-nine rooms

From lower Fort Street,
One can see its red slate roof 

Jutting into the skyline 

Pointing the way
For hundreds of thousands
Of tourists who seek to explore 

This legendary landmark

Its charm is immense 

Truly, a sight to be seen

The Music on the Corner

Yesterday 

He played his happy trumpet

By the gray curb;

Warm notes ascended 

To my blue-sky view

With Mellow Yellow

Drowning out the whirr

Of the duo of elevators

Plunging people down

From dizzying heights

Into the onslaught 

Of upwardly mobiles,

With cell phones in hand,

And panhandlers and their dogs

Strewn roughshod

By the bank's ATM

Today it's just the street

Playing its discordant song -

The buzz and belch of traffic

And construction

As clouds,

Much denser 

Than breath

Puffed through chilled lips,

Camp out upon the foothills

While the wind is mute 

I muse he sits slippered,

Humming golden oldies,

His coffee-ed breath warm

Upon his lacquered horn

As he rubs it,

Like Aladdin's lamp -

Holding magic in his hands

---

January 30, 2020

Oh...Canada

 

O Canada, our home on native land  

Truly we have sinned against our fellow man   

With mourning hearts, we see them rise  

The numbers to increase    

Of children killed and more abused   

We stand with them and weep  

  

God, make our land glorious and free  

For every child, First Nation and Metis  

O Canada, we stand with them and weep  

 

O Canada, beneath thy shining skies  

Help us to find ways to be reconciled  

Bring hope to those who have been wronged  

From East to Western sea  

Bring healing, seeking better days   

And live in harmony   

 

O Canada, our home, and native land 

May we grow in love, with all our fellow man 

With growing hearts, we’ll see thee rise 

The True North, strong and free 

And stand on guard, O Canada 

Against our shameful history 

The Willow Tree

More than a dozen years have passed  

Since I wrote about a certain willow 

I was the sole audience when a velvet breeze 

Through her languid leaves did billow 

 

I sat upon a blanket on the lawn   

Mesmerized by her sashaying moves 

Imagining dancers of all styles  

Through her theatrical grooves  

 

Today I passed her way again 

My heart jolted by the effect  

Of her contorted body on the ground 

Like a museum piece to inspect 

 

Uprooted from her repertoire,  

She’s adapted to circumstance    

Branching in different directions 

With the ability, still, to dance 

 

Trigger

I will show you something 

I don’t care if the world can see 

Here I am on bended knee, praying 

That you and your race will know 

Your place, your place below, 

Yes, even six feet deep 

This is torture,  

Touching you, 

Listening to your whining, nigger 

I guess I should have  Done like the others, 

Like all the others  

And just pulled the trigger  

Triggered by the horror  

On the TV screen  

Blacks and white unite  

Slowly, very slowly,  

Whites are learning 

Some of the countless troubles  

Blacks have, too long, seen  

A father fears to walk his pet alone 

A patrol car might dog his avenue 

A husband fueling his wife’s car 

Those car seats in the back?  

Why should they belong to you? 

A man watching uncaged birds  

In the sunlit park  

Gets screamed at and threatened  

Well, his skin was dark 

A child walking home with candy 

A man reading a book, 

A woman looking out her window 

This was all it took  

To become a suspect 

Before a barrage of bullets ensue 

By those paid 

To serve and protect  

Uncharged, acquitted, not guilty 

Verdicts from the courts  

Is it because black lives do not matter? 

Their blood senselessly splattered 

Is still red like rage, or a face being choked  

A black man walks into a bar 

And lived to tell about it 

This is not a joke