I want
sun on your shoulders
breeze in your hair
speed in your feet
you with
me.
harp tune-Suo Gan
Here is Suo Gân, a Welsh lullaby, arranged by me and dedicated to David Prosser of the Barsetshire Diaries.
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My paternal great-grandmother was Margaret Owen, born in Holyhead, Wales. She was married to Thomas Mosses of London, England. About the only time the two appear to have been together is on their marriage certificate. According to many years of census data, Margaret was alone from the time of the marriage onward. My grandfather was David Owen Mosses. I wonder if single mother Margaret ever sang this lullaby to young David?
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(And if you happen to be a Mosses from Liverpool or London, I’d love to hear from you).
poem-darkness June 23, 2014
The porch swing rocks
beneath a speckled sky.
Mosquito hums fill the air;
black wings swoop overhead
in invisible rustlings,
swallowing music.
micropoem- illicit scent June 22, 2014
The perfume from
these stolen peonies
seems extra sweet.
.
.
.
(Lest you think I stalk the neighbourhood, masked, with scissors in hand looking for floral victims: the peonies in question were bending onto my driveway from a peony bush in a bed so overgrown I don’t think the neighbours even know the bush is there!).
poem- demon hunting June 21, 2014
You don’t believe in God
but you know demons,
up close and personally.
The ever present haunting,
sometimes out of sight
but never far,
is a billowing storm cloud,
black and ominous,
waiting to pour down upon you
waiting to wash out your roads
waiting to carry you away
too rife with hopelessness
to thrash against it.
A demon rides your shoulder,
its claws clinging to your skin,
its fury held at bay by
an umbrella of medicaments,
a pharmaceutical shelter
from the storm,
inadequate against a
demon’s tempest.
poem-laughter
You toddle over,
your two tooth grin wide.
When tapped
upon your button nose
you burst with
belly laughs.
.
.
I met Iona today. Iona is little, and doesn’t speak yet, but she oozes personality!
poem-sun June 20, 2014
The mahogany marbling
of my arms betrays
my desire to remain indoors,
out of the burning glare.
Strange times, when
we are forced under sun.
Instead supervising exams
we direct lost tourists
to the Info Centre
(Google, your map is wrong,
like this government).
So many metaphors
and all day in the sun
to appreciate them.
.
poem- the line
Picket signs
propped in front of us
we strike for a better world
either strolling the side walk
or strumming harp
or guitar.
A strike is like a barbeque
for a cause
fueled by coffee and doughnuts
instead of beer and beef.
poem- stand up June 19, 2014
“Why are teachers even bothering to picket,
when you aren’t getting strike pay any more?”
he asked.
I told him it was because teachers are moralists
who are defending democracy
and fair working & bargaining conditions
against a corrupt government:
A government that ignores the court rulings
spends billions of tax payers’ dollars appealing
judgments by the Supreme Court
and the United Nations saying they
are WRONG to steal from our kids.
It will pay billions for a stadium roof,
but will not pay for educating its children.
I told him that in such a war,
pay is a small thing.
We will fight, because if our government
succeeds in destroying OUR union
then every other working person in this province
is in peril.
If OUR contracts can be shredded with impunity,
so can YOURS!
We are fighting for YOUR rights
and for our students’ right to a properly funded education
against a government with an agenda
to destroy public education and the middle class.
We’re fighting for YOU! I told him.
“Oh,” he said.
poem- creek
From the bridge
I look down
upon the frozen creek
and see a red mitten
bobbing under the ice.
