Tag: other people

Three Girls

[caption id="attachment_367" align="aligncenter" width="417"]Three Sisters - Near Canmore, AB Faith Hope Charity[/caption]

Our girls are not
Bedrock and limestone.
Take them to the dance and
Pump them full of absinth and
They are yours. But all those
Bruises rush downhill in
An avalanche of destruction,
Coach.
Little man, you are
Pummeling your own
Little girl, your own
Little princess at her
Fifth birthday in the
Bathroom with your hand over
Her mouth saying shhh shhh
Don’t tell. Apologize and
Wallow in your regret; don’t
Worry little man. Another
Misguided sister will bring her
Charlied up compassion to
Bear and around and down again
The story will go until
Your own little man
In short pants and
A mantle of excuses
Centuries-long and heavy
Slams himself inside another
Unconscious
America’s Next Top Victim, cuz
The girl won’t go
Easy but the
Judge will.

I’d Like My Heart Back


I’m working hard to
Blame the shit out of you,
You cardiac surgeon who
Never met me but who
Transplanted my
Engine to another
State another
Lazy excuse and then said
It’s for the best.

I don’t give a shit
What you call her:
That heart pumps wildly
In this life, in this
Dream world, leaping
In a chorus of sister
Screams as it
Flies on daddy’s
Homemade tire swing.

Mine

mine


mine

The boy kept grabbing, kept putting his
Hands all over me and saying — one way or
Another: “mine,” and I didn’t have the
Words at first, nor then the steel, then
The will to stop him. I let it all
Roll downhill, the both of us
Tumbling over the earth and
Each other and he still grasping at
Whatever he could with I unable to
See the sense in it. And we skidded
Like Buttercup and Wesley
Over course dry grass into the
Last fold of the hillside, and that
Was the end of it all, the end of
Moving in any direction, of needing
Anything but to
Lie on our bruises, and
Gaze at clouds made
Whole by the wind until our
Breaths returned and I noticed the
Feel of his fingertips just barely
Against my own and I could then
Move toward him just enough
So he could hear me agree:
“Yours.”

photo “mine” by Grevel, on Flickr

Emergent Occasions


No man is an Island, intire of it selfe;

Every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;

If a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were;

Any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde;

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

— John Donne
‘Meditation XVII’ from
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions

Out the car my foot hit the cement at exactly
Noon, exactly the moment the bell tolled
The bell hitting me close by yet, I ignored her,

Until she shouted and roared, until she leapt
High; I ignored her until the occasion
Emerges and so that I had to beat back the waves.

How true, I learn; one can never unring the bell.
No. Unsell your filthy body you
Holy whore, just see if you can.

Wring out my sweet, soaking dishrag and
Twist her with your might and she will
Only be more ragged and limp.

The day presses on into isolotary comfort of night.
Dinner bells gone cold.
Faberware stands hard up and dried in racks.

I am diminished. One foot on the cement
Clod floating away from the
Maine land, all’s quiet, except the ringing in my ears.

Eavesdropping.


We are always eavesdropping.

The boy in the next yard admits
He forgot to do his work, and the ladies who
Race by walking exchange their bodily failures
Like measurements of sifted flour.

I hear you, little bird hiding in the Yew.
You’ve complained about the
Weather before, damn day chilled
Too quickly after a tease of hot sun.

Sounds hang damp with the long rain.

A song lifts off the bubbles and the
Grease, across my hidden neighbor’s
Drive. I hear her, simultaneously
Washing time away, and clinging on.

We are always eavesdropping.

How Dyana Valentine Said YES, Twice!

This week I am the Guest Poet on the beautiful poetry site: Bentlily. Please do go over and have a look.

But, before you do, I’d like to tell you a quick story about how Vancouver poet and entrepreneur Samantha Reynolds found out about me and Demand Poetry.

I received an email from her about a month or so ago. In the e-mail she said: 

Dear Elizabeth… The indomitable Dyana Valentine suggested I connect with you (she called you her favourite poet).”

Have you ever met someone who is totally and completely brave? Who says  “YES” to things on impulse and lands dead-on right?

That’s who Dyana Valentine is. 

She was the FIRST stranger to buy a Demand Poem from me via my website and Paypal. She didn’t know me. And certainly didn’t have a certificate of guarantee that the poem she would receive from me would satisfy her soul.

But Dyana didn’t hestitate. She invested in me. She laughed with me, and egged me on. She said “Let’s go girl!!” and she must have enjoyed the result, as she has told others about me.

I admit, I have always been a little bit cynical about the concept of “Life Coaching.” But I am not at all cynical about mentors, leaders, and people who inspire us to move forward. These women and men succeed because they are not adverse to risk. They are brave.  They move their minds, bodies and spirits apace.

Investing time and money with a mover pays back, and forward.

So, this is just my way of saying thanks to Dyana Valentine, for her YES, which is a muse of bright impulse and leadership.

And to Tara Gentile too, whose conversation with Dyana connected us in the first place. Thanks for her mindful and fearless dive into the creative world.

Life moves with them.

The Two Men


Before JD left, last time, to go back
To Kansas City, he and Colin
Agreed that moving the laundry
From the basement to its new
(Though not finished) room
On the 2nd floor, was the most
Important last and final chore
To complete before the
Two men who love me most
My dear friend and my husband
Parted ways for another
Four months. I hear the rocket engine
Squeal now of the washer drum spinning–
Hard at work
Reminding me a good deal of
The world’s sweetness is
Positively mundane.