Black Star
He told her his cousin was killed
in a chuck wagon race.
The wagon came down on him when
his horse stumbled and fell.
“He was killed instantly,” he said
He told her he grew up on a farm way north in Alberta.
“I had a pinto and when he died my mother
bought me a black stallion.” he said.
“I called him Black Star because he had a star
in the middle of his forehead.”
“If the star had been perfect”, he said,
“We never would have been able to afford him.
QUEEN OF COLOURS
He called me the queen of colours
after i went back to university to pursue
a fine arts degree
I think you could draw, he said,
watching me doodling on a serviette.
We were living above the Greek restaurant
just a stone’s throw from blvd. St. Laurent
He came from Romania where he said he was
refused entry to a fine arts school because
they said he had no talent, that he couldn’t draw
The reason I could draw and he couldn’t
he said, was becuase he was beaten
as a child and he wasn’t
-March 15, 2012
Metaphor
Our lives
run together
like a braided rope
Twisted and woven
into lives
lived apart
-March, 2012
A True Cliche
I wasn’t upset when you said
you’d moved in with someone else.
Because you were never the one.
Let’s just say I’ve been to
the promised land and back.
-March 10, 2012
Inside Of Me
(a song)
You didn’t know
what was deep inside of me
I didn’t think you cared
what lay underneath
You always called me Mother
and wanted me to do
all the things that made you comfortable
But you didn’t want me to see
me naked underneath
You didn’t want my love
What I had to give
I didn’t want to be unfaithful
Just wanted someone to know
what was deep of inside of me
What I had to give
Wanted someone to show himself
naked like I was
You didn’t want to let me see
Didn’t want my love
I had to find someone else
Someone who needed me
Someone who needed that part of me
The part you couldn’t see
Someone I could touch
See naked by the door
Take the love I had to give
Hidden inside of me
Take what was underneath
What I was wanting to give
What I wanted to share
-Winter, 1980
L’Air du temps
(a bar in Old Montreal)
Plants hanging
Together
In isolation
From the ceiling
Glasses
In order of size
Colour
Why didn’t my mother tell me
I was black
Inside
On the outside
White
Untouched
The music fills me up
I’m inside out
Upside down
In a spin
Like the fans above
Circling
-Winter, 1980
Alone
I’m on the bus leaving for Vancouver,
It’s getting dark,
The sun is setting.
I feel sad and scared as we drive through the downtown streets,
Away from the city,
Away from Montreal.
I’m sad and scared of being alone,
Alone on the bus for three days and nights,
By myself.
–March 15, 2012
The Velveteen Rabbit
She had a real one as a pet when she was a child,
His name was Peter and he went wild and ran away.
When she took him to the cottage at the lake,
She gave a picture of herself holding the rabbit to her lover.
Taken the summer she was eight,
It seems strange thinking about it now,
And realizing it was this crazy lover who made her real.
The Paper Bag
He left me a bag of fantasy clothes,
Are too small.
A Jean Harlow white satin nightgown,
the other tied together with straps,
with barely enough material to cover;
a blue blouse with butterfly sleeves.
A small white crocheted top,
and a cotton blue gingham jumpsuit.
They are too small for my aging body,
Like his fantasies.
Le Vieux-Montreal
The Bar Down At The Corner
There’s a bar down at the corner,
Down near the waterfront.
A bar on rue St. Paul,
It’s called the L’Air du Temps.
I go there sometimes in the evening,
After my work is done
Down to the bar on the corner
The bar called the L’Air du Temps
I go there in the evening
After my work is done
Don’t want to stay alone anymore
Up on the fourth floor
I go down to the L’Air du temps
the bar near the waterfront
The one with all the hanging plants
and the living room upstairs
I go down to sit around
and sip a glass of wine
Want to listen to the music
Don’t want to get involved
Just want to sit arounf
and see what’s going down
At the bar on the corner
The one called the L’Air du Temps
Don’t want to be alone
Up on the fourth floor
Don’t want to be alone
after my work is done
Just want to hear the music
Proby on his sax
Some guy on the drums
And Cat on her rythm guitar
WAnt to hear Harold on the base guitar
And Slim banging away on the keys
Don’t want to be alone anymore
Up on the fourth floor
When I go away on the weekend
Back where I belong
I keep hearing Proby on his sax
Belting out a song
Keep hearing the music in my head
and I know I’ve got to go back
Back to the bar on rue St. Paul
Back to the L’Air du temps
-March 24, 1980
Longing
I live on the Pacific west coast,
Where everyone raves about the rain forest.
While I long,
for rooftops,
in towns and villages,
the church spires in Montreal,
old industrial buildings,
and especially,
the beauty and silence of St. Paul street,
at midnight after a heavy snowfall.
Canoe
I love the word canoe,
for what it brings to mind.
First nations and voyageurs,
portaging and paddling across Canada,
when there was only wilderness.