Category Archives: Edmonton Community Poetry

Shakespeare versus Textsphere

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In April, I had the pleasure of seeing Romeo and Juliet at the Citadel Theatre. The iconic love story of two teenage star-crossed lovers made me curious to mix Shakespearian language with what I imagined today’s texting teens might create. This is what I came up with.

 

Romeo: Smiling Face With Heart-Shaped Eyes

Juliet:   Smiling Face With Heart-Shaped Eyes

“O Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

Romeo: WYWH

“If I profane with my unworthy hand this holy shrine

The gentle sin is this:

My lips two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Juliet: I  Purple Heart  U

“And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay

And follow thee my lord throughout the world.”

Romeo: 4EAE

“Call me but love,

And I’ll be new baptis’d.”

I  Purple Heart  U2

Juliet: SWAK       Kiss Mark

“Good night, good night!

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

That I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

Romeo: TTYL

HAK

Juliet: XOXO

 

  • All quotes were written by William Shakespeare
  • WYWH wish you were here
  • 4EAE forever and ever
  • SWAK sealed with a kiss
  • TTYL talk to you later
  • HAK hugs and kisses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Young Man Watching

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I watch you watching the sun rise

With your face turned upward, expectant, excited.

The City reveals itself slowly

Gradually becoming visible after a long night’s sleep

Glittering and shiny

Red gold

Your face too shines in the reflection.

When you see me watching

You smile sheepishly

As if I have caught you doing something wrong

This staring in awe at a new day

You sit on the window sill

So golden, so still

Like some forgotten icon.

 

 

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Video JoJo

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In the August 2013 edition of the Rat Creek Press, I  wrote a poem entitled Don’t send a poet to do a dog’s work, which was about our dog JoJo. Several weeks ago, we found out that he had cancer and he died. He was a wonderful spirit and a good friend to our family. Thanks, buddy.

Video JoJo

I sit in the vet’s office, in a straight-backed chair,

not moving,

as I watch the shadows miming stories behind the window blinds

I find myself projecting your life onto that shadowland.

You are a puppy

Your big paws and big ears- too large for your small body.

I remember you running in between the pine trees,

following the fence-line of our acreage

you moved in and out of the whispering shade,

the trees’ lower limbs, patting your back gently as you leapt with abandon,

diving under the pines and back into the light.

Outside this room, the outlined limbs of a tree scratches at the window,

the black silhouette beckoning.

I hear the doctor’s verdict in a far-off voice, you are dying,

like a skipped stone-never reaching the other side of the lake.

When I send my friend, Mary, a video of you

I type ” Video JoJo ” in the subject line.

We buried you there in the trees

on a day filled with light.

Picking up your beloved squeaky cow toy,

I still think that it is the worst excuse for a squeaky that I have ever heard!

I place it on top of your grave

the squeaking moan breaking the silence

making its way to my heart.

Kaleido Saturday Snap Shots

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Kaleido 2013 was a lot of fun. Colorful and lively. Here are three poetic impressions of what I saw on Saturday.

First Date

They pause in front of me, two smiling teenagers

Shyly holding hands

Torn between a rocking Cuban band,

And the performance artist, Spandy Andy.

I wonder if this is their first date.

As they separate-her hand flutters apart from his,

Like a bird gently released into flight

Her fingers look back as she lets go.

Behind them a middle-aged couple spontaneously starts dancing in the street,

In their own world

Their joy in the moment so real

That you want to reach out and grab it.

Shiny Objects

When in line at a bistro, a little girl shows me her new, sparkly, butterfly tattoo

She’s so proud of it.

The food line consists of my new friend with the tattoo, a policeman and, me, dressed in Shakespearian

garb. An ordinary Kaleido line-up.

Outside the restaurant, there is a drum circle, the drum beat is magnetic.

In the middle, a little boy, with a blue dolphin painted on his cheek,

is playing a triangle and dancing.

From the Nina Haggerty Centre emerges a youngster clutching his blue and green watercolor

painting, which he tells his dad  is “magic,” as he skips away with his arm in the air,

the painting fluttering in the breeze.

At the building’s corner, two human flies are waving at the kids below.

On a balcony, farther up the street,

Hojo is singing an old Monkees tune, ” I’m a Believer,” in acapella

A kite pokes its nose above the crowd,

As I watch a flash mob of “YMCA”

And two helicopters continue to circle above-adding to the cacophony of sound.

Dancers 

Three aboriginal Cree women,

sway and drum as they sing beautiful, breathy songs

about the women who went before them, and about their concern for Mother Earth.

Down the street, exotic belly dancers, encased in glittering fabrics and flashing jewelry,

enchant the onlookers with their finger cymbal playing,

while the crowd hoots its encouragement.

I turn and see Mary Rankin dancing up a storm with Spandy Andy,

as people make way, laughing and smiling.

This is the Kaleido view,

a view of Alberta Avenue filled with joy, acceptance and love-

and maybe a little magic.

Don’t Send A Poet to Do a Dog’s Job

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This is piece which I really enjoyed writing. Hope you enjoy it too!

Don’t Send a Poet to Do a Dog’s Job

I pull the pillow over my head and pretend that I don’t hear him. I really do not hear that ninety pounds of German shepherd, who is fiercely barking and staring directly at the large elm tree in front of our house. It is six o’clock on a Sunday morning in Norwood and the world is in slumber—it sleeps. That is, all but our house.

JoJo barely acknowledges my presence, when I enter the living-room. Invader alert! The squirrel is back! Our furry sentinel stands with his front paws braced against the tattered couch arm and stares statue-like after the offending presence.

We do a mind-meld. “Do something!” he commands. So, I go outside and look up: and the shade-giving canopy into which our nefarious squirrel has disappeared envelopes me.

I am lost in wonder…

I feel the slow tremble of the leaves as the air moves through the trees

My eyes absorb the vivid green

This wondrous monarch, with her living crown of flora, dwarfs me.

I reach out my hand to a feeble ray of light, which has slipped through the twiggy arms

As the wind ruffles my hair, brushing it gently back from my face

The elm moves—a pantomime of some loose-limbed creative dancer,

Communicating a story of larger worlds than mine.

I go back into the house, and sit with JoJo, his head resting on my knee now.

“Don’t send a poet to do a dog’s work,” he mutters. You’re probably right buddy, you’re probably right.

Lovers With Green Hair

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When the Edmonton Fringe was on I passed a young couple, both of whom had dyed their hair a matching green color, leaving a nearby store on a windy afternoon and wrote this poem.

Lovers with Green Hair

I see them coming out of a neighbourhood store on 115 street

Two young lovers with green hair.

The wind is gusting as he enfolds her in his arms,

Like the giant elm trees, which line our street,

Enfold my mind, when I turn to go home.

Moving as one, heads close together, speaking

Yet the wind takes their words away.

They are like some silent movie about two lovers leaving a store

As they huddle against the airborne grit

And pass in front of the lottery sign in the shop window

Their green hair tossed by the wind

Like new blades of grass.

 

Little Violet

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Last summer, some wild, purple flowers decided to grow under our garden bench, even though the soil there is dry and rocky- these delicate-looking flowers bloomed and poked their little faces out from under the bench. That winter, I saw a little girl dressed in purple with her mother crossing 118 avenue, when the construction was going on for the new Shopper’s Drug Mart and the two pictures merged together into Little Violet.

Little Violet

I stop the car at a red light

And watch as a woman with children crosses at 118 Avenue

The little girl makes me smile

She is dressed all in purple- purple ski jacket, purple pants, purple mittens, purple boots

My mind fancifully dubs her  ” Little Violet.”

Little Violet skips across the intersection to the new Shopper’s Drug Mart

Jumping up to peer through the framed-in windows,

She will not remember the mouldy smell of the old Cromdale Hotel

Or the sound of the wrecking crane, the pigeons flying up from long time perches

Or the wall which reads ” Karaoke Saturday Night.”

Little Violet catches a dried leaf blowing past her,

Last year, the green of life flowed through its veins

Now it crumbles in her young hand. Its time is done.

Mother and daughter look skyward, their faces like twin moons,

Watching leaf crumbs caught up in a swirling eddy of air.

My light turns green and I glance in the rear view mirror

Watching as Violet latches onto the stroller her mother is pushing,

And skips past the liquor store.

My heart constricts, when I think of all the Little Violets

Growing up amid the massage parlours and Cash stores

Watching the dusty street nomads making their way to the Bottle Depot

The loud, angry voices in the back alleys, the screams in the night.

But tucked away in an abandoned lot, a violet struggles to bloom

It reaches past the granite rocks and weeds, which try to darken its life-

A violet face, vivid and raised to the sunlight.

Otter Street

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This month Jonathan Weller continued in his series of articles in the Rat Creek Press on the history of the Alberta Avenue community. I was struck by the change of street names to numbers ( Rat Creek Press April 2013: 10) , and decided to have a bit of fun with the idea of Otter Street.

Otter Street

I slip quietly out of the Rat Creek

I am sleek, and furry and musky

It is night, but my eyes gleam red like lasers.

I am headed for 90th street, once Otter Street- named after me.

I scratch dirt into a pile, marking my place- my street

Then I stop and groom my beautiful fur ,

Dirty from an afternoon of sliding on the river’s muddy banks

Wheeee!

I stop, peering into the darkness, nose twitching, listening

Then a sound

Another otter.

We exchange an otter salutation

Standing together, glistening, shining in the moonlight.

This street- this Otter Street- this 90th Street

My home.

Here’s a link to Jonathan’s article. Enjoy!

http://www.ratcreek.org/2013.html