A very special thanks. 

« Give her another drink, she’ll be alright. » This is the statement I overheard being said about me last night. So I’m not alright now? The way I am? 

Some people only want the glory, not the whole story. They want to revel in my marathons and my cross country bicycle rides but then they want me to be « calm and normal. » « Calm and normal » doesn’t run twenty-one marathons and thirty-one ultra-marathons; « calm and normal » does not jump on a bicycle and ride two thousand six hundred kilometres alone with next-to-no experience camping and long-distance riding. But I did those things. And those feats are a marvel and an inspiration, right? But now I need to be a different person? Calmer, like how alcohol makes you? So I need to be « drugged, » essentially, in order to be acceptable? Really? Why? 

I was so happy on my bicycle ride because I was being me, was being celebrated for being me. I no longer felt weird, or like a fish out of water, or like there is something wrong with me. I finally understood that my differences and my abundance of energy are okay and even wonderful. The whole way, from Toronto to Baddeck, not once was I made to feel that there is something wrong with me. Maybe this is why the comment I overheard last night jolted and hurt me so. 

Now I remember. Some people often find me strange, « too much. » I forgot that I need to tone things down, be less excited and less animated and less passionate; I forgot that I need to not be me. So, thank you. Thank you for your shitty comment. Thank you for reminding me that I am back in our regular society where hide the muted souls and forgotten dreams and tamed passions and lowered expectations and fear and all things small. Thank you for reminding me to feel uncomfortable in my own skin, like I need to change something about me to be « alright. » Thank you. 

And when I say « Thank you, » what I really mean to say is a from-the-heart, passionate, energetic and animated « FUCK. YOU. »

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A chickadee.

Mornings are for reading and evenings are for writing. Evenings are also for trying to fit in the other stuff like fitness, boyfriend and friends. Practicing the ukulele and keeping up with my blog aren’t even on the table right now. So if I am not writing my blog, what am I writing?

I’m writing a book. The book is about the solo bike ride I did this past summer from Toronto to Cape Breton, including the three hundred kilometre loop of the Cabot Trail. It was epic. It did not transform me, it affirmed me. I desperately needed that affirmation. My new skin is still soft but with much more elasticity. I like me now; more than sometimes and with confidence and with knowing why.

I’m reading Girl in the Woods by Aspen Matis. Her real name is Deby. I haven’t discovered yet why or when she changes her name. I will never change my name. It’s a good book. I just finished reading Alone Against the North by Adam Shoalts. That was a great book! I loved it. I love reading. Books are the adventures my mind takes in the mornings on my way to work.

I did not read a thing nor listen to music during my big bicycle ride. Books and music are sweet escapes. There was nothing to escape from this summer. I was flying, soaring, camping and pedalling my way through beauty, wonder, discovery and on a path of freedom from self-doubt and self-badgering. I was poignantly present in every moment. My terrible memory remembers so clearly almost every moment. I don’t just remember, I am there again when I think of that magical time. It is an inner sanctuary.

The subway is arriving to Finch. My morning novel lies untouched on my lap. There is still the bus ride. I shall read! There is still so much time to do all the things: my book, a book of poetry, my blog, writing songs on the ukulele, another piano, another marathon, another bikeride, maybe even true love. There is still time. I am only forty-one, you see. A chickadee.

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It makes total sense of course, it’s absurd to think
I would stop
I would stunt
For the sake of a number, when if
This form this genre this tool that allows me to be elusive be cryptic be safe in simple stanzas and mysterious metaphors
This medium if it brings forth from the fury the confusion the forthrightness that seems to stubbornly exist in my soul
Part confession
Part method
I verbalize to crystallize what the fuck has transpired what is hard wired as opposed to what is my fire

I say
I tell
I write
I confess
And as I do
I figure out
I sort
I release
I expel
I accept

One summer
One hundred poems
One year
One hundred poems
One hundred prayers
One hundred cries
One hundred maps
One hundred snapshots
Of my soul, my fragility, my journey
One hundred moments

And when the truth was ugly
I decorated it with rhyme
And when the story was awkward
I told it with poetry
And when the pain was awful
I wrote it with rhythm
And when there was shame
I used words to sift it down to its golden empathy

Poetry is my therapy.

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99 and 100 of 100


They are the
Little adventures
The compulsions, also known as
The big adventures

Or so it has been
And so it shall be, until
The Big Adventure

With no guarantee
And so until then, I remain

A slave to freedom, abounding in solitude
Pacifiers, substitutions


And when you read it
You were so small
You were frightened
Thought you’d be impressed, enlightened
But not at all
You were insulted, insecure, reactive, emotional not logical

Not tall like you look
Not all together when I put
Something before you you weren’t expecting
But anything I am writing
Is common or not but anyway spoken
Real, unrehearsed
Do you only know how to follow the verse?

But what about the bridge, the rhapsody, the free verse, the soliloquy?
What about different and exceptional and extraordinary?
What about nothing being black and white and reading between the lines?
And what about freedom of speech and make believe and all fiction having an ounce of truth but then the rest being fiction and not just seeing how it has been but being strong and smart enough to see how it could be?
Forget about me, what about you?
Forget about you, what about ME?

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97 and 98 of 100


I shout
You hear about
The great adventures

The in between
Never seen
My solitary indenture.


Clitoris crumbling
Soft skin suffocating
I was wrong to expect tenderness
Morning mourning
Four not eight limbs lingering
It was both our senselessness
His in the heart
Mine in the head
I participated in the soulless mess
Thespian thumb-sucking
Not even hardcore dirty delicious fucking
A huge waste, but I digress.

Publié dans Poetica, Poetry | Marqué , | Laisser un commentaire

93 to 96 of 100


Not the throat
Not the deep mouth
Not guttural or sputtered spitting angry harsh and broken
More like rain
Like the pretty pitter patter of little drops
Like the whispers of whistles
It’s the lips
Beautiful gentle melodic poetic and soft-spoken
The tip of my tongue to my teeth and sweet breath
The lips.


Counting back the days
To the countdown until I’d never see your face
Our weekly letters
You broke the heart you’d so recently so singularly easily thunderously peacefully brought to life


Thorn in my heart
This morning
Splinter in my eye
Seeing all kinds of evil


From further not nearer
Is seeing clearer
Fairer, fair maiden
Your looking glass
Was not looking back
But looking bad
Light refracts


It is light

You gaze from the coast
And now you know
You love, sweet lovely
Your version of events
Contrary to so much evidence
It’s telling then ill-spent
Now providence


That same light

Beam of incredible length
Of wavering and vulnerable strength
Burns on, beautiful learner
Your negatives
Prior to development
Hid the prints
The facts


There is light.

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91 and 92 of 100


Where once he had passion
Now there is pride
Where once he had guts
Now he hides
Where once he had balls
Now he is wry
He is sly, he is dead

Like love affairs
Mad, exquisite love affairs!
I feel rage at these careful these cautious these flimsy these heartless
Laughable romps
That’s the best you’ve got!?

Can such temperate tinglings truly satisfy, quench, satiate your heart, soul, spirit, imagination?
Cupid or humanity or the naked heart laughs and feels shame it is sure
See how these shallow splashes erode so deeply and leave one feeling hollow
Thirsty, hungry, deaf, dumb, blind yet not gone mad from it all!?

It is crazy, unreasonable, foolish, beautiful love or it is nothing.


Does your silence feel electric like my kiss?

Do your rules feel so soft like my skin?

Does your judgment keep you warm?

Does your hypocrisy hold you close?

Do you feel smug do you feel brave behind your fortress of firewalls and barriers of bandwidth?

Technology brings tragic, terrific transparency.

Publié dans Poetry, Uncategorized | Marqué | Laisser un commentaire