Category Archives: Grief

The Miss Trial

In thirty years he will have forgotten you, but the memory of him remains methylated in your DNA, and blood does not betray in a court of law. In thirty years that feeling will thaw and become raw when you see the likes of Brett Kavanaugh take the stand, only then will they understand the gravity of what holds us down as women and them up as men. As all the world took a stand against the man in the robe, our sisters were willing to throw their lives under the bus for us, and for the first time in history, even men took to the streets and contested for the girls who were molested, while Dr. Ford invested her reputation to speak the truth. You watched as the girl in you died and though you couldn’t revive her, you went on to become a survivor. The laughter of their leader added salt to the wounds of everyone who had been abused. The message was clear, speak and lose your dignity, whilst another man’s life was held in supreme honour and civility. Mothers held their daughters, as the ones in cages were spared the rage of those so-called victimized men, yet for the ones deemed savages there was another plan, because you must understand, in a country where no privileged white man is truly legal, speaking the truth can be lethal. So while we go on living like warriors with the past coded deep in our cell methylation, we mustn’t forget what that tells of this Nation, we must fight injustice as long as Brett sits on that throne, for though they may have sworn him in, we never condoned, because somewhere in our bodies lies a seed, and no matter how deep they try to bury it with violence, it comes back like a weed which they will never be able to silence.

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Filed under Abuse, Feminist, First Nations, Freedom, Gender Issues, Grief, Human Rights, Hypocrisy, Identity, Pain, Past, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Women of the waters that are never still

The missing and murdered indigenous women all gathered together at the lost city of Atlantis.

“No one believes we are real,” said one to the other, “they will never try to find us here.”

“If they never believe then we are free. If they start to remember is when we have to worry.” Said another.

“Yes the great spirit has made an ocean of oblivion and in all their crossings they forget..

They think their cities are real and ours is a myth.”

“Yes.” spoke the chief.
“We are safe here.”

They are distracted by the stars. The stars that died centuries ago.
The apocalypse has happened already. They just don’t know it yet.

They are all dancing together in a Matrix of dreams.

They wake up with new scars and wonder how those wounds ever healed.

“Sometimes they forget to hurt when we touch them,” spoke the child of agile deer, “and they mistake this pain for pleasure.”

The turtle will rise once more. When the time is right.

“The time is close,” spoke the hungry hawk girl. I see rust over the towers of progress, it stains their rivers and kills their fish. The white men in their polished houses laugh louder now. They laugh with terrorist eyes. And all the world is quiet in disbelief.

We are safe for now, but it won’t last. This time when they come dressed as brothers we will know the truth in that horse’s eyes.

We won’t drink the fire.

We won’t accept their dirty blankets.

We know how to keep warm. We are the keepers of the fire. We must never forget who we are, even if they have. They have all fallen asleep. When the sun rises it will be too late.

“It has already come to be,” spoke the ominous owl. It has already been written. They will burn the treaties. There is no honour in sickly pacts. They are a lost tribe.

“We have already been found what is there to search for now?” The sad squaw pleaded.

We must find ourselves here. We must honour our mother and father and give our respects to our grandfathers. One day all our relations will come together and they will lose their blindness.

Only when they have regained this vision can we be one again.

“One tribe under one sky” spoke the eager eagle.

So it is has been spoken.

They passed the peace pipe from hand to hand as they gathered around the roaring fire and danced.

You could hear the echo of their drums in the lost world where the rhythm of life was mute, their voices carried in the cries of the wild.

The forgotten ones were there and they remembered. Some of them had wolf eyes that lit a path through the dark.

You could never go hungry if you followed them.

But the eyes of the others were a deep abyss surrounding an ancient island, where they held a sacred vigil in honour of our fallen sisters

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Filed under Aboriginal, Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Atlantis, Conversation, creative, Dedication, Environment, Feminist, First Nations, Folklore, Grief, Human Rights, Identity, Idle No More, Indigenous, inspirational, Matrix, Memory, Narrative, Ojibwe, Poem, poetry, Spirit, Tragedy, travel, Truth, writing

An Echo, A Stain

Beautiful refrain,
hearing her voice again,
an echo, a stain,
out from the depths of a sensual carnage.
She wrecks me with her cadence, 
(tone & pace)
the lyrical grace of her tongue,
the memory of what it did to you,
what she did, under cover of night,
cover of white sheets, so pristine,
in the same bed we shared years later,
when the wrinkle of time,
unwinds in my chest,
unravels from under me,
as tendrils, pushing me up,
pulling me under.
Pushing me up, pulling me down to you,
soft child of the tides,
releasing poison from her heart,
your cleanliness, makes me crave
no other sorrow.

Sleeping in a haunted bed, in a room full of ghosts,
I choke on your love for me.

“Dead to me, dead to me.
I could never be free of you,
without having to lose you.”

Extinguish a cigarette on her tongue,
watch her in motion under the light,
vinyl hands, overlapping
intravenous music,
skip and repeat, skip and repeat.
Her voice a drop of rain
in the desert heat,
the slow flow of euphoria,
the wreckless beauty of the ones
who left me in their seductive shadows,
finger inside of you, tongue in your mouth, synchronized
with the needle’s rhythm.

Is it possible I feel nothing because I’ve built a tolerance to heaven?

The next kiss or word could be a fatal overdose.

The sunflowers push up
from under your bed,
covering us in a yellow sea.
She stands over us naked,
spitting seeds.

We all have our versions of paradise.

You are mine.

You are mine

 παρακαλώ,
 παρακαλώ.

You are mine.

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Filed under Addiction, Beauty, Cleansed, Crave, creative, Desire, Emotions, Greek, Grief, Infatuation, Jealousy, Lesbian, Longing, Loss, Love, Memory, Needles, Pain, Poem, poetry, Purity, Sapphic, Sarah Kane, Sorrow

Variations on Black

In a world of shallow we know the cost of everything and the value of nothing-
no thing of worth from this accidental birth.

When I came here I laughed.
“It’s a box” I said,
a coffin, “I’ll take it.”

“A box of darkness, a gift.”

I was oblivious to the black scuttle bug living under my counter, it was oblivious to me also. The beetle had flown in from outside and thought he could occupy my place. I caught him trying to eat spilled sugar on the floor, then the black bastard was no more, swept up and flushed down into the waste waters.

For a moment I thought I might meet a similar fate..

voices, bumps in the night, a strange new world to inhabit, “take the belt” it said, “tie it around your door, be here evermore.”

Fuck you black bastard, no!

I won’t join you.

I burned sage through open windows, brushing away the decay,
and since that day, no more,
not often anyway,
only when the world of obligations gets tight around my neck do I think I might hang on a revolving door
between heaven and hell,
all the same.

A moth the size of my hand and white like a ghost flutters by my window,
I hear it’s wings flap up & down,
it’s fascination flickers
in the dark hollow where I drown.

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Filed under creative, Depression, Emotions, Ghost, Grief, Identity, Pain, Poem, Suicide, Verse, writing

Kintsukuroi

I have a cracked soul that no amount of gold can fill.
Swell of childhood,
wave, water, reflection.
Propensity pouring into probable personality traits;
narcissism, histrionics, scars stricken against sulphuric self, flare in sea of black, no return from darkness.
Ears ring out like cathedral bells at the gavel fall of postured people, straight upstanding citizen I’m not.
Chaos’ child curtailing comets.
Mulch of weeds where flowers chance to bloom outward from mossy memories, in places the sun neglected. Damaged seed, uprooted,
convoluted scream shooting agony into pillow of down.
Muted madness on the surface, appearing calm, floating along like an unruptured swan.
Dusk descends like a ceramic sun on the verge of shattering.

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Jesus Christ of Urgent Care

Sky colossal in it’s charcoal depth,
mouth pitched black where they forced me to drink my salvation,
nurses at the station laugh at my situation,
another O.D for ward 3.
Neon sign over heaven reads; “closed.” 

Stripped down,
dressed in gown & gauze,
no fluffy clouds,
only a chalky film on my tongue,
distorting my words into something disgraceful,
distasteful.

I.V drip,
sanity slip,
curse of concavity weighing
down my soul,
mouth full of charcoal.

Heavy nod,
intercom
paging God,
white lights,
fluorescent glare,
Jesus Christ of urgent care.

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Filed under creative, Depression, Grief, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Soul, Suicide, Verse, writing

Too Sober

Too sober to fuck stars bright so they fade, fade in the night without gold. 

Too close to want to hold if you see in me this black sky,
that makes wishes die.

” But I will turn my eyes from you  
 As women turn to put away 
The jewels they have worn at night  
And cannot wear in sober day.”

C. Barthelette 
S. Teasdale

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Filed under creative, Desire, Grief, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, Rhyme, Sex, Sexuality, Sobriety, Sorrow, Stars, writing

Moon Break

You told me you love me to the moon and then the moon shattered in three crescent pieces on my floor. (The crimson moon necklace made of clay, you bought me on the island that day.) Where will you love me to now that our moon is broken?

Ovid said that although all things are temporary, nothing perishes. Everything is flowing. It’s sink or swim.

I doubt this was an accident.

I meant to replace the picture I had hung in my kitchen that reads:” those who love passionately teach us how to live.” I was going to hang the calendar you sent me for this new year, the one about unlikely friendships in the animal kingdom, and then smash, down from the nail, like a fallen Christ.

Is there really a Hades? Can we take a boat there? What will Persephone say when she hears the news?

We may never see another spring.

What a tragedy.

And I walked about my small coffin of an apartment repeating “I broke our moon, I broke our moon.” Bury my heart at the Acropolis.

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Filed under creative, Death, Greek, Grief, introspective, Life, Longing, Loss, Love, Moon, Mortality, poetry, Sorrow, Soul, Stars, Sun, Time, Tragedy, travel, writing