had over 200 poems in more than 140 journals, magazines, and
anthologies throughout the United States, Canada, Australia, and
in the United Kingdom, including Parabola (summer 2012), South
Florida Arts Journal, The Antigonish Review, Dalhousie Review,
The New Quarterly, Wascana Review, Poetry Nottingham
International, The Cape Rock, Journal of Contemporary
Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry, poetrymagazine.com; Fogged Clarity,
Out of Our, Quantum Poetry Magazine, Decanto, and White Wall
Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme
Publishers, a Porcepic Book, in Vancouver in 1995. Since then
she has published nine other books of poetry and two collections
with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of
Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream,
and four chapbooks published by The Plowman.
Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was recently published by
Ottawa publisher above/ground press December 2012.
She lives in Toronto with her husband, two children, two cats,
and a dog. She also sculpts, working with clay.
If it is empty then it is empty
Perishing like wasps in wet tar,
we canít claim an answer
but only wear our raincoats,
acting out past wounds, meditating
by watergardens where amphibians breed,
owners of the pond.
Perishing enough to create parables
to be sold to our advantage,
holding hands in the summer or after a bath.
We look through windows, keeping
Vigil with homebound strangers, unlocking cupboards,
storing gifts on laundryroom shelves.
We welcome the red squirrel, make love
most afternoons, tie-dye our t-shirts.
burning colours hotter at the edges.
We meet old mentors perishing,
drunk and mutated, mentors who taught us
to read the lines in our palms,
how to find music underwater,
poetry under siege, sometimes showing us
the pitter-patter pace of caterpillars on a damp park lawn.
Depths pushing out like a well-nourished womb,
depths we perish in, drained of desire,
listless in the light. Donít bother complaining,
we were made to perish, grow a revolutionary peace
in the crisp leaves of burnt sage, discover mercy
in a backwards fall.
Itís blatant as the light
inside a city that builds
and wonít let up. The hardship
is there like a crack in the wall
that cannot be fixed or like
a terrible loss that waxes and wanes
by varying degrees but never fully leaves.
It is the spot that will not heal,
found on the floor by the fallen curtain
that keeps this life uneven.
It reveals that faith does not
mean protection from the chaos of chance,
only that God will stand beside you
once that chance has marked you
blood splattered and cold
The ninth vortex,
a cylinder, funnelling
the puss from the unhealable wound.
A point of Juno - tell me,
tell me if you are drowning.
Your throat is tight, but your body
is hoping. There is no pain you
can give me because I am safe in God -
in the pain, I am safe and not destroyed.
But the harshness that eats the colour from
your eyes is consuming a part of me too.
I blend with the stone. I die in the shrubbery
of your fear. So long, winged-worm.
So long, wind that dust clouds my ground. I am ripe for renewal.
I am solo - past you, past death -
planting light where once
there was only blindness.