Flame the Next

{There is hope.

Synicism is welcome, 

but not allowed to take over...

Remember

that within you 

(metaphorically, of course ;))  

are shadows

created by the lights

that exist

within the same space.

We have it in us to love -

just as much as

we have it in us to do much worse - 

All is not lost...

Thankful for being created with potential...

for you too

are able to love.

Merry Christmas :),

- C} 

Born into dawn,
Born into dark -
          under threat of certain death...
     Dark 
     always 
     returns.
Creator 
     becomes the created.
     Again and again.

All is not lost.

Born into love,
Born into light -
     into arms 
          raised and made 
          strong by love
          in days gone by -
     arms 
          strengthened to 
          hold and
          love the next.
     Light 
     always
     returns.
Creator 
     learns love from the created.
     Again and again.

All is not lost.

Sun and moon
          in sync with our 
          souls of 
          various gray...
     Neither one 
          nor the other:
Dark and Light 
     continue their dance.
     Again and again.

All is not lost.

Break of day
     (as always)
               bursting forth
     with rays
               from our hearts - 
     to raise 
               the Light
     to raise 
               from the Dark.

All is not lost.

Born to raise
God;
     light ushered into 
     darkness:
          welcomed by a candle
          already 
          lit.

All is not lost..
     
     For 
          we must remember:
          we proved 
          we could love, before 
          we stooped to kill.

Again and again.

Light preceeded 
     light.
Cycle:
     flame the next 
          flame.

All is not lost.

Freely Bound

{A letter to Christmas,

To a type of Christmas that only sees the shallow joy of the twinkle and advent lights,

and the brightly coloured packages,

shining in their glory on a holiday morning.

If you are amoung those who choose to celebrate such a day
in whatever way
you do -

remember the dark,

know the dark,

acknowledge it...

For we cannot be warmed by the light,

the gifts,

the hope,

unless we know why we need 
the light,
the gifts,
the hope...
Unless we know why we need

to sacrifice,

to remember

others over ourselves.

Give the gift of light this Christmas:

the deep light: yourself...

To those in the dark,
To us all,

- C}

Freely Bound

Freely bound:
    this gift -
                   my life -
              free of charge...
                   given at high cost.
Born a refugee;
    free to be unfree -
              I give
         the gold of you over me -
              for we are all refugee.

Freely
born...

All I want for Christmas is you
    and thirty-three boxes in the various shapes, prices, and sizes of your heart -
         the tags removed, but their worth
              logged and filed in the accounting department of my mind.
    These gifts, freely bound and boxed in love.

I sold my soul to the company store
    for you, I bought the song
    for you, to freely listen to
         the message,
                   warning us to not buy and sell our
                                                 souls (worth more than gold);
                   file it in the ethics department of your
                                                 minds (worth more than gold).

Gold, mined by the bent-over backs
    under the white man’s burden and
         shipped back home
              - home - where the heart (worth more than gold) is -
         straightened and bent
              back, round the circle
                   of iron and love, refined by the fires of hell to
                        fit around her finger:
         symbol of our love type -
              like our blood type -
                   tainted by the blood of the miners glimmering round
                        our wedding bands;
                             freely bound -
                             their sinful hands bound
                             by the sinful bands on our hands -
                                                                                   unfree.
Freely                 
unfree...

Hold on.
Cling.
Let go,
but still know...

Bound
         in community.
    We are all “refugee.”
    ‘mi casa es su casa’ -
         but knock three times
              and whisper the pass code:
                   free to enter
and find refuge -                         
unless you are “refugee.”

Freely
bound...

Come one, come all,
    except for you,
                            and you,
                                          and you...
        Wrap Jesus in a box under the tree -
borders for a refugee -
boxed and bound.
Spirits bordered and controlled -
souls worth more than gold
must flee -
forced to be free,
(gracias)
but do not find rest around our tree...
 
Yes...
What a nice story,
a baby
refugee
in poverty.

    Free 
to be a refugee:
                   You are welcome.
                                                This gift,
                                                             free of charge,                                                                                     at high cost.
Born unfree,
we are born refugee.

Freely
refugee.
              
         From 
Name to 
Number,
                   free to wander
              not there nor here.
Our
Name, bound by language and chance of where she was born
                                                                       a refugee becomes
              Number “fifty thousand three hundred and three” -
                                                                                            or “refugee” - ...lost in the collective departments of our minds...
         Yet, 
we are all "_______."

Merry Christmas to all,
    and to all a good night...
         Cold hearts warmed by the fire -
home 
walling us inside,
          watching you outside:
free to find your bed
                             anywhere -
                                               free from refuge 
anywhere...
    On this winter’s eve
we dream
of dancing sugarplums, 
and the freedom to dance and dream...

Free from the dream of being set free,
(from ourselves).
Free to seek,
to find,
to make
freedom.      
For now,
freely unfree.

Cling,
Let go.
Freely
bound...

My life
    I give to you,
         freely bound,
Born unfree,
    a refugee -
         freely bound -
a gift 
(worth more than gold).

White Bird Seed

{For RogPog...

This Christmas,

sending reminders that

Your Common Family loves you,

 - C}

Round of applause echos in your place...
Your place.

You gorgeous creature,
there is a table
          still silently signalling your name to passersby -
                    some things never change - 
          and a signal waiting for you to sign on to.

White bird seeds scattered each morning
          spread reminders of your chirps... 
     Soon you will peck them up again
               with peckish thanks (eyes
                                                    rolling as the dice in the background, 
                                                         calling you out of line, 
                                                             and back online).

Eyes rolling with a smile,
     "No pennies, girl - 
                    just pumpkin pie - 
          and one more round before I go,
soon to return to the round 
table..." 
     ...
...We are sending out a signal for you to 
          sign onto -
echoing in 
your place;
soon to return.

24 Hours

{for Julia and Carissa...

Together

as life sweeps in and shows us quick glimpses of other worlds that

simultaneously exist along side our own

yet prove to be 

  one in the same, while clearly kept separate. 

Here's to crossing borders together,

both in the past, 

and in years to come...

love you both <3

 - C}

a word sketch

24 hours

Road toll

Giant Deja Vu Girls light the way

And again, road toll

Train peeks through misty curtains,

          sweeping past silhouetted trees through to morning

Road toll

Train shines noisily overhead;

          sparkling in, and weaving through a windy skyline

Girls upside down, holding their own hands

Colourful doll staring into the window seeing better versions of her vibrant self behind the glass

Optical illusion

Black coffee under the golden arches

24 hours

Spare a minute?

Doorman, street cleaner, car drivers, smiling -

          different in type to the boy shot dead while

                    singing his heart out...

                              yet, they are singing the same song

Spare a prayer?

Heels to work shoes, 

          both worn wonderfully well

Crackling radio on her shoulder,

          come to momma.

Sweeping the street

Spare a coin?

Laugh

God bless, God bless you, Boy.

A Penny for Your Head's Tales

{Duff,

for showing us the raw craziness of Kitchener,

with honesty we can't always handle

but need to know

as we hear your stories,

walk with you,

eat with you,

pass along the lucky pennies you pick up off the ground

and the stories you share while sharing the best breakfast in town.

Danke Shon.

- C}

(I ate meat for you, D - and it was effin' worth it :))

A Penny for Your Head's Tales

If it’s tales,
    pass it on;
if it’s heads,
    keep it.
Here
    Lucky lady,
         pick it up.
Tales... pass them on.
    Tales of the heads and hands
         that pass, grip, toss or
    flip over to
         test their worth,
              their luck,
                              to eat, or not to eat?
                                                               Flip a coin.
Feed your head -
    it’s free -
    doesn’t cost a cent;
          only street sense.
When you toss that worthy trash -  
         another Unlucky’s treasure
              taken from a tip jar
              and traded for a tip from me to you -
         don’t toss me away too...
    Not worth a cent.
    Take it or leave it.
Here
    Lucky lady...
         Tales,
              pass them on.

Art's Art

{As I

Stay awake creating art

on this night,

my thoughts turn to my mother.

She has fostered inspiration,

creates beauty,

and is a work of art.

For you, 

Mom

- C}

Art’s Art.

Creation creates creation.
Art
    is created by the creator.
The Artist creates.
        The creator loves.
             The loved creates art to love the loved.
Art creates art.

Stitches sewn by strings of love
    piece together
         selected scraps
              chosen specifically for someone
                   who is loved.

The art flows from the beauty of the maker -
    it is a work of art:
    art created by art.
The art woven in the warmth,
    created by the creation, by the
    warmth of the heart,
         creates warmth of the body.
    Warmth of the heart provides for the body.
         Art for body.
         Art for soul.
The art is formed and found in the love of the artist:
    love creates love.

The created, the warm, the loved
         is given the ability
    to create; warm; love -
         because they are
    created beautiful by the beautiful,
         made warm by the warm of spirit,
         and loved by the labour of love.
             The cycle of creations.
She,
    is a work of art.

This Is For You

{Mimi,

Hey gurl...  

...these words are affirmations

for you to remember in the ups

and the downs,

that you are loved.

as Mumford and his sons have said,

We can't move the mountains for you,

but we are here climbing alongside.

Stay strong,

smile,

read

<3 :)

- Care}

This is For You...

My prayer...
This is for you.

In the moments of
    tears and fears
         and failings that you will see in years
              to come
                   are growing pains
              that make you strong...
This is for you.

In the motions of
    moves from a black and a white
         shaking and sizziling
              to the sounds of
                   tupac, beyonce and
              “you are my angel”,
This is for you.

In the mirror
    that changes its image from sexy beast
         to scared and naive,
This is for you...
My prayer.

In the minutes
    that slowly crawl in silence
         and force you to wait,
This is for you;
My prayer.

In the making
    of your life when friends are around
         you or are nowhere to be found,
This is for you;
My prayer.

When you choose to whisper something up to the sky,
    or not, and simply stay silent -
         no matter,
This is for you;
My prayer.

Weaving in and out of
    failures and attempts as a friend,
         are words that are for you,
    and you alone.
That they would silently
    wash over your soul like waves crashing
         upon the shores of distant seas
    to strengthen,
    to renew,
    to show you the
         beauty
         and importance
         of you.

For whoever up there that will listen,
This is for you,
My prayer.

Beneath the Rust

We have a shared love of the old -

something not so common in our culture, as we often try to get rid of things by 

throwing them away, 

blobbing on wrinkle cream, 

or getting shirts "Made in Indonesia" to look vintage 

instead of actually going vintage.

Time passing by can be beautiful; 

there is much to learn from the old days, 

from folks who've come before our modern "brilliance."

This poem is for my friend Janine, 

who shares a love for finding beauty in the restoration of things past, 

in the ways that bring new life to the present, 

and allow for a future to be freshly coloured by

- instead of forgetting - 

things of old.

Reuse, reduce, recycle kids ;)

- C

Beneath the Rust

There is
Something about the rust
         that speaks to the cycle of things.
Something about the wear
         and tear of old that shares a beauty
              with the eyes that catch a glimmer through the dust.
Something that winks and shimmers where the paint flakes
              and captivates...
                   and time takes
                        up space in the mind.
Something in the way that the rust
         holds loosely;
              letting go and
                   shedding its former life.
Something about the slivers -
         that just beg to be smoothed -
              that moves,
                   startles and smarts our outstretched touch;
                        slighting our senses with the chance to
                  shake the old from the old
                       and morph it,
                            letting it shine as a new creation...
                                 a piece that contains time.
Something about the rust
         that holds the stories of us
              who have come, 

gone, 

are, 

will be.

A door once used to cross a threshold
         turned to hold
              coffee cups, journals, and family dinners.
Windows which once showed us the world,
         now frame a soul’s view of it for our gaze to be changed by.
A chair where awkward dates and birthdays and nights gone late
         were witnessed by the weavings and the wood;
              reupholstered to stimulate new conversation in the fabric of life.
Pitchers for milk to make children strong,
         chipped with use from tiny fingers now grown strong,
              show off wild flowers for our eyes to drink up and let sink into our bones;

our soul's are getting strong.
Skirts into curtains
Skis into shelves
Skids into holders for mittens and scarves...

Something in the old that gives us the chance
         to see new -
              to create new -
                   to embrace new life
                        and the change that age
                             thrusts upon us.

Something in the rust
         that makes us choose to
                   waste or embrace;

Something
              that we can change
                   as we are changed
                        and rechange,
                   restored with new life
              as new life is brought to
         the broken, the dead,
    the once deemed ugly...

Something in the rust of old,
    in the turning of time,
         that makes us new.