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.

Flavours of All

{Today is my birthday... which in of itself of course isn't such a big deal, 
yet every time it comes around new space is opened for reflection,
and gives me reminders of how honoured I should be when I look around at the
incredible people who flood my life and 
sustain, improve, and inspire it everyday
now, and in days gone by.

I am in the process of writing poems for people 
(not in order of any importance ;))
 and things in my life... 
This particular one is for Leanne and speaks of the simple things.. 
which seems to be the theme of the fall for me.
The simple things; the simple moments of friendship that may seem so normal 
- or even unimportant and can lose priority in our busy lives -
hold stuff so profound and meaningful to our everyday...
Thanks for being that Leanne <3

"Who cannot be thankful for the little things, cannot be grateful for the bigger things"

Food and Friendship: 
best thing a girl could invest in :)}

Flavours of fall
    found in friendship and all
         around us fulfill
         the simplest spots in us while still
              somehow sweetly leaving
                   us wanting more...
        more.
        
More living while
                    we are living -
        more coffee dates;
        more date squares;
        more circles round the park.

Still.
    Still in time.
         Sitting in time with no
              frame of it.
Move.
    Moving in time
         without feeling the constrain
              of its frame. 
Taste.
    Tasting not meal time,
         but the sweet...
                     taking it to savour
                               and let the minutes simmer, 
                                                                     uncounted. 
Know.    
     Knowing that time untracked
          forms friendship into a timeless frame,
              where seasons come and seasons go 
         without track, tick, minute, or measure.

Simply flavouring
              and savouring time together through spring, summer, winter, fall - 
         sharing life's spices
                    through time’s all.

I Have Heard It Said

[This one is for my Dad.  

{...only read this one when you're sure you've slowed the moment down}

Over the years I see more and more how he is just a {wonderful} man who was once a young child that morphed into a punk like me in his twenties, and then found himself a father... without every answer and every perfection. ...And I have to be okay with that somehow - if not for forgiveness and acceptance of those who have come before me... but for myself, for my friends, and loved ones around me now and in the future.

We all need one another in this life... to help, encourage, forgive, raise, and love... always.

                                                                                                                                      <3 ya Dad,

 - C]

I Have Heard It Said

“Come, all you weary,
     All you wonderfully made.”
I have heard it said,
     that it takes a village to raise a child.

Come, all you weary:
     Imperfection is a requirement.
I have heard it said, 
     that it takes a village to make a man.
        ...Imperfection is a requirement.
Earthy craters, chasms, and cliffs

      shamefully hidden, ignored, or blindly overlooked
         cause us to fall, unaware of their depths.
     Could they be glorified in their wildness -
          the beautiful blemishes of a wild world?

Come, 
     all you wonderfully made:
     Imperfection is inevitable.
Come child,
    You will fall.
___________

Scraped Knees...
Come.
     For only with the blood of a fallen human life,
           can the lesson of grace be taught,
               felt,
                    passed,
     through generation.
          Grace of the Father
        to grace of the father,
        to grace of the next father.
You will fall.

Scraped knees.
Come.

But...
    what happens when that child grows?

I have heard it said
    that it takes a man to raise a child.

Scraped knees.
Come, says the father.
         Hold,
              blood to heal.
But…
    what happens when that child grows
         and still gets
    cut…
____________

What happens when that child grows? 
     Who is charged for negligence when he stops
growing taller
          and is forced to go alone?
          He is forced to go alone  –
               too big to be held
                    but still needing,
                         still scraping –
                         falling under the weight of the world.

Come,
     all you weary –
          all you men –
               falling,
              tripping,
          in the beautiful blemishes of a wild world. 
Imperfection is inevitable.

I have heard it said 
       that it takes a child to raise a man.
Come,
      says the child.
Hold,
      blood to heal.

__________

Kissing the knees of the fallen
            reminds him of his own
                           wounds,
                      needs,
                 longing
                      for a healing kiss.
     Time lets him grown tall -
               height only making it harder to fall -
          not teaching him how to avoid hitting the ground. 
Come.
 
     How dare it be said that the 

fall of man is his 

fault alone.
     How dare a man bear his 

burdens alone...
     For the kiss of grace is needed as long as there are
            scraped knees.
The Father's open arms would be left empty, alone,
     without the son's return.
          Both in need of a kiss,
               both empty alone,
                    both imperfect without 

the other.
No more 
alone.

All you weary,
     imperfection is expected;
     imperfection is beautiful...
          because
                grace can enter


                     with a kiss...

...We can enter with a kiss.

Earthly grooves shamelessly, guiltlessly, wonderfully displayed...
     Wonderfully made...
We do not hide them,
     cause our children to fall –
     ourselves to fall –
          mowing the wildness;
     hiding the potholes
          from our own eyes.    
Wonderfully made:
          the beautiful blemishes of a wild world.
______

I have heard it said that it takes a father to make a father
          to make a father.

Imperfection is a requirement.
Imperfection is beautiful.
Come man,
    You still fall,
“Come…”
    Says the man,
    Says the child,
         You fall.

I have heard it said,
“Come.”

(p.s. a couple of literary notes: You can interchange the gendered words, and the poem still works just as wonderfully... well if you feel it is something wonderful, anyways! ;))]