Spinning Into Mine

{For Everyone,

You are worth listening to,

and you

are worth listening to 

everyone else.

 - C} 

 - Part 2 -

Spinning Into Mine

Round and

    round and

         round we go,

Cycle of non-existent-non-violence we sow

                                                         in hopes

                                                               that the globe

                                                                              keeps

spinning,

              and that we can

cycle round,

              and meet new

eyes

              of the divine

              wherever we go.

              Listen as we spin...

Spinning,

              spinning,

                             spinning,

round the

globe, the stories

spin

    like the yarn she

spins

    like the tale she

                             grins,

                                       as she speaks it with her smile, which

spirals through

cycles of non-existent-non-violence -

circles of walls and

rounds of shots and

spheres of influence who

spin tall tales that say her

    story and her grin

         don’t count.

Spinning,

              spinning,

                             spinning,

round the

ball of yarn, the stories

spin

    like the tales she

spins

    like the memories she

                             grins,

                                       as she speaks them with her smile, which

spirals through

Bedouin Woman on a Reserve in the Negev Desert, Israel. 
Weaving to hold onto traditions being lost
along with their rights.

cycles of non-existent-non-violence

round the generations

wrapped around

swirls of stories of loss from the

spheres of influence who

spin tall tales that say their

    stories and their weaving

         do

             not

                  exist.

Spinning,

              spinning,

                             spinning

                                           her story into mine.

    What I did not know;

                                       spin,

                                       weave,

                                       grin.

Round and

    round and

         round we go,

                        another piece of God,

                                                      I now know.

Anthem

{For Mr. Harper

[and us all],

 

For us to become little

spheres of democracy

that reach beyond our norm.

 

Like a painter who only paints in red,

is a polititian who rules

over all the mediums

and the colours,

but only knows his inner circle.

 

May we all

encourage one another to

push past bounderies and

listen,

learn,

grow.

 

 - C}

 

{p.s. I was told by my professor

that I could complete my final exam

in poetry,

so this is

part one of three

pieces reflecting on

some of the most important

lessons

I have taken from the

past 6 years.

:)}

 

- Part 1 -

 

Anthem

 

Listen.

Mister Prime Minister, please

listen to me,

one of your “democracy.”

The song you sing

calls for strong and free,

so I pray that you would see

God’s face does not just

resemble

thee.

True North - or rather the

false north with

false smiles - ignoring

the weak and the unfree.

“Home” for who,

if not the “native” or the “refugee,”

shoved into walls and categories:

“home” is for the

True Patriot - or rather the

false patriots with

false smiles - glowing

with the daily grind of apathy.

“Home” for the

indebted to security,

on guard for thee

and the

True God - or rather the

false God with

false smiles - keeping

land locked with fear and key.

“Home” from far and wide,

you can dream and you can see,

but this land will never be

“home,” strong and free.

Sing your anthem.

Built not on peace

but inequality:

exclusively

V.I.P.

(unless you’ll work in our factory) -

you will have to pay a fee

and/or flee,

for your dreams exist not in reality...

this

is what you call our “country.”

Listen.

Mister Prime Minister please,

God’s face does not just

resemble

thee.

- C Gray

Amateurs All Along

{For Julia,

For those times when 

we just sit and 

"remember when..."

and

"wonder what..."

and laugh through tears at

life,

getting no more clear 

as time goes.

So

we just sit and

paint like we are five years old -

as we should.

much love,

C}

Amateurs All Along

The 
     painting of a pot
                          not
                              turning out
               quite like
               the life
               that you
          sip on after serving
                           (or being served)
               tea with friends and
                                   other annoying people -
     picturing Polish pottery,
                    but 
                    out of
          your hands
                         create country with
          your hands
                         and 
     burn
          your mouth 
                         while
          sipping from life served,
                                        which can
     burn 
               like a flame flickering and fueling our
               grumblings and giggles - us
          amateur painters
                         on the canvases of life and
     burning
          with hope that our conversations
          warmed by tea
                              and glow of beeswax
          warm us with the
                              colours of our
                              collective creations - 
                                                             amateurs all along the way.

 - C. Gray
     

The Reasons of the Birds

{spontaneous and simple;

recorded and read

the next morning

in memory

of a

great and small

memory

of the night before

the birds and friends

added to the beauty and mystery

of life.

Thank you,

 - C}

silhouettes of five hundred and forty seven crows
outlined against the flat dark gray,
perched in tableau
on the tips of winter trees,
resting on the fingertips of branches... in the
middle of the city.

she came to fetch me from the
street - eagre to
share the
stillness of the crows...

standing to
marvel, from the glow of hospital parking lot lights -
shivering with each attempt to take a picture; eyes
searching our screens,
squinting to see the
scene on the other
side of the lens; failing to capture a
moment while
missing the
minutes and the chance to
marvel the
mystery of the crows.

sitting, staring,
searching through all the reasons of the birds... perhaps a
meeting of the
minds; perhaps they know
something of the end of the world - keeping
secrets from us; perhaps their beauty hovers over as a cloud of death, in
solemn
silence for their view; perhaps they are watching over the
maple
syrup taps; perhaps it is a
singles
meeting for crows; perhaps...

she said,
"you
know,
you don't have to
know the
why..."

see and
simply be -
no pictures
nor reason captured in this
moment, framed and
standing for itself -
sit,
spirit free to
wonder at, and rest
with the birds - in awe -
without the
why...
of all the reasons
of the birds.

***

I came to
fetch her
from the
street - eagre to
share the
stillness of the crows...

"oh,
that happens all
the
time,"
she said.

Mechanical Ocean

{ok.

if there is one poem you call me hipster for,

you have my permission on this one.

but only on this one.

and maybe

"24 Hours" -

but that's it.

 

I couldn't sleep,

and I was annoyed.

the following was the result

and was typed onto

my phone -

no ink spills.

 

C}

Mechanical Ocean

Waves of cars and
roars of drunken skirts and shirts
rolling by
with the
siren and street lights
across my ceiling -
the new moon
to ponder its meaning
by the
cold cell waking me like the
cold wind:
warm glow of the screen
scorching like the
eternal sun -
no sleep.
Distractions from wanting
to ever
wonder at the ocean...
drowning in the sea
of technology
and me.