“Time spent with cats is never wasted”
~Sigmund Freud

Most of what Freud said was shite
But once in awhile he got it right.
Penis envy? There’s a joke
No betty wants to be a bloke!
True, there’s better wages paid
(He’ll never be a hotel maid)
But who would choose testosterone
When you could have progesterone
And estrogen for making babies?
Step right up! Embrace it Ladies!
Who but women claim sole right
To bearing every human life?
No machine is so inspired
To grow the DNA required
No man can conjure up a room
As perfect as a woman’s womb
We grow and carry, bear then feed
Providing for the every need
Of every child, who could deny?
A woman’s body is divine!
Man is mortal, Freud a fraud
Woman is the one true God
Worship, free from hateful taunts
That is what a woman wants.




My moth-eaten memory
surprises me on occasion
with flashes of the days
when we settled down
to farmhouse life
in Woodlands, Manitoba.
Must have been ’65 or ’66
I was pre-kindergarten.

Our neighbours, the Dorians
those country folk who
became our family,
welcomed the three of us
to their boxcar cabin
old black and white photos
of Grandpa’s regiment hung
proud upon wood panelling.

They walked us up weedy
tractor paths to rock strewn fields,
introduced us to
their fine Appaloosa stud
“Interlake Cherokee”
and their ancient mare
Goldie, my first true love.

Tea was always served
in old country roses teacups
dainties on worn matching plates,
evaporated milk
teaspoons of sugar.
Uncle Jim, Sharon & Reuben,
Grandma’s gentle smile.
They loved us completely.

We sang “Beulah Land”
as we travelled prairie highways
all windows down, hair flying
back when life was only sweet
and summers drifted out with
the scent of burning leaves.
Our voices carried us
home together.

To wish for what once was
is a fool’s game I know
but those days gave us
our true north,
our best hope of belonging
to something simple
yet somehow grand.
Something pure.

Now our autumn is upon us
We look to the old photos,
We dream of those endless days
When we were saved
By the goodness of kind hearts and
Blessed by the trembling
blue and green panorama
of our prairie life.


We Three

We Three

My poor Memory, my rich Imagination and I

like to stroll together through the deep forest

of my mind most days. We compare notes

on how things were and how they are now.

We come up with versions of events

we can all live with.


The shadow of a Great Blue Heron

passes overhead, so close we hear the soft breath

of blue-grey wings soaring just above the tree line

yet below the worst of our ever-changing weather.


We each take turns speculating on

the varietals of blue birds, we conjure up

mixed media images of various species

and their feathered brethren, we thrill

at the thought of their migration routes,

try not to think of their declining numbers.

Imagination chimes in declaring it

some obscure occult practice:

ornithscopy of the highest order!

Memory is lost in reverie while Imagination

suggests we recreate a ritual that might align us

with the spirit of this mythical messenger

(then yammers on about what meaning

may be found in the timing of things).

Memory and I wander off in search of a grassy field

while Imagination drones on, happy with itself,

sounding like so many summer bumble bees.


What is normal anyway?

We return home to a glass of iced tea

and begin to tidy compulsively

but not without a modicum of satisfaction.

We think out loud, putter around

as we tend to when we are vexed

by some question beyond our ken.


Now that god is a poem and not a person

We find each moment even more astonishing

than the last, we’re downright giddy somedays,

awash in the great good fortune

of this lottery win called life, though now

we see no magical motifs in daily happenings.

We find no butterfly and opine it to be

a friend from a former life.


Still we find it hard not to fall

into the old, superstitious ways

so entrenched is it in us to

avoid stepping on the cracks.

We still pray inexplicably, when we’re

lost in the dark wood of our own making

and we despair quietly, regularly,

having lost the comfortable armchair

of reassuring notions of god.


Memory recalls some piercing pain from the past.

Imagination plans for some fond, hopeful future

and I pour myself a glass of red wine

then wander around the garden.

Our cat follows as far as the blueberry bushes,

finds the perfect spot to spy on us, then naps

in the amber drift of late afternoon sun.


Friends now say serious things that

are laughable, though once we would have

solemnly agreed with their magical thinking.

Memory serves only to fade and falter

when reaching back for the sensibility

we once shared while Imagination remains

preoccupied by delusions of grandeur and

just wants to sit quietly in a book-lined room

reading poems and writing down the crazy

while dogs sleep on the floor, dreaming

of faster rabbits and unsuspecting squirrels.


Please forgive us for not attending your


We no longer remember why we should go and

We can’t imagine why we would. It’s not your fault.

We no longer believe we met so we could

work something out karmically.

We no longer feel obligated to explain.

Memory lets us go and Imagination

waves goodbye, dreams of the day when

we’ll look back on all of this and laugh

(like we knew what it meant).



Autumnal Tuning

Autumnal Tuning

This day breaks early
With chickadees calling
With dogs sleuthing and
spent leaves falling

This world says welcome
With arms extended
Dreams are forgotten
now sleeping’s ended

This sky is now changing
With work that is waiting
The harvest is pending
and gardens are fading

This path is now sunlit
With spider threads glistening
With news of what’s coming
(for those who are listening…

This slug is enormous
By anyone’s standard
Tall as a Tree Frog
and long as a lanyard

This poem is digressing
Without supervision
A Stellar’s Jay cackles
in cheeky derision)

This dog’s face is laughing
Tongue panting and lolling
I’m back in the yard
with the chickadees calling.


The Sigh Of Things

The Sigh Of Things

The call of kissing waters cold

Is heard bird wise, above, below

In leaves of lyric, skip of stone

By glint of sea for all I know

In ancient eye, by flap of feather

Tidal pools perceive the weather

Witness oh! the shine of things;

It’s the how of the why the soul now sings.


This dream of trees take with them one

As they go gladly, ever on

Away from where we fall they are

Dancing elsewhere under stars

Beyond the here of every now

(who would hold on anyhow?)

They sound out beauty, simply sighing

And sing the when of who is dying.


Spring will come and ever so

To teach the new the old ones know

And dream the reach of mystery sweet

As clouds move on and stars retreat.

Mother Earth receives your bones

As we will wander on, alone

We’ll gather young ones now and then

To sing  your season, hello again.





Hunting bear,
I creep crone-like, steady
through bracken and bushes
barren this time of year
I catch a scent in the silk of the air
and freeze, heart pounding, some
inner twig snapped. I now understand
what is required and I retreat slowly
where once I would have flown.


Dear Internet

Dear Internet

I love you

as much as anyone

but please

stop sending me

petitions to sign

hashtags to copy

links to forward on.


Please stop

asking me to

sign in with my

FaceBook account.


If you simply must

comment by

posting a wall of words

then for chrissakes

make a new paragraph

every once in awhile

so I can imagine

you as thoughtful

rather than ranting

obviously off your meds.

Manners matter mister.


Also, while you’re at it

can you figure out

some way to discourage

trolling on youtube?

I mean,

without going even more

big brother on me

than you already are

by tailoring ads

to my latest search

for example.

It’s creeping me

right out.


By all means,

Send me pics of

your grandchild

pulling up carrots

from your summer garden

in her yellow sun dress

a gap-toothed grin on her

ice cream face.


Surely you know

I crave the innocence

of that calico kitten,

rescued from the shelter

with her tabby brother,

curled up together

on your bed

kneading the fresh,

lilac-scented linens.

I can hear their drowsy purr

from here and it helps



I’m prepared to forgive you

for the hateful rhetoric

you spew forth with

alarming frequency,

I’m ready to overlook

your incessant bad news

and all your mean-spirited

celebrity gossip

if you will just grant me

an heroic act here and

an ecological breakthrough

there and a kindness shown

to any living creature

anywhere at all.


I’ve given up a lot for you…

novels, spare time, self-respect.

The least you can do for me

is distract me from my losses

with your wonderful wikis

with audible pronunciations

of words I’ve never heard,

with potentially helpful directions

to wherever I need to go.


I had no idea you would

change my brain

when we first met

but you surely did.

Just like love.


Now I’m faced with

having to renegotiate

our terms of endearment

but don’t worry.

I’ll be seeing less of you

in the future

but I’ll miss you

when I’m gone.