Of Cats


Of Cats

Softly, silent paws glide like velvet on the floor.

A furtive look, with an impish dash to hide behind the door.

Midnight fur, eyes of green, and a tail with a crook

Skittering claws, a springing leap –

Get down cat! You aren’t a book!


Denied his throne he slinks away

Oh cruel injustice will it never end?

Inside his cave he I stroke his ears

Because after all, we’re friends.



Summer isn’t really my favourite

autmn marsh

I confess that I don’t particularly care for summer. I don’t like the crowds that descent in hoards over the city and every beauty spot like hungry locusts. The noisy screams of over-heated and over-tired children, dodging street festivals crammed full of people reeking of Hawaiian Tropic, perspiration, and booze – I intensely dislike all of it.

For some inexplicable reason we are expected to latch on to the sweaty, drunken teat of SUMMER and stuff as much activity into it as possible. We must chase sun burns and sandal blisters in the manic pursuit of all the activities that everyone else tells us we must enjoy.

I’m waiting for the smell of cool air and the feeling of leaves underfoot. For the warm feeling of soft stockings tucked inside sturdy boots. I’m waiting for my energy to be useful to me once again instead of being suffocated out and siphoned off by heavy humidity just to mingle with the yellow vapors of smog.

I want mist rising off of the water and the rough-hewn beauty of the landscape as it slips closer to its annual rest.

A Song


Spadina House, for any non-Torontonians.


Greetings from beyond the grave (it feels like) to anyone who might be listening. I’m still writing here in the fair city of hyper-intelligent trash pandas who, no doubt, will be our new overlords soon. I can’t even be mad at them. They have such sweet little faces.

Anyways, here’s another crappy bit of writing that I’m going to inflict on you all. Unless the raccoons get me first.

A Song

Beneath the grime and roadside slime

beats the heart of old. 

Under the muck, 

all kinds of yuck

Waits the heart of gold.


Untouched by dark remains a spark

Inside, the heart beats on. 

Below the road,

a common load,

It listens, getting strong. 


I hope the light keeps growing bright

the night has been too long. 

Rise, fair sun! The night is done!

Awake and hear my song. 


The mist slipped in and and settled down to wait. It sleeps in water droplets on my hair and sweeps like a whisper over my limbs. The shadows hang long inside it and stretch out, ready to stay.

The city now swallowed up in a new set piece. Its normal goings on are hidden by one of nature’s little quirks, maybe to remind us of little it takes to change us humans and our things into something unrecognizable to ourselves.

Sound calls out but nothing answers, muffled by the white tendrils that have rolled in like ripples from the ocean. The mist hangs on in gentle captivity, like a friend who embraces just a little too tightly but means well.

The sun may yet burst through with determined violence, insisting on banishing the fairy web back to the world of children’s picture books. Until then, I shall embrace the water and pretend that there is something else afoot.


What goes on in the fog? In the night, in the dark, alone? 

A veil of boldness rolls in, around, and through. 

Nature’s gift – by making strange and us strangers to ourselves.

To do as we like. In the fog. In the dark. Alone. 

Dragons – real and not- roll through the fog on our streets and of our minds. 

They do as they like. In the fog. In the dark. With us. 

Blackbird Omen

A large black bird

Sat high in a tree. 

It turned its head

And looked at me.

I hid my face

And held my breath. 

The blackbird’s look

Foretold of death. 

I hurried home

To our cottage light.

But the tiny window 

Was as dark as night. 

I took a step

And pushed the door.

There found my mother

On the kitchen floor. 

The priest was drawn

By my wailing shout.

Then the undertakers

Bore her out.