Creator & Artist

Here are some of my favourite poems…

Pursuing creative writing has been central to my therapeutic journey. Engaging in these artistic, reflexive activities allow me to express my ideas and push the limits of my writerly self. It’s sometimes also a welcome reprieve from the business of academia and the psycho/social and emotional challenges inherent in an often unfeeling modern existence.

The first piece is about American poet Sylvia Plath

4am

From 20 to 30
She tore through
Our cultural shroud
With a razor quill
Leaving brown blood traces

These quiet hours were hers
Before the children
And the traffic
When darkness enters the conversation
Like a wise friend

Sylvia?
She is everywhere
These generous hours
This full time of being
They are becoming mine

A poem in remembrance and acknowledgement of the suicide of Indigenous youth in northern Saskatchewan

La Loche

Out of the long, cold sleep
The trees began to come
Then the mammals and ancient creatures
Who swam in the sea The placenta of the Borealis

A little place was born
The summer camp on the eastern shore
Where furs were traded, cultures portaged
And souls commanded by the Brothers and the Sisters
Stolen at the Beauval School

By the hand of the mourning sovereign
It came to pass one year before the 20thcentury
Treaty 8
They began to stagger and fall Under the weight of the crown

Stranded at the end of Highway 155
Four souls less than two weeks ago
Everyone wears black and picks at the hollow bones
That once kept afloat the fish
That fed this place and named it

La Loche

Where the frozen earth, asleep in winter Must be burned to bury her dead They cry for the smoke The Creator wipes their frozen tears That gather in the breast of the waxing moon

Mountains

My contemplations on a woman in my neighbourhood in London.

I saw mountains in her face
They startled me
In number and depth
Soft reminders of life
I travelled them quickly
As we waited
And then they were gone
When she crossed the street
I saw that she wore other mountains
Etched on her fleece jacket
Unlike the fleshly range
These will never shift
Or be swallowed by time
They will always live in that coat of blue

Read more of my poetry.