Collection

Winter skies swelled, bursting loudly as it poured

Winter skies swelled, bursting loudly as it poured

heavily onto the tin roof and on the rich soil

where the seeds that we sowed

last months are embedded to grow,

to feed us both in the spring

and in the summer, the leaves turned back into the ground.

The plants life ends where it starts––the ground

coffee in the morning with soy milk is poured

into the air, aromatic beans with the scent of spring

time to go see what new life lives within the soil

and water and sun help it all grow

up, into those ideas we had earlier sowed.

We reflect on the life plans and ideas we’d sowed,

ideas of babies and of owning this ground

and watching those babies get big as they grow

just like the seeds after the winters rain has poured.

Turning things over and stirring the soil

aerates fresh breath like the breeze in spring

time is the time to jump and to spring

into motion and harvest what we’ve sowed

together we make our shirts fit––for working in soil

and for rolling on the ground

where the water troughs of your souls’ hunger are poured

and attended to by bees, they drink, helping the honey pot grow

we were worried that nothing would grow

and be ready to harvest in spring,

but after everything you poured

into the ideas that we carefully sowed,

we’re now expecting a baby, and we own this ground,

we can build our family home on this soil

we can inject our soul into this soil,

let the IV drip seasonally and watch our baby grow.

Family and farmland are what keeps a good man grounded,

Unlike the chase of sheep - the seasonal work in Spring,

which ends as harvest begs for new seeds to be sown,

before the crying of winter rains are poured.

Time to stay grounded on our soil and watch our babies grow up

Along with the lambs in springtime, the dreams we sowed are poured

over the land.

I am white, eyes blue hair blonde

I am white, eyes blue, hair blonde,

Never have I felt like I don’t belong because of my colour,

I was never stolen from my birth mother,

It was not my colour that made me feel less,

I’ve never been told my colour is wrong.

Forgive me if I am

Wrong,

to even try write empathetically about racially fueled violence,

and of the alienation of first nations––

People,

We are all people,

populating a damaged Earth that struggles to breath,

with burning lungs lit by politics

and misogynistic hypocrites.

Forgive me if I’m wrong

You’re not alone ––

feeling alone.

I’ve read of primal stories,

Of first peoples’ souls silently screaming out onto the ocean,

below the cliffs, where lye the graves.

I’ve heard stories,

Of stolen children crying out

for their missing mothers, brothers and sisters.

Floyd fueled the fire,

uncivilized civilians demanding civil rights,

rightly so,

He pleads the words

“I can’t breathe”

Like the drowning first nations whos’ breathe got lost on the winds

That struggle to flow organically,

Through the trees and through the lungs

Of our earth,

Because,

“I can’t breathe”