June 25th
  8:17 am
buzzing.



there's a buzzi-in the air - for a holiday - for a heated day -
and the coffee is slow and the radio still moans
we can pretend it's tropical for a while, and let's pretend,
sitting outside, eating outside, loving outside,
with our pink nails, loving an eighty degree cool breeze on our knees,
winter or summer, i'm chewing still.

it's been a few days, i've been well, absent, minded, unsure?
is there anything else to record, then i shall record it here.
rather not. much too busy.

i'm swatting away large hovering and friendly bugs;
an inclement sky, welcome,
the buzz of the CBC alerts me,
in the winter, only transformers buzz.

you know there's something else waiting to come out.
it is, in spite of angst, it is, in spite of doubt, it is, in spite of all else,
a full heart,
a full chest,
which still, from time to time,
i'm happy to say,
bursts with a simple,  but unending joy.






downtown shoppers,
my how time does fly - we've reduced to christmas songs.












June 25th
  7:11 am

made it through the night.
the rested morning, through frustrations, turned into a viral afternoon and evening.
i've made it through to the other side, the rear intercostals reminding me.
let's move on; it's a brand new day; it's a wet day, but a warm one, in my little oasis,
and every time i so much as speak that word i think of an era bygone, where Roberta Flack sung in her way
and no one knew of i tunes. not even the i.

so alive, i sit outside, today are ballet things and a deadline for poots, make it past those.
tippy toes i hear on the wood floor, they stop for coffee, they are grown.
they kiss my sickly dirty head and return inside.

the internet is becoming a quieter place for me; louder for some and commonplace.
the rat-a-tat-tat which i used to anticipate so, has quelled now as we turn into television
and as the World Cup Beckons. and summer approaches. this internet, with it's magical glory,
is nearly now as faded a memory as Roberta, it sings along in the background, while we dream
of Movie sections of the newspaper pinned to the wall, we are happy to dream, we are,
after a violent viral night, we are just happy to smell the rain, sip the coffee, think pleasantly again about food,
and think about something other than survival.

it's june 25th. it's someone's birthday. it is, indeed, the summer of 2014.
you small creature who ravaged me, i have survived, so have you,
but i am the one who is happy to have done so.











June 24th
  9:45am

one day, in hundreds, i'm rested, i'm calm, it's a holiday that no one celebrates anymore,
and i'm alone.
all i wanted to do was come here and slowly sip my coffee; slowly record my brain waking up.
but do you think i could find my eyeglasses. of course not. after a week spent putting things
in it's place, i had more steps on a fitbit before i've drunk my coffee than most do in a day.

so here i am, no glasses, driven by that small piece of plastic, driven by such a strong desire
to recount everything i've now forgtten that i thought when i woke up.

calm.
calm was mostly what i forgot; oh, those rare, those precious and rare mornings when waking up
means nothing more.

wondering.
wondering what motivated me to begin this process of change, the entire thing, we can rewind
as many days weeks or months as we like but the process is change; the process is growth;
and when i've slept, i know that, and when i haven't, it's merely about sitting under a rock.
but sometimes, some where, there are little wars, and sitting under a rock is good.

it's all about knowiwng when.

yeah, i guess that's about what i wanted to say.
this was the worst relaxing wakeup of the year.
we need to finish the tepid mildly stale coffee;
push thoughts of excellence out of our minds;
imagine a world where art is valued;
and
and
well, i don't know what comes after that.








 

June 22nd
  7:39am

summer solstace spent in summery things; of garage sales with neighbours
after the first european breakfast outside
eleven year old birthday parties with three sets of non-parents,
and oddly, early to bed the three, watching oh-so-summery FIFA,
tucked in nicely, on a large pink sofa which was certainly worth
it's weight.

now a morning of three, all peeing and one coughing at the same time,
while rodentia scurry and sunshine beams, i am chewing, not food,
waiting for the first signs of caffeine movement in my brain (none yet),
so that it can continue to formulate what it means to be a family,
watching as only time can do, to see what form it will take.


 
 


 




June 21st
  8:56AM

slept.
sunny.
whether i feel like writing anything,
another story.




 







June 20th
  7:59AM


i had an hour to write a song, waking in a panic, that was worse than choosing a school.
thank God that's over. i had nearly done it, although i spent longer counting how many
years they had been married. that was after running through the woods with a bunch of
strangers for an entire day with japanese instruments. why do we dream, my brain
was busy enough with school choices.

nearly the solstice, sleep left poots achy and creaky. the neck is stiff, the feet are sore,
and i don't really know why.





three weeks is long enough.











June 18th
  8:17 am
you came back.

it's a new morning, how different one from the next. spilling tears of joy, of pain, of love,
and inbox messages from people looking for work that i'm allowed to ignore,
fills me with power, for the first time.

describing in the third person, how i feel, is admittedly tricky today;
that word i never believe, for how can emotions be anything but crystal clear;
but now i can go to work, i can think about dinner, i can resume.

this is my sap.


a child stole my first hug after Lufthansa 474
and because i love them both so freely,
i didn't mind. i didn't mind at all.








June 17th
3 marvelous years ago...
  9:08 am


i try to be kind; stepping out of the limelight or celebrating what's rightly mine quietly;
but today, today is a day like no other, and today i must shout.

never has there been a day like that. in many travels; in many countries; with many people;
nothing will ever match it's wonder and glory; a glorious gift and magical electricity
that left me spinning, that spins me still, and always will;
that was the chance of a lifetime, mustered courage, sheer will,
sealed by the only fate i have ever believe in.
just one kiss. all it took.






 


June 16th

7:27 am
Monday.

Closed my eyes to dream and dreamt my way all the way to 7 oclock.

i've sent music to the other room; who can hear it.
i've double-booked myself;

i've never been to Carrickfergus, i've never known real longing,





I wish I was in Carrickfergus
Only for nights in Ballygrand
I would swim over the deepest ocean
The deepest ocean for my love to find

But the sea is wide and I cannot swim over
Neither have I wings to fly
If I could find me a handsome boatsman
To ferry me over to my love and die

Father's Day.

Lous Audet,
laundry, lonely, and Chopin.

the steak we shared before your flight seems like part of ancient history to me now;
for what is a steak, even a terrible one, if i don't hear your voice for eighteen days.

you stole my heart; stole it clean.
i would have never given it up like this, willingly.
no, that is not something i ever would have done.














June 15th

7:44am
T-2. Serena and me.

really bad coffee wakes a well-slept poot all alone.
without you, time, and even space, takes on a different character.
i'm smaller, i'm prettier,
weak i n the knees, i write my own songs,
well, i used to.

serena now, transports me back to a transitive time, i'm not remembering any particular space,
only driving in a fancy car, with leather seats, it's just me, in that car, with that music,
until i broke free, i broke free. i broke free back into myself.

those transitive times; so very few, and far between. 



and you, without any constraints, posting German songs, is the part or you i will never know,
which is fine by me.


if i ever were a singer, i'd be serena ryder.

time for running.

June 14th

9:02am
T-3!

empty belly for poots, an L mug with awful awfully new coffee,
cranking open a window in the rain and the cool breeze is welcome.
cherry juice will save my life, my body, rested, wants now to move.
the light at the end of the tunnel is now in view; hope lives;
this slow torture of time will end. i think i can feel it.

the same thought tumble in my brain, over, and over, and over,
they are washed, pre-washed, and soaked.
this is her life, too, chewing on the same thoughts until they either bore you,
freak you out, or motivate you to get up.
what is the alternative. i cannot see one.

do i feel less alone after speedily typing a paragraph or two?
yes, somehow i do.

the urge to shop violently replaces the bliss i get from him.
it's a violence because it won't let go of me.

June 13th

8:07am
T-4

what old people know.

it only dawned on me today that i'm not using my best skills in my work.

June 12th

6:50 am. rain.

T-5, sounds manageabe before my coffee.

straight-falling rain in this shiny green city morning, walking aimlessly through my pennance and drinking bad coffee.
lots of cheek-chewing made it through the night. numb and fragile, here i am. no running in the rain. more watery coffee.
there's a tension mounting; a tightness in the chest; yes, you know about my chest, don't you, it's thin, ravaged by time,
bony, but not yet wrinkled. at what age do breasts wrinkle, mark these glorious words poots, the age before you knew.


when things happen, do you see them as fateful, does it depend on what they are, on who jumps the hedges?
or is it all manifest destiny. as each day moves into history, my fate was sealed, was crafted, was meant to be.
it still seems that the only reason for anything to have ever happened to me at all, was for this. for us.
in writing, it sounds really dumb. i'll write it quicikly here before coffee. BC.

and i'll save it, marking these glorious words, without mention of any plans for fate,
because fate is doomed to happen, and God willing,
i want no part in creating it.

 














June 11th

so many stories of you in my head



photo by you :-)






June 4
8:06am
T-13
about me.

here is poots. alone again.
not a device chimes.

she is wiser than her words; wiser than her peers; and sometimes, wiser than me.
which school could possible be good enough.

i'm not running yet, still in the dark, drugging up the morning.
contemplating this morning, this space which you are envious of (all of you)
because in this space, i am free to feel, to speak, and to not speak;
within these digital walls, literally, and, figuratively, i figure.

we're entering poetry contests with broken credit cards
we're refusing mistaken birthday wishes;
we're answering questions about hotels; surveys about facebook feeds;
and keeping abreast about whichever world events the CBC decides we should.

we're laying here, bare-breasted (tmi for some of you), wondering which is our natural state
and how does a woman go from hiding herself to giving herself completely.

June 3
7:14 am
T-14
i will wake up.

  a text about the value of cherry juice caught me by surprise before i wheeled over town
and then i thought, who wouldn't be caught zooming down this street on a diamondback
at eleven o'clock at night. i just like doing what's out of the ordinary. that's all.
a new day greets me, on tuesday, barely, and the world is way too awake thru my window.
her blanket still hangs. the porch light is on. maybe she's dead.

for certain today i am a big lump of mushy.
as we learned yesterday, this is not only real but in the figurative sense.
muSR love notes filter in, he has his idea of what the weirdest part is, but i so trump him
because his email, whose eager remix message notification didn't wake me at 4:12 am
is skipping beats of my heart
as the espresso slowly wakes it.

how long have i known this man, how long will he fill me with wonder,
in the space between sleeping, waking, and love,
i know the answer to both
is always.









June 2
8:14 am

SUNLIGHT filters through the trees
CHAOS filters through my mind
ESPRESSO filters through the filter

 i watch the space around me, my fleeting thoughts bounce from her, to him, to her, to him,
like an unresolved ping pong game, which only reminds me of her grades in gym.
cherry juice, in all it's glory, does not have a hope in hell against too much rose.
writing today is not cutting through the fog
but a letter from you is nice. always nice.

T-15







lovers locks, Pecs, Hungary.
T-16

the mEp ... my Electronic pen . . . the 2014 edition and all of the contents therein are copyright  Poot's Place
 
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All photography original unless otherwise credited.
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