Hello Again

I wrote this several months ago, then forgot to post it. For those who didn't already know I was a ditz.

Well. I failed. Technically speaking. I did not post a poem every day, I did not write 365 poems over the course of the year.

But I did write more poetry than I've ever written in my life over the past year, I've become a regular fixture of the local Vancouver Slam poetry scene (including a few wins,) and I've been invited to be a feature poet at a local event at the end of September.

So I'm calling this a success. For those of you who actually stuck with me, thank you for believing in me. I'm sorry if I've let you down.

So where to from now? I will change the name of the blog, and will post periodically. I hope some of you will continue to check in once and a while, because the thought of my work brightening someone's day (even for a moment) is a great source of joy for me.

Thank you so much for this year, I've grown so much as an artist because of the people who kept pestering me to write write write.

New Blog (which is actually older)

I'm Reverting back to my old blog. It will be a combination of writing, musings, thoughts, and perhaps the occastional rant (which will hopefully be therapeutic for all.)
I hope you'll check it out.

http://jlegerewriting.blogspot.com/

Days 135-142 Sheer Panic

I'm starting to panic. I'm about 50% sure there's no chance in hell I'm going to get this done. But I'm not giving up yet.
-Incredible Machine-
My soul's ringing bell
echoes in my heart.

My mind's brightest thoughts
leak from out my hands.

My mouth's hardest truths
flame, in pride, in my ears.

My every living day
hopelessness restrains.

-Stuck Like Glue-
One two three
your hand to me.

Here right now
we make a vow.

This short life
forgets the strife.

Please say yes
we'd be the best.

I love you
will you love me too?

-Operation: Working Vacation-
Let's go
let's get a bottle of wine.

Right now
plane tickets to somewhere hot.

Get gone
train ride with a sleeper car.

No plan
just you and I and wings to fly.

Just think
all day, all night, all alone in a room.

Let's go
follow 'now' to the end of our life.

-The Constant Truth of Love-
What if we can't
live with each other?
What if we can't
last a moment alone?

What if we don't
let our hearts let us in?
What if we do?

What if we fight
about every nothing?
What if we scorn
such vivid communication?

What if we end
dark and damaged?
What if we last
forced to face the constant truth of love?

-Songbird-

Is this how the songbird feels, when bright spring sets aglow the leaves in golden sun?

Does she see the world again after months of clouds and chaos and is she relieved by the first sign of light?

Is her frigid vigil cut short by the renaissance that resonates from the sky into the soil and up into her soul through the roots of her home?

Can she understand the cycle? Or does she think her first flight in the new spring is a betrayal of the life that came before?

What if she wishes for darkness and dread, for her world to be dead so that her silence has an excuse to exist?

And on that first warm day when the sun coaxes the cold to go away, does she pray for it to stay?

Is she able to imagine that any season could be as bright or dear as the year before and though her mind tells her to keep the solid silence, to respect the passèd life, does her voice disobey?

Is there some inner instinct that forces her to sing when the spring rises up from the frozen Earth?

When a force for joy as irresistible as a lonesome flower, refusing to be held down by cold, breaks through to her sight, how can she refuse to rejoice?

At the sight of a million shades of every colour, of a land birthed out of hell by hope, how could misery cope and keep a hold on that old bird, when her rebellious soul revolts and refuses to respect an agony so thick it licks at her like fire at a log?

But she will not burn.

She will throw her feathers wide and fly and her note will rent apart the ice inside her heart so that her mourning will end and her bright new day begin.

Is this how the songbird feels when her widow’s winter draws its final frozen breath and sets her free?

-Commencement-

The time has come for us to part our road

to leave this place and find another home

we’ll follow those before us as we roam,

but also pave a course to find new mode.

These silken gowns obscure the coming phase:

charcoal shadows cast by future’s light.

What follows now seems blindly out of sight,

a hidden box that holds a million days.

So now we face our frightened plans and dreams

which feed our passions and remind us why

we want to find a cliff and leap to life

from off the edge. A brand new life’s great schemes

allow us opportunities to try

and find a happy future free of strife.

-The Lover, the Mother, and the Unscrupulous Brother-

An ode to my lover, a note from my

mother, a lesson for my most unscrupulous

brother. Time may be patient and seem to

be kind, but healing my wounds takes a lot

more than words here’s the truth of my feelings.

Dear you broke my dear heart when

I gave it to you and you turned from my

love and betrayed with my blood all the faith

that I had in our piece of forever.

You should have held loyal to tight binding chains

of the promises woven from your lips

to mine. But instead you chose him for your

arrows from Cupid and mine were torn out

leaving holes bleeding faith in a river

that leads to the circles of hell. If only

you had such a mind that could grasp all the

pain brought from words that he spewed

on the night when he wood you away.  

Perhaps that would lend you the wisdom to

see that your wounds on my soul run as deep

as the sea and because I can’t swim I

am breathing in water and swallowing death.

Woman who raised me then tore down again

all my dreams and my hopes for a life free

of pain. I’m sure you will find if your life

keeps its grip on its sanity happily

wading through memories, never has

anyone loved you like me. The curse of

Penelope settled inside of your

once tender heart but instead of her faith

in the spirit of he who you claim to

have loved you ignored the years past and you

cast off your grief like a rain sodden hat.

Then you wrote to your son and told him to

chase love and I lost my whole life to your

payment for all of the time that I spent

pouring tears down the drain in my sorrow

for he who deserted the vows that he

made on the day when he pledged you his life.

                                                         

My man, my friend, we once were so close but

now we have nothing but years in between

us and just like the rest of our hate-ridden

clan what’s left of our blood bond will soon start

to fade. I’d found what I wanted a woman

I loved and could smell my own happiness

settling upon me like snow on the ground

in the winter which leads happy bears with

full bellies to drift off to bliss as they

sleep finding true rest for months at a time.

But then you came along with your heat and

your light and you melted the snow so my

world was soggy and suddenly fraught

with the trappings of frescoes unfinished

so angels lack halos which renders them

men. Here’s the cost of your pride: you are now

like your mother and brother abandoned.

I need to move on and be done with this

life in order to grieve and start over

again. So call this farewell you won’t see

me again. I’m leaving right now and just

like all our love I’ll fade into the dusk

-Honesty-

I’ve never valued honesty
as much as other people do.

White lies have been

my habitual protection.

The jagged edge of sharpened truths

have left so many scars

on my once unruined tongue

as to render my speech useless.

And how, as a writer, can I do my work

when every word is forced to navigate

a labyrinth of white scar tissue

just to swim in air and ear.

But some lies are not dove white, they are raven black.

Black as night, black as hell, black as death,

black as the shadowed midnight corner where a woman is raped and a man is murdered and a little girl’s sweet life is torn to shreds by the hands that once held her and protected her and a little boy cowers because his grown up self can’t stand to be labelled a victim.

Is this what truth is supposed to feel like?

It didn’t the one time I scratched away the dark

with my bare hands until my nails broke and my fingers bled,

the one time I let that little boy in the dark corner step into the front and shout:

not merely “I’m alive,” but “I survived”

The one person I told,

not the parents who have always been my best friends,

but the girl who I’ve trusted with everything else.

Every part of my body and my soul,

but who practically scoffed at the revelation

I made for the first time in ten years.

“No!” I want to scream at her at the world,

it’s not “just” this, it’s not “merely” that.

It's the truth.

Day 134 - Haunted

I wrote this a while ago. It's dark. It's incredibly dark. But there is it.

-Humanity's Remains-
I hear the sound
of a thousand tortured cries.
I hear the sound
of a thousand torrid taunts.

The Earth is bleeding innocence
from deep wounds cut by evil.
Its exposed heart beats
and I feel mine break.

I hear the sound
of a child's neck snap.
I hear the sound
of a taut and swaying cord.

Vomit rises to my throat
the putrid bile burns.
The world's guts are seeping out,
infected to the core.

I do not understand
It can't be understood.
It defies nature
for any soul to be so corrupted.
It defies nature
for a child to witness this,
to be eviscerated by this,
to create this wretched beast
and inflict in on another.

Perhaps it starts with envy
that cancer of the soul.
Perhaps it fuels hatred,
spite, and rage,
which propel furthur torment.

I hear the sound
of a bullet crunch a skull.
I hear the sound
of a body, torn to meat.

I hear the world split to shreds,
each scrap soaked in blood,
and strewn with pulverised flesh.

Humanity's remains.
Filled with promise,
pure with youth.

They never had a chance.

Day 133 - Happy Birthday

Grandpa

More gratitude with every passing year

for a man with always an open ear.

So many walkings and stories you’ve told.

So many moments and memories we’ve shared.

Here’s to a hero who for thanks never asks.

An angel guarded childhood, performs a million tasks.

Day 114-132 Teachers

-Mrs McGhee-

I, side proposition,

present three main contentions.

First, you filled my brain

with history’s sordid truths.

To light this world’s flaws

and show me what to change

Second, you equipped my mind

to sharpen thoughts on written stones

and fire them in all directions

no matter whom you fear to strike

Third, you freed my head.

Made sure I knew to laugh,

and share a meal with friends

despite the overwhelming ills.

To conclude, you ignited my soul

to burn with passion for change.

I vow to honour you and your efforts

by spreading your knowledge and wisdom beyond.

-Mr Janz-

I will always miss our afternoons,

chats about the literary greats.

It was as if they sat in the room

such insights did you share.

Speaking of books,

how many have  you recommended

that I have grown to cherish as favourites?

An enslaved negro woman hitchhiking across     the universe to find a racing dog.

Speaking of passion,

(there, that one’s more your style)

you’ve nourished my adoration

for the read and written word.

My academic and creative minds

have grown while in your care.

So as I segueway to the rest of life

I can’t forget to thank you

for showing me the way to knowledge.

-Proz-

I thought I had a voice

but it was of another kind.

My admiration holds no bounds

for the beauty of a note.

They’ve always been just shapes upon a page

just dark ink bled on paper.

But now I don’t just hear the voice of God

I finally join the chorus

and it’s you I have to thank.

So thank you

for making me a songbird,

singing in the rain that

you’re nobody till somebody shows you

all you need is a song.

-Mme Bigras-

C’est grace à vous, Madame,

que j’ai decouvert la beauté

de la langue que j’adore, français.

C’est grace à vous, Madame,

que mon esprit a grandi comme petite fleur

et les racines de passion se trouvent dans ma    couer.

C’est vraiment grace à vous, Madame,

que je peut voir la monde

aux yeux de vos artistes.

Je peut lire leurs histories,

je peut écouter leurs chansons

je peut partager leurs vies.

Merci Beaucoup, Madame

pour tous

qui est grâce à vous.

-Rosemary-

Too many people

would call themselves a hero.

Too many people

have never earned the title

Too many people

shy away from recognition.

Too many people

never hear what they rightfully should.

Too many people

forget about those doing invisible work.

Too many people

I’m sure don’t even know your name.

Too many people

ignore the smile that your wear.

Too many people

miss the kindness that you share.

-Ms Durante-

The most important corner

in this most precious school

is protected by a saint.

Your phone may ring

a voice may sing

but you will keep the swing

and achieve it all.

A million little tasks

accumulate en masse.

But you willingly tackle

your job like a jackel

and still always crackle

with lovable laughter

and shine

with a shimmering smile.

-Ms McMillan-

The most important corner

in this most precious school

is protected by a saint.

Your phone may ring

a voice may sing

but you will keep the swing

and achieve it all.

A million little tasks

accumulate en masse.

But you willingly tackle

your job like a jackel

and still always crackle

with lovable laughter

and shine

with a shimmering smile.

-Ms Quackenbush-

A hero hidden behind a counter.

The glue that binds each corner of the school.

Searching for a name you always find.

Keeper of the bank, guardian of the corner         offices.

A goddess architect who plans the schemes

and helps the dreams

materialise.

-Monte-

Director of two shows

director of my passion.

In my arms I held a dream

which you watered into a scheme.

I’d never known what acting really was

but you showed me what it does:

inspires, teacher, entertains,

removes societal stains.

From a defender of vegetables.

to a lovesick Ohio boy,

or a tough soldiers,

I’ll always remember the roles,

the countless crafted souls.

But you I’ll remember most.

-Cave-

Tall, dark, and random,

a woman for the record books.

One of a kind

and kinder than any one.

You’ve taught me so much.

First, about acting,

second, surrounding social conscience

next, relating to right and just

finally, pertaining to purposeful life.

You live with zest,

your tongue spreads jest,

and your mind knows best.

I am inspired by your brilliance

your compassion and your wit.

So here it is, it has been writ.

Cava Flav stay Solid, you Rock.

-Ms Hunt-

These words are my creation

but you, my inspiration.

You’ve helped extract them from my pen

and now they return to you.

From back dark corners of my mind

through dim, firelit hallways

into the sunbright foyer,

where sits a fountain of ink

in which my words revel to swim.

The words that stand attention

at the sound of your name

(honour, humour, talent, brilliance)

form a chain that binds the truth

of how wonderful you are.

-Ms Jelena-

I may be good with languages

but Math is one I’m not.

You made it less unbearable

when equations and I fought.

Your patience with distraction

was a blessing all last year.

Putting up with my inaction

when my sanity was risked.

Your sense of humour was a blast.

I always love a laugh,

so though I’m not a fan of Math

I looked forward to your class.

Thank you for your teachings

those many afternoons

not only about numbers,

but also the three slap rule.

-Ms Brown-

Grade 8 English lacked all frowns

with a rockin’ teacher named Ms. Brown.

Grade 10 Birdie was a blast

a year spent in a year gone past.

Grade 12 Grease, an honour to be in

kept in line by your unique discipline.

Collected memories of many random things

like suggesting ‘Happy Birthday’ when I didn’t    want to sing.

A personality that fills the school

a wicked mad Aussie, anything but fool.

So here’s a cheers to all the years

and more to come I hope.

-Ms Dempster-

Ms Tracy Dempster, strong and true

we would have been screwed if we hadn’t had you

The fetcher of bags and bags of props

Those fab pink swords for solid rocks

The keeper of clothes on the musical’s racks

(“Grease” too literal on shirts and slacks)

Also, of course, your dry sharp wit

Caused a few frights before I caught the swing of it

Please don’t dare change, you’re one of a kind

I hope I’ve stamped your memory as you have mine.

-Ms Waldner-

A merge of passions I fervently admire.

You cause reactions on the stage,

and choreograph chemicals, brilliant and sage.

The art of science, the science of art.

Diversity is proof of purest smarts.

Whether I was memorising chemical symbols

or leaping and diving to find my place

I could always feel the shadow of your mind

protecting me from error

unless it was the helpful kind.

I’m richer for learning all you have taught

and better and balancing body and thought.

-Ms Kluth-

An angel hidden in the back.

A kind, sweet woman, counted on.

The warmth in the room

must spread from your heart.

The brightness of the light

from your permanent smile.

The wall paper printed

with a menagerie of cats.

The promise of laughter

lurks in the shop.

Please keep your great spirit

don’t let it stop.

-Mrs Bushman-

There is no space left in my soul

for any more pride

to be graduating from your school.

It seems you’ve found your calling

a gift your mind controls

which makes you top the best.

Despite the board’s mistakes

the lack of buildings and space

this school is great and strong.

That’s thanks to people like you

people who work and toil to build it

to make it of heavenly stock.

So keep it up and stay as true

all pride in you is through and through.

-Mr Wingerak-

A great wise man

I’ve known for many years.

From the duck I don’t remember

to an Elphinstone farewell,

you’ve been present my whole journey.

You teach inside a classroom

but more so out in the world.

For you I’ve learned to think

to question even printed ink.

I am prepared to sprint through life

but know the value of a walk

and a booming, shameless laugh.

A mentor, humble, you may not even know

the gift that you posess.

But here I am to call you

the smartest one who most will ever know.

-Ms Kobabe-

I’ve searched so long for an image

to encapsulate your soul.

I’ve played around with angel,

since your brilliance soars with clouds.

I’ve compared you to a horse,

majestic and loyal, fierce and free.

I’ve seen in you a mother,

protecting a guiding to shared success.

I cannot settle just on one

you are not that easily containable,

which is what I most admire.

I’ve found a kindred spirit

and I swear to never let her go.

Day 113 Father's Day

-For Dad-
Some people say I look like you
but I so hope I act like you
I pray that I find bravery
when life is piled high with strife.

I pray that I will never cease
learning how to fight for peace
from you, the man who mastered
the art of breaking rules.

Finally I hope to hell
(and also to the heights of heaven)
that I will always be able to be
my father's son.

Days 106-112 Gifts

A few couplets I wrote as part of my IB class' gift to our teachers.

Ms Buljan

In every inch of that tall frame

is knowledge, wisdom, nothing lame

Ms Jelena

Your sense of humour helps us fly

When drawing graphs and using pi

Mme. Bigras

Ta joie toujours nous infecter

une sourire comme le brillant soleil

Mme Cote

C'est tout le monde qui vous adore

Chaque moment nous demandons <<encore>>

Mr Janz

our fearless leader through it all

a timeless god who'll never fall

  

Kobabers

inside our minds you sculpted language wise

we wont' find one like you with million tries

Days 100-105

My Mum and I took a trip to Costa Rica, and so much of what we saw was enormously inspiring. In fact, I've been looking forwawrd to the poems from this trip since I first started the project. So, without any more of this bland introduction, here are the ones that I'm ready to share.

All over the place, right in the middle of cities, are these elaborate, beautiful cemetaries and I found myself struck by the fact that they don't hide death the way we do, with our cemetaries incognito on the outskirts of the suburbs.

-Silent Sunday-
Two marble angels guard the gate.
Soldiers serving God,
they carry lambs to freedom.

Worn white paint
scraped by souls
gripping tight during flight
never looking down,
or looking back,
only up, at eternity.

Fiercely posed, sharply armed
defending Dios' domain.
Any black from sin
must remain outside
and stare through the bars
of the gate,
practicing burning
on the angel's flaming spears.

A forest of stone crosses
and tiled tombs.
Bright colours, not hiding.
Mingle with the departed.
If we want to remember their lives,
we must not ignore their deaths.

-I Stand and Breathe Fresh Sun-
The vine embraces wire,
avoids the barbs with care.
The wire welcomes warmth
a stranglehold with life.

The fernleaf scrapes tough wall
rishing in warm wind.
The wall lets silent groans
it aches, would die for life.

The billboard sprouts from grass
which reaches skyskrape tall.
The grass bows low at wind's
ovation: praise of life.

I stand and breathe fresh sun
my universe is green.
The ground surrounds my toes:
deep home for end of life.

-The Butterfly Man Spoke No English-
The butterfly man spoke no English.
I understood his laughter nonetheless.
So many made temporary homes of hands and arms.
Then wings skittered to life and lifted off.
Serene blues, natural greens, toxic reds.
"Come here baby," the only words that I knew.
A small new girl with a crumpled wing.
He  pinched her legs and plucked at the wing.
She fell.
She writhed on the ground.
But for her tiny voice, I thought I would her shrieks.
He picked her up and tried his tricks again.
I watched him with more focus.
He was not pinching, but stretching,
he was not plucking, but caressing.
She fluttered, she flapped, she flew.
The butterfly man spoke no English
but when that beauty began her second life
I understood his laughter nonetheless.

-Knowing Land-
I float along staring out
at thriving hills green as life.

The thickest cloak ever grown
keeps warm unseen souls within.

While here I sleep not in beds
but underneath ancient leaves.

Have liquid dreams, swimming trees
and wish I knew knowing land.

-On the Other Side of the Hill-
Such tiny legs.
Flailing, grabbing, tugging, struggling.
A pair of withered and wet wings.
Sticky with fluid, pain, and hope.

What she aches for is life
to flap her butter wings.

It won't come easy.
But like a pirate sailing on blood.

Terror's hand on the wheel,
agony's breath in the sail.

A vicious fight will come.
Against death's cruelty sharpened claws.

She may not win
since so many parish.

Even if she fights the hardest,
even if she beats back death.

He may still claim her from exhaustion
for this is a war of attrition.

However, there is a chance of life
A chance that her wing will open.

Then she will take flight
only to climb a grand hill,

where she will face death's army.

-Fireflies-
A million little lights.
Delicate white flicker
that tips the unlit air
to empty out the ink
and bare Earth`s quiet shape.

I detect a faint ruft,
a whispered secret
wafting up the sky
gently lifting truth,
illuminated by
a million little lights.

Day 97 - Happy Birthday

In the Beginning
Here we stand,
on the edge of a new life.
Holding hands,
as we look into forever.

A promised land,
filled with a million tomorrows.
Bold and grand,
shining with your light.

Never bland,
I promise bouquets of excitement.
Like grains of sand,
we are part of a brilliant world.

It must be planned,
this union, you and I.
A perfect band,
our harmonies unite.

Here we stand,
ready to begin our life.
Holding hands,
for the start that never ends.

Day 96 - Ah the good old days

I was reading through the whole blog looking for poems to read at a Slam I'm performing at on Monday and as I read my extreme panicking about being a day or two behind I laughed. You know the kind of laughter that almost turns into crying without you noticing? Yeah, it was that. Well... not really, I didn't cry, but I did roll my eyes a lot because now I'm... well.. I don't even know how many days behind. Anyway here's a poem inspired by Beyonce because that's what I'm listening to right now.

-The Revolution-
Break all the rules
Knock down the walls
This is a revolution.

Raise a hand
and your voice.
Look in my eyes
and hear my sighs.
This is a revolution.

See my smile
know that I love you.
Never doubt,
never cry,
forever mine,
This is a revolution.

Day 95 - Happy Birthday Kayley

The Queen
Royal clad in skinnies
a blazer and a toque.
With clunky rings of silver
and kick ass vintage boots.

A fan of Dickenson,
of Emma, Char, and Anne.
A feminist fiasco,
strong and smart and savvy.

Smiles wide, laughs loud,
and tweets wise wit.
Hippy birthday to you
our Majesty, the Hipster Queen.

Day 94 - WOW this is bad

The Puck
Round as hockey's puck
Makes spectators upchuck

Like those who drank too much,
but from icing, not booze as such.

So conniseurs are sick
every time they lick

the white and yummy muck
off the oreo puck.

Day 93 - There's probably nobody out there anymore, but whatever

Slogging
My gloves are on.
M boots are tied.
My big hat pulled low.

I wade into the sludge,
gripping the handle
tightly. Prepared
for the ripple,
the first sign of trouble
in the water.

I see it.
A tremor on the chin
of the bank.
A single drop
of the pond.

I watch the face;
the quivering, trembling face
of the bog.

Thick bubbles grow and burst.
A deep schluck, and another, and more.
I see a small crest
in the slime.
It lurches toward me.
I brace myself,
and my wordnet.

Two eyes meet mine,
the beast's.
I stand my ground.
She starts to redescend
into wet safety.
I slap the surface of the swamp,
refusing to be ignored.
The eyes reappear,
their surface glossed by gleams of malice,
or, wait, a tear.

A moment of calm,
a moment to breathe
but neither of us do.

The pounce.
She lunges.
A torrent of water, and the slop, fly at me.
I pounce too,
leading with the net.
She snarls, caught,
unable to flee, as she likes,
from the fight.

The thrashing begins.
It starts angry, agressive.
Becomes terrified, erratic.
Finishes panicked, desperate.

Her pain hurts.
I freeze, then free her and fling aside the net.
We tumble together into the mud,
me holding her, her holding tears.
Through the pale brown
she is invisible.
I worry I am losing her.
For a moment she slips away.

But then we bring each other back.

Day 92 - GREASE

Grease is the Word

Forget Alma Mater: I'll sing about Summer Nights (and show nights) when I had me a blast and remember Those Magic Changes from students to stars and to The Company, My Loves. I’ll never forget being so excited that I was Greased Lightnin’ and I will never need a Fight Song because I love you all. So Look At Me, I’m So Happy and to this cast, crew, and teachers, I hope We’ll Go Together as the family we've become. We made the High School Hop and I know it won’t Rain on Prom Night because we’ll Hand Jive together. I hope my memories won’t distract me into becoming a Theatre School Dropout or leave me Alone at the Drive-In so I can continue on feeling like a Rock and Roll Party King. There are Worse Things I Could Do than forget these months, but believe me when I say I won’t because You Are The Ones That I Want.

Day 91 - A(nother) New Beginning

I haven't posted in a while. On the other hand, I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Call it even?

Anyway. Now I'm back, and I'm going to start with a poem I wrote for a lovely lady for her birthday.

KC
today is special
you've gained more age and wisdom
congratulations

more to come soon, I promise