Blooms

I am weighted down
by the beauty of the full-blown bush.

Once upon a time
I grew a rose
but snipped its buds
in their rolled and soft perfection.

I prefer the unbloomed rose
before it opens
and begins
to drop its petals.

These bushes sag,
burdened by their aging beauty
it is too much!
And too plentiful for me to look upon too long.

I wonder
of the mistress of this house,
with shiny parked Mercedes,
she is
secure enough and loved enough
she needs not
risk the thorns
shears in hand
and sweaty cotton gloves
to offer her own
unfurled heart
a clutch of roses?

And then
there are the peonies.

It sinks in today, I’ve been dumped!
I fought this sad truth for so long; made excuses for my own and his bad behaviour; dismissed the obvious as unhealthy doubt. Ha! Today I laugh. I’ve been dumped!
Yesterday I felt unloved. I envied everyone alive because I thought you were more loved than me. The one I hung my hopes on, and whose specific love I need, is gone.
I am not asking for pity. He left me; he had his reasons, and none of them was me. What is pathetic is I persisted for so long. But believe it or not, this is an improvement. I once clung to hope about an ex-boyfriend for over ten years, right through marrying Mark.
I have no time to waste. I am almost a half-century old. I have much to give and I am open to everything. I am the rose bush in full bloom, almost obscene in my aging beauty, Ha!

From Chatterbox by Sandy Day

Q-Tips

Because
the insides of my ears are wet
I put down my chore
and heed the Q-Tips’ call.

I must
swab out my canals
while the wax is soft,
and dry them
so the wind no longer
tingles through
cooling them.
Listen.

Some people, I’ve heard,
see their livingroom askew
and rush to dust and straighten,
vacuum and pick up.

The only whistle I hear
is soft-headed
from hundreds of perfect white soldiers
lying pom to pom
head to toe
like cotton drones
waiting to fly
into my glistening
ears.

Sexopause

Have you ever had a phase in your life when, in spite of being open to a sexual relationship, your romantic universe just doesn’t collide with the universe of Mr. A&A (Attractive and Available)? I call this, Sexopause. It can last a few weeks, a few months or, as in my current case, a few years.

Sexopause can seem tiresome. Our world abounds in not-so-subtle pressure to couple up. Books, blogs, movies, advertisements, songs, all urge you, entice you, advise you, to find a screwing partner, pronto! Life can feel frustrating when, despite your best efforts, you find yourself single on Valentine’s Day. This is all perception – there’s no need for Sexopause to be tedious or exasperating. This year I celebrate Sexopause by sharing with you some of its many benefits.

1. Hairy legs in winter. No one is going to see or rub up against your legs, armpits or crotch during winter, so unless you love doing it, why shave? I rather enjoy turning into a cave woman for a few celibate months.

2. The only dirty socks and clothes lying around are your own. Ditto flatus, toothpaste dribbles, and curly hairs in the tub.

3. The remote control is where you left it. And guess who decides when the TV set goes on, when it goes off, not to mention what shows get watched or flicked through? I revel in no more televised MLB evenings, no more Hockey Nights in Canada.

4. Dick Flick Hiatus. During Sexopause, when you head out to the movie theatre it’s to settle back and lose yourself in a romantic comedy, or a drama starring some brilliant female actress or gorgeous, hunky man. One of the most enjoyable movies I’ve seen during my Sexopause is Toy Story 3. I know I would’ve missed it on the big screen had I been coupled up at the time of its release. Will you notice the absence of car chases and explosions, the “action” plots and scantily clad female love interests/male fantasies? I think not.

5. Serenity, composure, and calm. These are your states of mind when you settle into Sexopause. Conversely, when I’m in a romantic relationship my attachment mechanism (which is anxious, thanks Mom, thanks Dad) is triggered. Unless I’m feeling secure, I’m in a state of perpetual low-grade anxiety – trying to play it cool when he doesn’t call or return messages; trying to ignore his wandering eyes and new Facebook friends. On a bad day my attachment mechanism fears losing him and I have been accused of paranoid suspicion. Hmm. Serenity or fits of jealous vulnerability – which do I choose today?

6. In Sexopause, the only possibility for you to contract a STD or STI is via a toilet seat. And that aint gonna happen, sister, so case (and toilet seat) closed.

7. Self-care. As Alvy Singer put it, “Hey, don’t knock masturbation! It’s sex with someone I love.” Women’s health experts recommend sex a couple of times a week. I interpret this as a prescription for orgasms. And believe me, during Sexopause, you can be as healthy as you like.

8. Dressing for you. No one casts aspersion on your old yoga pants or the comfy torn tee you choose to sleep in. No one eyes your rear end when you pull on your somewhat snug but favourite jeans. No one says, when you wear your new sweater for the first time, “Where’d you get that?” You wear what you want, when you want.

9. No one pressures you to have sex (and I mean no one!). As much as sex can be rollicking good fun, you gotta admit, at times it’s messy, sweaty, smelly, and a bit too action-packed. Seduction is wonderful, but plain old sex when you’re too tired and lazy, well it’s one chore I’m rather glad is not on my to-do list today.

10. A reading room on your bed. On the half which used to be reserved for a snoring, 98.6°F human being, you can keep an assortment of books and reading material. Before you decide to darken your room for a night of undisturbed sleep (okay, that may be an exaggeration if, like me, you have cats or the bladder of a middle-aged woman) you can lie in bed and read as long as you like. I often pause, gaze around my bedroom and smile. I’m happy, I’m content, and like everything else in life, this too shall pass.

photo credit Roxanne McLeod

Silence

The long cold silent winter
stretches out like a thin blanket
on a loveless bed.
I trust
life is breathing –
a barely beating heart
in hidden leaves and sunken acorns
frigid bulbs.
The silence menaces me.
No birds
no dogs
no screen doors slamming.
No ribald teenage calls
at two in the morning
from the bus stop across the way.
No songs
ringing out on six strings
sung with laughter
and too much red wine.

The sun colours the sky as it rises.
The bleakness blushes
and I am reminded
this too shall pass.
The patience taught by winter
cold but not frozen
nor forgotten.

One afternoon Laurence signs on and it’s apparent he’s drunk. We spend the afternoon singing and laughing. As songs play on his iPod, he weaves the lyrics into his silly, intoxicated chat. I can almost hear what he is listening to.
We share the same musical taste; somehow we share the same past. I feel like Laurence is a long lost twin. Comparing notes we discover we love the same artists. Laurence touches my soul with music. Our harmony is liberating; music Mark sniffs at, Laurence loves; I feel confirmed.
Later, I send Laurence an apologetic email, embarrassed that I encouraged such a ribald serenade from him, a waste of an afternoon. But he too is silent as he slips into his home life.
Trapped and anxious I sit in my apartment watching the sky outside the window. I know I am in the midst of something monumental but I know not what.
I cannot keep working at my job. My boss despises me. When I try to debrief, Mark sneers at me. It is winter. I sense Spring will come, but I keep forgetting.

From CHATTERBOX

Fruit Flies

I watch the winged
drown in the cider
trap

feel
a tinge
sorry

for their floating bodies
no longer flitting
annoying gnats
helicoptering the tomatoes
the pears
the compost bucket.

I rationalize that
their last moments were
at least
debauched
for flies.

Then I reflect on
the soldiers
drowning in mud
swatted from this planet
wilfully
so I might eat this fruit
in freedom.

California Cold

I flee outdoors
to the sun.
Cold
in California
where the altitude
or latitude
or some other damn thing
like oceanic air
renders caffeine neutral
in my blood.

Chilled
and drunk on words
from my host’s stack of books
unread
or read
in our parallel universae
a year ago
or ten.

He laughs at me
‘cause I am cold
and reminds me
again
You’re from Canada!
as though I could forget.

And I marvel at this
October morning glory
silken
and blooming
a violet trumpet
in the Hallowe’en sun.

A golden copper bug lands
on my fingers and
suddenly
I am warming
to this country.

Chatterbox Launch – Thurs Oct 13th, 2011- Zelda’s

I’ve been invited as a feature artist for The Beautiful and The Damned poetry cabaret here in Toronto at Zelda’s. In addition to launching my book, Chatterbox, it is also an evening to raise “A Toast to Jackie Burroughs“, Canadian actress and beautiful soul who passed away on September 22, 2010.

Hosted by DM Moore, the evening starts at 7 pm. I hope you will make it out to hear me read and pick up a copy of Chatterbox. The night will include other entertaining performers, including Rex Baunsit, Philip Cairns, and Duncan Armstrong.

Zelda’s is located at 692 Yonge St. Toronto. The Beautiful and The Damned congregate upstairs. I hope to see you there.

Air Show

Just wanted to say,
on this fine dull morning,
how yesterday
you sat at a picnic table
grinning at me
from a face
I’d never seen.
And you reached out
and into me
and expelled an obsession
taxiing there for take off.

My ears are open
not full of sand
or pain.
Open to hear the wind
and the rumbling thunder
of a stealth bomber.
I look up
and see a gull gliding
and a kite flying.
And all that sound,
all that noise,
is in my head.

Your kindness flies
like sand over my feet
like music and swaying hips
like laughter on my lips.
And I hear you
and feel you.
The comfort as big as the sky,
as opaque
as this overcast day.

My girlfriend, Jacqueline suffers a terrible break up. We get together often to commiserate and offer each other support.
Labour Day weekend my son, Aidan and I go to the cottage with our relatives. But by Sunday evening we are bored and want to come home to the city. I worry though because Cheryl is still my main support. An entire evening and holiday Monday yawn anxiously before me.
On Monday morning I contact Jacqueline. I tell her I am desperate for something to do. She invites me to the beach where she is playing volleyball. I am not sure if she is asking me to play, but I put on shorts and a t-shirt and walk to the lake.
I arrive at the court before the other players turn up. Jacqueline and Sam are sitting at a picnic bench with a self-help book between them. Sam is friendly and open. I join their conversation about break-ups.
Jacqueline’s cell phone rings and she wanders up the beach to talk. Sam tells me my honesty is profoundly effecting him. He confesses that he trawls the waters on PlentyofFish too and leads on many women. He confides that he seeks out the vulnerable ones, tells them what they want to hear, makes them fall in love, then toys with them like a cat with a beetle.
Sam is a predator, and it takes one to know one. He surmises that the reason Fletcher stopped chatting with me is because he’s moved on to other prey. I believe Sam. He seems to know Fletcher’s motives. Sam has nothing to gain; his candour accelerates my healing.
Sam and Jacqueline are so kind. I am accepted and loved; they take care of me! A new world of people opens up. We play volleyball all day in the sand. I have fun like I haven’t in years. I don’t want it to end – and it doesn’t.

You are reading an excerpt of Chatterbox. How do you like it so far?

Right and Left

“Pooh looked at his two paws. He knew that one of them was right, and he knew that when you had decided which one of them was right, then the other one was the left, but he never could remember how to begin.

“‘Well,’ he said slowly-”

from The House at Pooh Corner by A.A.Milne

from Chatterbox:

Salt & Pepper

We match
like a set.
A slight difference
the hand detects
as it reaches for
a dash
of seasoning.
But matching –
meant to stand next –
lonely if the other breaks
bereft, and pairless.

The Collector finds us,
dusty and alone,
at separate Church bazaars
and cries, Eureka!
Sets us together
at His feast.

And I am shaken
this sweat
these tears
crystallizing.
These years of searching
ending
in my match
my sombrero
my windmill
my ceramic heart
stops breaking.

I write to Fletcher that Mark and I are dividing our assets and that Mark has asked for my wedding ring back; an heirloom from his side of the family. Of course, all wedding bands are significant, but mine was proof to the world I am lovable. I wore it faithfully and boldly. Look! See? Somebody chose me!

I assure Fletcher I will give the ring back to Mark – but that what I really want to do is go down to the beach and throw it in the lake. I divulge to Fletcher that the worst part is I no longer have an easy method of distinguishing my right hand from my left. So embarrassing. Why did I tell him that? At my age to not know my right from my left is ridiculous.

Fletcher writes, “You and I are too much alike.”

I type a question mark.

He responds, “Right and left, I only know by remembering which side my heart is on.”

Chatterbox

You may have noticed I’ve published Chatterbox. Readers are asking a lot of questions and as the original chatterbox, I’m delighted to respond. Here are some of their enquiries:

It’s bigger than I imagined, how long did it take to write? Well, the poems flew out of my pen over the course of a year or so, and I laboured over the prose passages for the following twelve months.

What is it about? Ugh, I hate this question. Death and grief and divorce and love and infidelity and cats and writing and my mother. How about that for an answer?

Is that you on the cover? Yes, though I’m a bit older now.

Do you think your ex-husband will read it? It’s FICTION! Holy smokes!

Okay, enough of the prying questions!

A few reviews I’ve received:

My aunt: “Shocking!” (I think she lingered over the sex bits.)

My best friend: “Love it!”

A very nice woman: “It makes me feel a sense of ‘home’ somehow? Stunning!”

A strange cat woman: “It’s risky and full of feelings I can identify with to my core. The poems are clearly inspired, the author, Sandy Day has become my absolute favorite writer.” Love her!

I hope you will grab yourself a copy from Amazon. And let me know how you like the book. And if you hate it, keep it to yourself! Didn’t your mother ever tell you, if you don’t have something nice to say don’t say anything at all? Kidding! Sort of.

Here’s an excerpt from Chatterbox:

The Apple Tree

Gnarled old thing
with twisted limbs
and thick grey bark.

I lean on the fence
watching
as birds fly in
disappear into the leaves
reappear
flustered,
flutter off drunkenly.

The fruit glows
dark and shining
like eyes across a room.
I wonder
for I ate apples
sweet and new
but I picked apples
wormy and dry.

Such a divine old tree.
Somehow so familiar.

This fence is falling down.

The Fall is underway. I travel to my mom’s house north of the city for Thanksgiving. On the way we stop at an orchard and the kids run off to pick apples.
As I lean on an old fence waiting I think about my new friend, Laurence. He is a friend of Mark’s, a musician, and we’ve connected online. Though I fight it, his attention delights me. By day I correspond with him. Our email boxes fill up and our instant messengers rarely turn off. Chatting feels wrong to me, I believe he attracts all kinds of birds. I don’t completely trust him, I’m not sure what he’s after. But I can’t stop chatting with him. He’s kind, and funny, and attentive. And sometimes he intoxicates me.