Saturday, August 14, 2010


Blood, blood red
With your crystal eyes
You reach out for things
You reach out for glory
That is not ready for you yet

You speak in song
Whisper in verse
Inhale in silence
You cry when no one listens
Just to be certain
That you are clothed

One hand concealing your face
While the other one pushes
Angels aside

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

A Child Dies

A somewhat depressing story, but a little more recent (around 2007).  There is hope there, really, so I hope you can enjoy it.

A Child Dies

Dribbling rain outside his window makes him dreamy.  He has forgotten the touch of humanity that once made him whole.  He has forgotten the vase stuffed with lilies atop his coffee table.  He has forgotten life in an attempt to ward off thoughts of a dying child asleep in another room.

He thinks: “Speak to me.”  No one answers.  He longs for God, longs to believe in such intangible entities. 

Still, the child lies dying, sleeping.  Tears beg to come, but he wards these off as well.  It’s not time for tears or anger.  It’s not time for sadness. 

He holds his heart as if to ensure that it remains inside, locked in his chest with the ache.  The child coughs.  He starts, is awakened from the contemplation that took him somewhere else for but brief moments. 

Her cough is something of a relief to him.  She’s alive, she’s still breathing, he thinks.  He lowers his back to the floor with a soft sigh.  Sprawled there now, on faded, stale carpeting, he breathes better and tries to forget what he is unable to.

His skin is prickling with an anxious tension.  He wishes he had the will to peel it off bit by bit until he is simply a tangled mess of bone and blood.  He seizes the arm that once held his chest and tentatively scratches it with his unkempt nails. 

Scratch, scratch, scratch.   Feel, feel, feel.

Harder he presses into his skin until it is raw and weeping.  Kill the pain, live the pain.  Focusing his energy to the task is gratifying.  He stops.  A drop of blood trickles to the floor. 

Now and only now, can he cry.  He remembers humanity, his wife, the toast he left on the counter, the lilies on the table.  His ears are wet his tears, his nose runs.  He sobs and trembles and bleeds and remembers. 

The door opens behind him.  His wife calls out to him.  A child dies.  A father cries.

A Girl and Still a Girl

Another oldie from the archives (somewhere around 2001)...

A Girl and Still a Girl

Look at me.  I’m a child and a brat, a girl and still a girl.  I stamp my feet, I challenge you.  Look at me, I’m close to you.  I reach out and stamp my foot, bound within its silvery cage in a tall high-heel shoe. 

I cry, but do my tears seem worth it?  I am not worthless.

I am reaching out to you.  My chiffon shuffles at my ankles.  I am a girl and still a girl. 

My arms envelop myself and hold there.  I hold myself where no one holds me.  My back curves upward and outward like an arching horse galloping and bucking, galloping and bucking. 

I realize my socks are falling down and don’t pull them back up.  I giggle, I laugh, I crown myself in faded glory. 

Hear me, hear me still.

A butterfly flapping its wings as I stare on, seeing it all for the first time.  Catching the butterfly only to have it die in my hands.

I am looking at you with learning eyes.  Look at me.  Look at me. 

I am covering my eyes against the stares, I am sheltering my ears against the noise, I am shaking my head against the disgrace.  I am sticking my chin out and raising my shoulders up.  I am defiant. 
I am a girl and still a girl.

Can you see me vulnerable?  Can you see me small?  Can you see me rising against the cold?

I’m twirling despite the wounds.  Twirling like a bird in the wind.  I am reaching out, reaching out to you, staring, staring at you. 

My hair flutters like wings at my back and at my face, my arms lay still at my sides.  I am contemplating the distance, the feeling.

I am a girl and still a girl.  I challenge you.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Shedding Light on the Blog Title

Happy Monday!
Last week was hell...not that I want to get into it, but it was a nightmare from start to finish.  Enough said.

So, I thought it apt today to explain the somewhat obscure title of my blog.  I've already blogged about my writing endeavours over the years and suffice it to say that you have a general idea of the dream I once had about becoming a published author.

Alas, sometimes we put some dreams on the back burner while focusing for the moment on those that need more immediate attention.  What other dreams you ask and why should one take precedence over the other?  Let me elaborate if you'll be patient with me.

In 2005, I acquired the first rabbit of my adult life (my first rabbit, Cripps, I had had as a teenager and she passed away quite violently due to a veterinarian that prescribed her an antibiotic frequently fatal to rabbits).  This new rabbit was a little 4 month old white and black Mini Rex I affectionately named Glorfindel.  Yes, all you fellow Tolkien fans, he was named after the Rivendell Elf of the same name.

From our first day together, Glorfindel was the most special pet I had ever had.  He became part of my family and was a friend in times of need.

Knowing that rabbits were typically happiest as a pair, I acquired another rabbit named Legolas.  I was inexperienced enough at the time to be unsure of her sex, but once confirmed that she was female, I couldn't bring myself to change her name.  So, to this day, she is often known by the nickname Legolasina (insert laughter here).

Needless to say, I had fallen in love with rabbits as a species...I felt their fragility as keenly as my own and began to realize how many rabbits in our area were in need with no specialized shelter to help (our last local rabbit rescue had shut down some time ago).  A seed sprung in my mind to help those in need.  I wanted to start a rabbit specific rescue.  I endeavoured to raise money for the venture, although I have never been gifted in that area.

The following year - no money saved as of yet - my best friend and I found a little white and grey, obviously domestic rabbit, living in a cemetery.  After much effort over the course of a week, we managed to catch her and bring her home to safety.  Upon a visit to the pet store to buy some supplies to accommodate her, we found a rabbit there that had been abandoned.  She was a young siamese sable dwarf/mini rex mix and was "free to a good home."  I couldn't leave her there.  She came home to live with me and became Gypsy.

Do you believe in fate or omens?  Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't, but that summer, the signs seemed there and I had to jump on it.  By September 2006, my best friend and I had founded New Moon Rabbit Rescue, had a board of directors and soon sent off the application for charitable registration.

Four years on, New Moon is a registered Canadian charity, has rescued approximately 180 rabbits, rehabilitated many of these from various illnesses and adopted most to loving forever homes.  With foster home organization, veterinary appointments, paperwork, giving media interviews, organizing events and of course, caring for ill rabbits that need our attention, the rescue is sometimes a full time job.

Perhaps it is lack of time management, stress of work and rescue related business and a propensity to procrastinate that has held me back from writing all these years.  Perhaps it was a need to put the needs of these precious animals above my own for at least a little while.

I am hoping that with my renewed love of writing, I can find a delicate balance between the rescue, work, writing and hobbies like knitting and sewing.

Maintaining that balance is key to me right now...I can put something less important on the back burner for a few days while I deal with deadlines, emergencies and the ilk, but I don't want to lose my renewed sense of self invoked by writing again.  These things in my life are all precious to me and as I have now accomplished and am living one beautiful, rewarding dream, I hope someday to fulfill a regretfully long neglected one.