fallen ballerina

she's a breathless pirouette
a tiny hurricane
storming the stage
thunderous applause

she sticks out her foot to curtsy
falls

face in hands weeping
the strings have snapped
the puppet collapsed
she's a fallen ballerina

practicing day and night
twirling swirling curling up the floor
with her pointed toes

she's forgotten
how to dance while
standing still

sky of bleeding souls

heaven feed us today
fling down
golden grains of hope
upon your people
kernels of wisdom
nuggets of truth

then lift us up, give us wings to fly
in a sky of bleeding souls
and broken minds
so we too can donate
wisdom hope, and truth
to the hungry hearted

blowing over

the wind is an angry child
waving whirling wildly in the air
screaming at the walls which hold him back
looting laundry across the grass
...
his temper calmed, quelled
solely by the sun's embrace

little legacy

feet dangling over the bed
i stare down at my polka-dotted socks
and ponder legacy

i want to be remembered
(yet not for who i am)

i slip and slide in my slippers,
dig in the dirt
prune raspberries, scratch my arms
scrub my toes with soap and water,
play poker in the moonlight

all the while wanting to be recalled as
a stylish lady
a woman of class
a graceful girl

tripping over my own ego
i dismiss any thoughts of grace
and curl up beside a man who thinks i'm perfect
(in a polka-dotted kind of way)

i'm his little legacy

of mice and men

some days i spit out the marrow, discard the core
sink in the shallow end, cruise to the door of
greed,
wishing i owned an SUV, the finer
fancies of life, dissing the past from which i've derived my
heart
then i see:
old man, silver head bent back, sitting in a grocery cart
i think he's dead, then he laughs
bearded and burly his friends push him onwards
old lady, brown skin, mumbling
young girl sticking something in her arm
tiny children (naked jaybirds) playing in garbage
i want to float by upon this sea of faces
puncture pity, rid of graces
but i can't, won't divulge pathetic pursuits
instead
i suck on the marrow of life
walk down the street and live among those
who need nothing
but each other

blue apple tree

i have a blue apple tree.
my girls painted it
three autumns ago.
i have torn lino, torched carpet
broken things of beauty
scarred sentiments
a
bankrupt sleep account
bruised ego and
cigarette burns in my car.

i have a blue apple tree
but when it blossoms
i remember the way you opened up
shed your hard hell and
welcomed the kiss of heaven
and i embrace my tree
thanking it for bringing you to me
and for everything in between

4-20

today is 4-20. for most of us, that's either a time or a date. for my sister, it's her birthday. for teenagers, it's just one more reason to light a joint.

the term began as a reference to smoking at a particular time of day -- 4:20. it's also the day that jimi hendrix, jim morrison and janis joplin died -- all of whom were known for being partial to the joint (or worse). supposedly april 20 is also the best day to plant marijuana, and when the Grateful Dead toured, they always stayed in Room 420.

when my girls reminded me of their 'national holiday' yesterday in the car as we foraged through fundraising, i stopped in my tracks with the incriminating fact that: we had planned club on National Weed Day. as youth workers, we had forgotten to be in 'touch' with our little friends and simply stuck to our 'schedule.'

'no one will be at club, emily,' my girls kindly informed me. 'we'll be ripped out of our minds from morning till night.'

i sat there wanting to rip out my mind and asked myself, why again do we think we're qualified?

if only these tiny adults could catch the waft of the spirit; pot would lose its allure and they would come running, intoxicated by the love that had drawn them.

picasso birds

mother-of-pearl
clouds sweep across
a sanguine sky
picasso birds fly
haphazardly
green blossoms budge
bloom
dogs bark at the trees
sneeze at the breeze
and play with the laundry hanging
red yellow and blue
i sip my chamomile
tea
in my old-lady rocker
wishing for more
of these
lemon-custard days

mama

starched cotton aprons, homemade bread, Jergens lotion, bandaging wounds, laughing praying, spending strength through your cobalt-blue eyes, soft lights guiding the vehicles of your children: gentle mama ... cold metal machines swallow you up every day now, spitting you out in silence: i want to know, will you be okay? will you one day unwrap that scarf, swing your new hair in the air and prune your roses again? you lie there so sleepy so kind so peaceful, while the disease eats you up inside, like an angry little person stomping on your brain and i want to hurt him but all i can do is cry, begging Jesus to make my mama better.

resurrection

rise
beautiful betrayed buried brother

rise
literal labouring learned lover

rise
merciful martyred misunderstood man

rise
surrendering speared sacrificial saviour

rise
gracious generous glorified God

resurrect yourself
in me

bleeding sunrise

(this is a story i told my young life girls awhile back; one of them asked me to write it down for her, so here ya go)

shattered on the floor. his cell phone lay in pieces, i stood over it letting little tears escape. pathetic remorse for what i’d done. his phone made me do it, i told myself. a symbol of his work, i’d felt ignored, hurt, and so i’d hurled it. across the room, into the wall, it had snapped.

he stood silent, my lover and friend. he must be angry, so furious. what would he do? i cowered by the computer tears drip drip dripping on the key pad. fearful. anticipating: rage. finding: his arms wrapped around me, voice whispering, ‘i love you.’ redemption: like a sunrise, bleeding orange and red. remorse wrung my heart dry. his grace made me want to try, again.

ecclesiastes

everything is meaningless
history repeats itself
nothing is new under the sun

but i swear i've never seen a soul so pure
a face so wrinkled in kindness
a back so stooped with service and
feet so gnarled with miles

nothing new under the sun?
only evil gets old

every act of mercy is unique
every day you recreate the meaning of love
with your human touch

making people beautiful in your time
your habit inscribes the dirt with a
signature that lives on
long after you're gone

stopping history in its tracks:

mother t.

Em's Good News!

Hi friends and family! I am bursting with joy... a novel I submitted to The Word Guild Contest for possible publication has made it to the finals! I'm pasting the news release below. Love y'all! Em.

SEVEN WRITERS SHORTLISTED FOR BEST NEW AUTHOR AWARD
Toronto - Seven Canadian writers who are Christian are competing to get their first book published in the Best New Canadian Christian Author contest. This award recognizes the most promising book-length manuscript in either fiction or nonfiction genres. The winning book will be published by Castle Quay Books Canada in 2007.

The competition is open to any Canadian citizen or permanent resident who affirms the Apostles' Creed, is not currently under contract with a publisher, and has never had a book published by a royalty-paying publisher or on a work-for-hire basis.

Thirty-one entries from across Canada were submitted, up from 28 in 2005 and 19 in 2004. Four non-fiction works and three novels are vying for first place.Three writers, Donna Carter, David Donaldson and Nan McKenzie Kosowan, have been shortlisted for the second time. The Best New Author contest enables entrants to revise their manuscripts based on judges' critiques of their first draft, and to re-enter the contest. Last year's Best New Author, Deborah Gyapong, won on her second attempt.

The shortlisted finalists are:
Donna Carter of Calgary for nonfiction, The Blonde Leading the Blonde
David Donaldson of St. Catharines, Ont. for nonfiction, Before There Was Hannah: One Family's Journey Through Teenage Pregnancy
Nan McKenzie Kosowan of Uxbridge, Ont. for nonfiction, Listening to the Sound of His Voice: From Childhood to Grandparenthood
Marcia Lee Laycock of Ponoka, Alta. for a novel, One Smooth Stone
Keith Marward McDonald of Greenwood Village, Colorado for a novel, A Time to Mourn, A Time to Dance
Emily Wierenga of Edmonton for a novel, Canvas Child
Vi Wilson of Durham, Ont. for nonfiction, Child of Grace - With a Dirty Face

The winning author will receive an advance of $1,000 and a book publishing contract.The winner will be announced on June 14 at The Word Guild Canadian Writing Awards Gala in Mississauga, Ont., the premiere black-tie event honouring Canadian writers who are Christian. The Gala will feature a worship band, celebrity presenters, recording artists, excerpts from shortlisted work, book signings and reception. The public is invited to celebrate with the finalists, their families and friends.

praying together

...
is like a kiss between souls
a spiritual embrace
raising voices quieting minds
we look to the heavens
our feet lift
our hearts
bow and
the warm light of God floods
our faces
vacuuming worry
enforcing rest

simple words
divine encounter

cake batter days

some days are rich
(like chocolate cake)
spilling over into the morrow
covering up mistakes of yester year
their memory only smudged when
the bowl's been licked
the spoon stashed and
the cupboard door closed
stored away
until the next cake-batter day
rises to the occasion
overflowing, delicious

heartfelt

walking along life's
streets of sorrow
my heart shatters
glass teardrops falling
on the ground,
people gather round
pick up the pieces
hold them close
close their eyes thanking God
for their newfound piece
for their newfound peace
i stand there covering the gaping hole in my
chest
praying God keep me alive
for these people need my heart
more than i

rockabye lady

cradeled
in the arms of
misconscrued meaning
she rocks herself to sleep
dreaming of a better
life
praying the cradle
will fall
stall

all the king's horses and all of his men
from putting her back together again

this baby's now a lady who knows how to rock her own world

alone

madeleine l'engle

the woman behind A Wrinkle in Time
she battled a decade of rejection slips
wrote late into fatigued motherhood
wept ferociously in her tiny room of inspiration
bled sentences, bore penance for her passion
until one day
the words for The Wrinkle poured forth
Time stopped
and a fantasy was formed
that would
lift her into literary invinsibility

my father's world

we live in a collage of similar strangers;
everywhere, reflections of the familiar
no matter the distance i find myself
or someone else
mirrored
in the hue of a cheek, the sparkle of an eye
the lilt of a laugh and it's not so hard to see

there's one father for us all

fighting failure

learning to laugh when i fall
to fight the wrath of failure and
rejoice in tiny victories

to be a pink-cheeked child trying to walk
tumbling, eyes big and starry
pushing herself up, bum first, trying again

to be resilient, able to bounce back from shock,
depression
resolute, determined to conquer the thing that's
conquering me
resting, knowing i'm perfect as i am

blemishes and all,
i'll gracefully fall
and remember the call
upon my life
-- to fight