You’ve probably been wondering what happened to the poem of the month. I assure you it hasn’t gone the way of the dinosaur, and I wanted to come back at you with this collaboration I put together with Mark Bérubé. “A Tomorrow” is the piece I wrote when the pandemic first hit. Fingers crossed that much of what we went through will remain in our rear view mirror, but I thought I’d post this piece as a reminder of hope. I’m feeling hopeful for what feels like the first time in a good long while so I wanted to share that feeling.

The poem of the month this time around is a dedication piece. January 28th 1986 was a pretty memorable day for the people who lived it. I was still in school, but remember the gravity of that day. Tragedy struck the world’s collective conscious as the Space Shuttle Challenger was lost. This month I recount my experience of that day which still occupies a solemn residence in my memory. This months piece is simply titled Challenger.

The poem of the month this time around is about a recent tragedy that claimed the lives of 176 people. I can’t put my faith in world powers any longer... it belongs to people. I’m currently in Mumbai and have had an inspiring time on this journey... not because of sights I've seen, but because of people I’ve met... people who’ve shared their stories so we could find what we have in common. Tour dates will keep rolling in... but for now I’m looking forward to being back in Eugene Oregon on January 31st... looking forward to making strangers less strange. Wishing you all a better year than the last but nowhere near as good as the years that are yet to come.

176

Each one had parents biological or not someone who raised them who loved them

perhaps each one had brothers or sisters perhaps aunts or uncles perhaps cousins perhaps a husband or a wife or a child or children

definitely friends definitely someone who will miss them

perhaps a lover perhaps students

definitely grandparents whether they knew them or not

definitely one branch of the family tree that coughed through the gun smoke of wars they hoped would be our last

definitely family who lived through the thunder of artillery distant or near while praying the storm would pass forever

what colour is the poppy for the ones who weren’t soldiers?

for the ones who fall in wars that were not theirs to fight?

what day do we set aside to remember the innocent?

176

but each one not the ones who rose to power to pick fights they would never fight themselves

leaders who put the casual in casualties

who believe peace is a prize that can be bought with war using grief as a down payment and damage as collateral

who set crossfires on our front lawns then wonder why we fear them

war hawks tweeting roars from the safety of a nest they’ve never had to leave

never had to stand shoulder to shoulder in a trench trusting a stranger to have their back because imminent threat made faith a necessity

folded flags will not check for monsters under the bed will not read bedtime stories to children

money will not walk daughters down the aisle will not teach sons to be better men

oil is not a cure for thirst blood is not a meal

the lines in the sand are drawn by governments who need us to keep believing those lines are real

but people are not their presidents people are not their prime ministers or supreme leaders

people are not their governments not their empires or regimes

people are neighbours are teachers are doctors

taxi cab drivers and pilots scientists and janitors waiters, air traffic controllers, and yes soldiers

people are the people we trust to deliver our mail regardless of our religious or political differences

trust to cook our meals when we eat out trust to watch the road when we cross the street

we are not the strangers our leaders insist we are how can we be?

we trust one another everyday

we are people

people are not hoarding wealth in off shore accounts people are just trying to scrape by

people are paying their taxes while corporations don’t

people are tired of dying at the whims of ego

people are tired

but people are always tired

when they first wake up.

This time of year is tends to lean toward darkness for some. I’m no stranger to that. This will be my second Christmas alone, and I know that solitude has a way of amplifying despair. I just want to leave you with an ember of hope to carry with you through whatever shadows might descend onto your path this season. Just a reminder to be mindful of time. Not that “in a rush” “last minute” kind of time, but rather that we all have a finish line we’re running toward so how we spend our time matters. Truly, it’s the only currency worth anything, and who we spend it with can either elevate us or drag us down. Your time should be shared with the people who lift you up, and not the people who hold you back. The poem of the month is about time. As we close out the chapter on 2019 I’d just like to wish you all the very best time in 2020 and beyond.

I have an event coming up in Vancouver this month with David Suzuki and I wanted to write a piece that talks about protecting our world. I think a lot of people get swept up in the hysteria of our ever changing world. Our beliefs are so polarizing, and yet we want to inspire others into action. It can be scary to want to say anything in this world online trolling and faceless shouting down of one another over beliefs. One needn’t look any further than any social platform to see deniers, provocateurs, and rabble rousers ripping apart a 16 year old for wanting nothing more than to save the world… not just for herself… but for everyone. I wonder if one of the things we lose sight of as our passions blind us is what we’re actually fighting to protect. There’s never been an issue that so clearly affects everyone on the planet, and yet we fight even about this. We can see a clear path of action needed to preserve the world for future generations, but instead we argue of the cost of the sacrifices we would have to make. I don’t even have children of my own, but I can feel the importance of why we need to make these changes. The acorn doesn’t get to see the tree it will become… so no… we may never see the progress that our sacrifice has bought, but we will get to hope every time we make those forfeitures. If the worst thing that happens is we save the world by accident… it’s okay because everyone will be able to live with that. This world is more than the job we get and go to, or the subjects we study. The world is a stage, but not one for us to merely strut upon or fret about… it isn’t just for us. The world is for everyone who comes next… for everyone who will write the next chapter of our civilization while the ink dries on whatever we managed to pen with our own time here. I believe that’s worth protecting. Even nature finds ways to protect itself so I wrote this piece with that in mind. This month’s poem is called The Problem With Roses.

I wanted to share something I wrote for others in my life who have faced loss. I have friends who’ve lost much more than I will ever know, or endure. I’m talking about losing a child. Whether through accident or illness I’ve seen first hand how shattering this can be. I think we live in a world where our empathy is beginning to slip away. We have a hard time putting ourselves in one another’s shoes because it forces us to exist in consideration of others over ourselves. I wanted to write something that empathizes not only with the parent, but with the children who face having to say goodbye to their parents as well. This months poem is called Haloes In The Trash.

I’ve had a difficult year dealing with loss, and some of the people closest to me have suffered for it. I was hurt and didn’t want to lash out at people dear to me. So I did what was probably the exact opposite of what I should have been doing. I pushed people away when I needed them most. In a way I thought I was protecting them from anger that didn’t belong to them, but it turns out that silence and distance can hurt just as much as anything you’re worried you might say. This months poem is titled Stethoscope.

May is going to be a tough one. May 2nd marks one year since my grandmother has passed. Without question this has been the most difficult year in my life. It’s been a challenge to find sure footing through the tumult of depression. My grandmother has been the person in my life who was always able to set my compass to true. I’ve felt pretty lost this last year so I’ll be talking about the ups and downs we all encounter as we go through the stages of grief. May 22nd is my birthday and it’ll be the first one I have to have without her.

When I think about it it’s probably why I scheduled the tour and book release at this time… something to keep me busy as I work through it. Luckily I’ll have a stage to help carry me over the finish line. As I said I’ll be hitting up Ashland, Eugene, and Portland before doing 2 nights in Seattle at The Triple Door. After that it’s on to The Vogue in Vancouver for May 24th. I can think of no better place to put a period on the end of this very long chapter of my life. I’m not suggesting that grief is done with me, but I think we look to time as a measuring stick… it shows us that there’s distance between us and our pain, and that we’ve taken steps toward something new. I’m not sure what that is yet, and I’m not sure the ache of loss is something we’re ever meant to leave behind entirely, but this month I’ll leave a piece I wrote reflecting on it. The poem of the month is called Year One.

VIDEO: https://youtu.be/ZXcnZ2VgksU

A little bonus for you this month as there’s an accompanying video. Not long ago I was asked by BC housing to write a piece that addresses the crisis we’re facing. I didn’t just want to write a piece that talks about why being homeless is difficult, but to address some of the reasons why we’ve arrived where we are. When people think of the homeless many of them believe that drugs and addiction are the only reason they end up without a place to live, but there are many reasons a person can lose their home. Somewhere along the way the world started to see housing as an investment opportunity rather than a fundamental human right. Now we have homes that sit empty while the population of people with nowhere to go continues to rise. A few months ago I was doing a residency and a workshop in Vancouver at HCMA, as part of it I did a small Q and A along with a reading of this poem. Mark Busse and Inder Nirwan took the lead on putting this video together and I hope you’ll find space to share it with people. It’s a personal subject for me. I was lucky. I found community in Vancouver early on, and when I found myself struggling to make ends meet I had that safety net there to catch me. This is not to say I haven't spent more than a few scattered nights trying to wait out the dark inside of a 24 hour restaurant, or thinking if I could just hold myself a little tighter the cold wouldn't be so bad. It doesn't take more than a few days on the street to reach a tipping point in your mental health. When homelessness becomes a reality for someone, and when that reality really sinks in... it can feel as final as a coffin nail. It can wipe away hope from the blackboard, and it can whisper surrender to our fight so often that it can feel like giving up was our idea all along. As housing becomes a more prevalent issue for all let's remember that compassion is a better cure than indifference.

It’s a big one this month, and it’s personal. This one is titled “Origin” and you might be able to guess what it’s about. I spent the past few years reconnecting with my Dad, who’ve I’ve not seen since I was 11. Three decades is a long time to go with silence trapped between anyone. As a kid I always felt anger toward my father for never being there, and for not trying to reach out over the years. What I learned about forgiveness is that the people who deserve it most are usually the same people who feel they don’t deserve it at all. I spent a long time carrying around that anger… I was so wrapped up in my own hurt that I forgot about the pain he must have carried all this way. In discovering my own origin I was able to ask him about his, and there was so much I didn’t know because it was more convenient for me to hold onto those hurt feelings. I think when we’re hurt our tendency is to nurture the wound… it helps to justify our feelings about it… it gives us permission to hate. My Dad answered my questions with honesty and courage; I’m only sorry I waited so long to ask them. The title of the book (The Basement In My Attic) comes from a line in this poem (Origin) that I had to edit out. I wasn’t happy with how it fit into the piece, but thought it was a fitting title for a collection of feelings. Both the ones that somehow became antiques I’ve had trouble letting go of, and the ones that became treasures I found anew after wiping away the dust.