A Lighter Take On Swine Flu Pandemonium

I know it’s serious, and I pray no one else dies from this, but I can’t help making fun of the pandemonium and media frenzy that has taken place around the world; the pandemonium taking place today in my province, as people line up for six hours or more, people with chronic illnesses, with their babies and toddlers, standing in the freezing cold, hacking and coughing on each other, waiting to get this vaccine. There’s got to be a better way.

On Swine Flu

I’m standing in line,
and I’ve got a gun.
Gimme that shot for H1N1.

Roses are red, violets are blue.
Let’s make love; not swine flu.

And for your holiday cards:

Kiss me, Santa Baby,
but don’t use tongue.
Let’s not spread H1N1.

When Freedom Stands

Babies are born and lovers lie;
We’ll make plans, when Freedom stands.
Do not let their stories die.

We teach the how, perhaps the why;
Teach to repeat, to ace exams;
Heart and truth would make them cry.

He stayed inside, in search of his brother.
The second plane hit, lens on his mother.

They put on their fire suits, knowing the worst.
They stormed the pilot; called home first.

Some got relief. Some got the wall.
Nine-thousand remains: nothing at all.

Heartbeats skip and minutes fly
like spy planes with capture plans.
And the dead cannot ask why.

It’s not the oil. Truly, we’ll try.
Allied lands, joining hands—
Empty space in our New York sky.

Babies are born and lovers cry;
We’ll make plans, when Freedom stands.
Do not let their stories lie.
Do not let their stories die.

The Twin Towers, by Heather Grace Stewart (2000)

Valley

for Larry and Robin

Your pillow has a valley;
that soft place
where your head would rest.

This first night without you,
I’m lost in the valley.
I never want to climb out.

I breathe in your scent,
memorize every note;
pretend you’re still beside me.
My delusions are quickly
interrupted by an incessant
buzzing:  I’ve left my
cell phone on vibrate.

The minutiae of life
must go on; I must go on.
Somehow, I’ll make up
your side of bed.
Someday, your pillow
will lose its soft scent;
your clothes will be gone;
all traces of you
will have faded from view.

But you were my valley;
you were that soft place
where my head would rest;

Love like that
is a flower
that never fades.

April Snow

The evening news
left us sleepless
with images of protests
in the holy city, terrorist
bombings, drive-by shootings
in our own town.

Yet on Easter morning
we awoke to snow sheets on
a wishing-well roof,
unexpected purple buds
bursting through the frost,
a silver steeple glistening
against the cerulean sky,

and our little girl toddling outside
to find golden eggs in the snow;
barefoot on icing-sugar-steps,
laughing and dancing
with her sister-cousins.

Driving west at sunset,
morning snow a memory,
the returning geese
called out to us
like old friends,
leading us home.

Closer

There are no ordinary days.
Yes, coffee so often gets cold
before you drink it,
work gets trite and tedious,
traffic jams in the same place every day,
love and family fall into routine—

But look a little closer
in that rear view mirror:
There, in that car behind you.
That young girl, her face aglow;
She’s on her way to the hospital
waiting to get her cochlear implants—
waiting to hear birds sing,
a running stream,
her mother’s voice.

Or there,
in that long lineup at the grocery store.
See that woman in the tattered grey coat?
She’ll only be able to buy the milk.
Everything else will be put back
and she will walk out in shame;
her three hungry children
tagging along behind her.

Look there, at that big, beautiful home
with the blue shutters.
He’s just left her and their children.
Moved away; told her in a text message.
She’s feigning an “Everything’s Great” grin
for acquaintances on the street,
but inside, she’s broken.
How can he erase them
so easily, without emotion?
Erased like chalk-drawn hearts,
not the tiny, beating hearts
they once lulled to sleep.

Look again.
Objects in that mirror
are closer than they appear.

There are no ordinary days.
Not for you, not for me,
not for our angels.

'The Empty Bowl', taken on an "ordinary" day in Paris. HG Stewart.

Perspective

Sick kid. Snow day.
Six-feet of white flakes at the end of
our driveway. At minus 30
with the wind chill,
my little one and I can only stand
and stare out the frosted panes.
I sigh:  boring day ahead.
“Cooold” she mumbles,
then sneezes and stumbles off,
drunken sailor style.

At nap time I check my email.
Good news: my interview with the
Peat-Bog Mummy researcher
is on for next week. Another hour
writing about spiders gives me shivers.
I set it aside, go make green tea,
wake my groggy girl.

Let’s make a lovely dress for Cinderelley, Cinderelley
Bippitty Boppitty Bippitty Boppitty Bippitty Boppitty
I might be sick myself if I have to hear that song
one more time today. Tick tick tick. 4 p.m.
Just three more hours, then Daddy’s home.
Perchance to sleep? Perchance to
soak in a bath with bubbles.

Before logging off for the day
I Google “Women in Iraq,”
Click on the daily Iraq Violence Report.
57 civilians killed in Iraq today alone,
most of them women and children.

My daughter’s small voice
singing in my memory, I read on:
Many Iraqi women have never worn
that smothering, submissive scarf,
but now, dead bodies of women and girls
are being found in rivers, on waste grounds;
veils tied tightly around their heads:
a clear message from extremists.

My cheeks kiss a soft pillow;
My own message clear.
Amen for sick days, for snow days,
for bubbles and Bippitty Bop.

Amen for boring.

Holiday Checklist

This Christmas, I am telling
my inner Super Mom to
leave the building.

In the pre-Christmas chaos
I will remember to breathe
while juggling the buying
flying shopping shipping
put-it-on-plastic
happy hoopla
pot luck and good luck
trying to squeeze into
last year’s
little black dress.

Multi-tasking to the point
of burn out will no longer
be my middle name.I will not apologize
or feel inferior
if the cards are late or
the presents aren’t perfectly
gift-wrapped or
the kids look like baboons
in the family photo.

This Christmas
I won’t trip over my words
when I start to say Merry Christmas
to someone celebrating Hannukah.
Screw political correctness, this year
I will remember what’s truly important:
opening a door for a senior
giving food and clothes to the homeless
teaching the children it’s not all
about that guy in the red suit.

This Christmas
I will put on John and Yoko’s
Happy Christmas (War Is Over)—
And listen.
No. Really, truly listen.

Another year over
And what have I done?

And so happy Christmas,
for black and for white,
for the yellow and red ones,
Let’s stop all the fight.

This Christmas
I will be still

between the turkey
and the silly paper hats
between the wine
and the goodnight kisses

I will find my true North star,
make a wish for the world and
count my blessings,
every one.

Poem and photograph
copyright 2008 Heather Grace Stewart, Where the Butterflies Go
http://www.hgrace.com

If you’d like to read more poems like this, please check out my poetry collection at
http://www.lulu.com/content/1506907
or email/ message me if you’re interested in signed copies.

On Death and Dandelions

The dandelions are beautiful this time of year.

Yes, I just wrote an ode to a weed.

Maybe you find that odd, but today I’m finding everything that I can see, smell, taste and touch absolutely beautiful, because today, I am mourning the sudden loss of a friend.

I didn’t know him very long – in fact, I’ve never met him – he was an online friend. But that doesn’t matter. He brought laughter and a new perspective into my life. He made me see things in a way I hadn’t seen them before – ironic, considering he was nearly 100 percent legally blind.

This afternoon, I went for a walk as thoughts of my friend filled my heart and mind. He no longer walks on this earth, but somehow, I saw, smelled, heard and felt things in a whole new way. His way.

It was as if I had been blind to the world’s beauty, and was seeing it for the first time. My senses were in overdrive.

The lilacs glowed a brilliant purple against the bright blue, cloudless sky.

The honeysuckle smelled so much sweeter than last year.

My lemonade tasted like that freshly squeezed glass you buy for a nickel from the happy little kid down the street, and it refreshed me like it was the hottest day of the summer.

The wind roared like the ocean as it rushed through the oak trees in our yard.

The sun felt soft and warm on my face.

My friend was still here May 23rd to sense the world’s incredible beauty – to smell the honeysuckle and feel the sun warming his face. Now he is gone.

He’s gone, but I’m alive, and I’m thinking: Why do so many of us wait so long to live our lives? Why do we make the mistake of thinking this is a dress rehearsal?

It’s not. This is it. This is all we’ve got.

And the dandelions, oh, they are so beautiful this time of year.

Copyright 2008, by Heather Grace Stewart
If you liked this, check out Heather’s poetry collection,

Where the Butterflies Go
http://www.lulu.com/content/1506907