Instinct

Golden sunshine shimmers
on this lazy lake
like sequins. A lone cormorant
flaps its wings incessantly,
as if in defiance
of the coming cold.
Oblivious couples walk
arm in arm beneath
the weeping willows,
kicking up dead leaves like
forgotten arguments.
They sport only t-shirts—
the joggers, shorts—
as if wearing them
will impede the inevitable:
snow, sleet, heavy traffic,
Christmas crowds,
cell-phones ringing
in the middle of a movie.

The cormorant spreads his wings
and praises the sun;
preening on his rightful throne,
unaware that winter is late this year—
going by instinct because
that is all he knows.

light moments

I want to remember
the look on your face
when you walked my way;
the feel of your hand
on the small of my back
when you walked me home.

You must have worn blue;
maybe an overcoat
as we rushed into the rain.

We drank coffee,
talked about writing;
the state of the world.

Did you make an
awkward joke?
Take my hand?
Say my name?

We measure national debt,
average rainfall, yearly income,
overall satisfaction with everything
from online banking to
mail order brides.

We mark height and holidays,
historic moments, essays, exams,
final resting places—
then celebrate or mourn them
with cheesy greeting cards.

We don’t mark
light moments
like we mark the dead.

I want to remember
the look on your face
when you walked my way;
the feel of your hand
on the small of my back
when you walked me home.

A poem about social networking

Social networking

I’d grow wiser if I watched
webcasts of the Dalai Lama.
But, no way I’m leaving Twitter:
I’m being followed by Obama.

What am I doing?
Do you really care to know?
I’m eating lemon pie
And dancing to “Jai, Ho!”

How’d you stumble upon me?
All these passwords; I’m confused.
They own all my content?
We’re the Users and the used.

Now, I won’t be a hypocrite;
I Tweet my time away,
change my status often;
check my blog stats every day.

But if people gave a dollar
for every single Tweet,
homes could be built
and cancer could be beat.

I like to be connected.
I’m not saying that it’s wrong.
But how’d we switch from
talking to texting all day long?

No, I don’t need to know
who your peeps are porkin’
but, no way I’m leaving Facebook:
I’m friends with Aaron Sorkin.

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.

Autumn Will

The great oak sways proud, stands high,
Then paints its final will against an autumn sky:
That is how I wish to live, and how I wish to die.

Its branches like a lover’s arms; its shadows where the lonely lie,
Where the old find shelter and the young learn to fly—
The great old oak sways proud, stands high.

Embracing change from day to nigh,
It bows to hold the children; uplifts all passers by—
That is how I wish to live, and how I wish to die.

Its last leaf falls with bright flamboyance,
A crimson battle cry! — and still
The great old oak sways proud, stands high.

Its branches have broken, its roots run dry,
Reduced to a stump, it asks not why—
Just comforts each friend that
comes there to cry.

That is how I wish to love, and how I wish to die.

copyright Heather Grace Stewart, from her poetry collection Where the Butterflies Go (2008)

"Autumn Will", photo by HGS, Sept. 29, 2008

A Note About This Poem
The leaves on the oak trees in our backyard are beginning to turn a brilliant orange and yellow. As I was admiring the colourful show through our kitchen window early this morning, it reminded me of one of my rare rhyming poems, and the only attempt I’ve ever made at a villanelle.

I’m really terrible at definitions, and also at following “rules” in poetry, but in brief, a villanelle, made popular in English-language poetry in the 1800s and based on French poems in this form, is always 19 lines, and has only two rhyming sounds. It also has a refrain that repeats. Here is a better definition: The Villanelle

I tried. I really did. But my attempt ended up being 17 lines, and I didn’t exactly follow the rules – though I think I came close. I didn’t want my rhymes or the meaning of the poem to suffer simply because I needed a certain number of syllables or lines. I think this was the most challenging poem I’ve ever written. After writing this one, I have even more respect for the great rhyming poets. In case some of you were wondering, some of my favourites are Blake, Tennyson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Dickinson, and Frost. I think my favourite may be a little-known American poet named Sarah Teasdale. I adore her poem, “Barter.” I’ll have to leave my Canadian and modern influences for another blog, as there are several.

Everyday Heroes

I met my friend Chris Needham when he was 30 and I was 14. As much as this could be construed as perverted, it was an innocent, wonderful, unique friendship—he was a sci-fi type film director in Ottawa, and I wanted to be a movie star.

My parents checked out all his credentials and references, and stayed pretty close to his side while he was making the first few movies with me and a cast of about six other people. It sounded odd for such responsible parents to be saying, “Our daughter Heather is making movies with a guy in his basement, and also in the countryside, just outside of Rockcliffe, Ontario,” but they had come to trust Chris like a friend—and I trusted him like a father.

I was lucky to know him for ten years, during that turbulent growing time we call the teenage years, but in hindsight, maybe I taught him a thing or two as well. He was a single man without any children, and I was a teenager who didn’t spare any details in telling him what my life was like.

Being a teenager wasn’t easy for me, because I wanted to be myself, when it seemed that all my friends wanted to be carbon copies of each other. Luckily, I discovered the freedom inherent in drama as a pre-teen, and met Chris when he was filming a presentation at our drama class. My parents must have decided that this harmless, kind man and his dramatic crowd were a much better influence on me than the girls who wanted to go underage drinking every single weekend in Hull, Quebec. So they were only too happy to chauffeur me around on “filming weekends.” And I loved returning to school on Monday to tell my friends about my unique adventures. All they had were stories of men harassing them in smoke-filled bars. But I could tell them what it felt like to have a plaster “life casting” made of my face , or how I’d spent the weekend learning how to sword fight on film with the help of two expert sword-fighters, or how cool it was that the local TV station, CJOH, was going to feature Chris’ film with me as its main character, “Valon of Sagron,” on its station as a pilot television show.

He made my life as a lonely teen a lot easier. He empathized with me, but he didn’t let me whine too much either. He called me “kiddo.” He took me under his wing and taught me the basics of scriptwriting, directing, and puppetry. He took care of me when the older members of the cast got rowdy, telling sexual jokes and so on, simply by escorting me away from them to talk about the script and what I was going to do that day on set.

I didn’t realize he was doing this at the time, but when I recently looked at behind-the-scenes video tapes of those days, I found my older friends were pulling funny stunts (it was a hot day so one of the guys dramatically stripped to his boxer shorts for the guy behind the camera; then mooned him)—things that Chris obviously thought were not suited for a 15-year-old girl’s eyes and ears.

All this time, I didn’t know that Chris was dealing with trials of his own: at just 16 he had been diagnosed with a brain tumor and given a year to live. He fell into a coma and lost that entire year of his life. Miraculously, he came out of the coma and lived many more years before the tumour became a problem again before his 40th birthday, although he developed diabetes and lost 80 percent of his eyesight in the mean time.

When I was 17, he had to have surgery to try to remove it. They succeeded in removing some but not all of it, and he was told he had a matter of months to live. Soon after he lost his job as a civil servant because he had become legally blind in one eye.

He used his free time to make another film in his basement—this time one with a cast of puppets called Just Jeffery. It was highly successful, picked up by CJOH T.V. to be produced in their studios as a series. Unfortunately, Chris was hospitalized and fell into a coma before he was able to help produce anything beyond the pilot episode.

When he was nearing the end of his terminal illness, his powers of observation were greatly heightened. Maybe it was the knowledge that he didn’t have much time left to take in the world around him; whatever it was, it helped him to save a few lives before he lost his own.

I’ll never forget Chris telling me how one night at a Swiss Chalet he had noticed a woman diner holding her hands around her throat. The people at her table were deep in conversation, totally oblivious that the woman was choking to death! Chris ran over and performed the Heimlich maneuver, dislodging a chicken bone that had become stuck in her esophagus.

A jolly-sized man with a bellowing laugh and a lazy eye, Chris was definitely not Disney’s next-pick for a hero character. And he knew it. But he certainly wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

The woman’s husband stood up and socked Chris—the lunatic trying to assault his wife—right in the jaw. BAM! When Chris woke up on the floor a few moments later, the whole group was gone. He was told by the restaurant staff to leave.

It wasn’t until later, when the woman explained to her husband what really happened, that Chris’s name was cleared and he was given permission to eat there again.

It seems that even when there is a hero among us, too often we fail to recognize him or her for their actions.

Chris was a hero every day of his too-short adult life to many other people. He played Santa Claus every year at Ottawa’s Children’s Hospital, reading to the children and telling them stories, but he only told a few souls, like me and his mother, that he did this. He didn’t want anyone to make a big deal over him about it.

Chris taught me many lessons—the importance of just being myself and making each day count—but the most important one was that everyday heroes do exist in our society. We just have to learn where to look, and open our eyes and ears.

Heather Grace Stewart
hgrace.com

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