Discipline

“Don’t hit your brother.”
“Don’t fight!”
“We don’t hurt people. It’s not nice.”
On the playground, at the grocery store,
on children’s TV shows;
out of our grown-up mouths.
Hear it, believe it, repeat it.

“Don’t fight.” “Don’t hit.”
Drill it into their moldable minds
like an annoying Internet ad,
always in the background.
Be effective parents.
Be consistent; be real.
Teach them about non-violence,
sharing, honesty—
Life’s greatest lessons.

And when you find your youngest
colouring the National Post in purple,
his innocent fingers tracing the truth:
Fighting in the Gaza Leaves 18 Dead;
Pudgy, Band Aid-patched legs
barely covering gruesome photos of
“necessary hits” on families like yours,
hits justified by fear, by greed—
by nothing at all,

Don’t see it, don’t believe it,
Don’t bother to explain it.
Only now learning to read,
he’ll flash an oblivious smile,
his crayons erasing the dead.

'At War' by Heather Grace Stewart

Thoughts from a Gratitude Journal

So much seems trivial
studying the sun-kissed tulip
blossoming in the clear glass jar
at my bedside:
be beautiful
stretch toward the light.

Sun-Kissed by Heather Grace Stewart

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.

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.

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.

Where the Butterflies Go

As the butterflies are beckoned
when fall’s frost appears
I will know when to fly
and forsake these fears.

As the southbound monarchs
set off their fireworks show
I will find inspiration in
the diamond-glinted snow.

When the trilliums come to carpet
this old forest floor
I’ll be wading in the wildflowers
along some foreign shore.

For when spring brings her wisdom
only then will I know
what I am to become;

where the butterflies go.