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

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.