Poems from a manuscript related to growing up in Nova Scotia


We stand in the rivers fork near the bridge.

It was dusk on that evening when we dared

to remove our clothes and dive in the river.

Reunions challenge us to open our memory banks

we had long ago locked away, knowing the stories

will open the doors of sweet memories and regret.

The childhood school: no longer apple red is scabbed,

peeled, with a faceless, vinyl add on. There is no

laughter, recess songs, no dread of the strap. I turn

and run the bases all the way home. I am the hero of

this final game.

The Meaning of Color

She lived all the colors n the crayon box taking what

she needed to paint each day.

When circles of women kept her outside, she colored

them in shades of gray.

The pious sat in front row pews while Pansy chose

purple and dance hall shoes.

Rewards were measured in laughter and in pain,

happiness was a color she didn’t chase down.

Being herself was enough renown.




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