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April 24, 2017

Resurrection is Hard Sometimes Resurrection was easy for you: encounters in the garden, walking through walls, breaking bread, breakfast on the beach, a cruise on the clouds to go back where you came from. But what if going back where you came from was back to an alley full of dumpsters and rubble […]

via Easter Monday Reflections — gareth brandt

At the concert,

February 4, 2017

Stage-lights monopolized colour, so
your cheekbones rested and
your jaw was outlined
in soft grey.
Its curve deflected sound, meaning
noise outlined your face but did not
invade it:
There was silence in your eyes
and
comfort in your lips.

Familiar Holiday Tales, Evening 2

December 5, 2016

The stage is set: a comfortable armchair draped over with woven blankets sits next to a glittering Christmas tree, itself festooned with tinsel and tasteful decoration. A cloth-bound book rests crookedly on the arm of the chair. The NARRATOR enters, dressed in earth-toned tweed, his pants just a little short and revealing festive knee-high socks.

Narrator (sipping from a wineglass of eggnog carried in his hand before placing it with care on the floor): Compliment your rum with a dash of eggnog this holiday season.

Welcome to Familiar Holiday Tales one and all, young and old. Whether we are grey-haired, no-haired, or just had our first haircut, we are all celebrating the same wonderful season. Those who are not celebrating the season are probably not doing so willfully, but must simply not know that it is Christmastime; but never fear, my welcome extends to you also: to the black-and-curly-haired and the corn-rowed. Welcome one and all to this installment of Familiar Holiday Tales, even if you are not familiar with holiday tales at all.

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Familiar Holiday Tales, Evening 1

December 3, 2016

The scene is set: a red wingback chair sits by a crackling fireplace bordered on both sides by ceiling-scraping Victorian bookshelves. A mug of steaming apple cider sits on a finely carved side table, upon which also lies a leather-bound book and a pair of spectacles. The NARRATOR enters, dressed in a deep green smoking jacket and plaid pyjama pants, carrying a packed tobacco pipe, which he lights and puffs upon while settling into the chair.

Narrator (setting his pipe on a rack on the side table): Good evening, and welcome to Familiar Holiday Tales.

Tonight’s Familiar Holiday Tale is, indeed, quite well known, but it is most often rendered in lyric by young women hoping to showcase their vocal talents during middle school Christmas concerts.

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november

November 10, 2016

Why even eat dinner.
I will just lie here
and forget existence.

(2)

September 24, 2016

You stood on ocean’s edge and watched the gulls,
the only movement in a late September
sky: a matte grey, featureless expanse.
At least the ocean, also grey, had life:
it licked the painted shore and glittered in
the gemstone beach. You knelt above the line
the water lapped and hooked your hair behind
an ear as, leaning down, it threatened to
become a veil. You put your palm against
the sand and curled your fingers, drawing dry
sea earth into your fist. You straightened, pulled
your hand up to your chest, and opened it.
The sand sieved out, each grain between your fingers
lost, and overwhelmed when it found land.
A strand of hair escaped your ear, encouraged
by a breeze that found the final grains
upon your hand and coaxed them off, your fingers
closing just a second late to save
them. Something pricked your skin. Surprised, you opened
up your hand again, revealing in
your palm a polished piece of ocean glass,
too large to sieve through fingers and too heavy
to be blown away by wind.

My love,
hold onto me and I will never leave.

(1)

September 21, 2016

for L.M.

My dying days are done;
like rising rays of sun,
no longer will I be content
to lie down, slowly die, I’m meant
to serve you, bring you daywarmth in your night;
to keep you, be your comfort, hold you tight;
but too, be your deliverer:
I’m meant to name you traveler,
plant flowers where you run.
My dying days are done;
I need to put that shade away
and learn to live another way,
where colour blooms like thermal hotspring blue
in more than just your eyes, but all that you
direct those glowing eyes upon.
My love, my dying days are done,
my dying days are done,
my dying days are done.