The Birds Sit Warmly on Cold Braches

Their feathers are puffed out to insulate

Their faces brightly examining the view from their perch.

The stiff bush, growing in every direction, makes for a sturdy resting spot

The branches can be scraped for snacks

And tiny mounds of snow are refreshing to peck at.

They are companions.

Though the world be open wide they seem to appreciate the company close-by

They lounge and itch beneath their wings, and look around for perspective

The cold white crystal glows in the light, as though rare gems lay exposed in the place of lawn.

They await the need to move without intention.

Though, HERE IT IS!

Behind the bush, the steps to the home echo with action as a neighbour climbs to leave a little note in the box.

Such abrupt banging makes birds leap into higher air, away from danger or dispair!

But one little bird tucks their head and keeps a careful eye, to bravely consider that it might not be an enemy nearby.

She twitches her head with curiosity and furrows her feathers,

But she is calm as the neighbour moves on.

As her reward, she stretches her neck and itches the tense tingles beneath the fluff.

Happy survivors tweet with relief and join young valour on her branch.

They twist and itch and delight.

Unaware of the woman who sits behind a window in that home

Witness to fitness of freedom

As she writes in a trap of the future.

By: Sarah C Louise

Motel motel winter and soul fell

Desk in the closet
The sign on the counter
The structure and signature
of an efficient compounder
Optimal usage
In size most conducive
To tasteless and faceless
passer-through druids
This is no place for fancy
but holds lives for one night
Guiding, inviting
through furniture and soft light
The shimmering covers
like grandmas dovet
Homely, when sleeping with
stigma of motel graves
Sprinkles of gumption
in folded brown towels
Rough mustard ramparts and
mini fridge growls
Hope is too bulky
to move between beds
And pillows are puffed up
for sore and stale heads
But there’s a portal in here
to abandon to a book
A path in the mist
under trees like warped rooks
Without this picture
guests would forget dreams
Without these colors
guests think without themes
Just one touch, and thank goodness,
It holds up in horror.
Like carving a flower
in metal with mortar.
By: Sarah C Louise

Factory of wind

My history of love is a factory of wind.
I’ve decided to begin re-writing my tale.
The gusts took up the dusts and the garbage were landmarks in the stacks.
My clotted head, lint and mist, seems to have settled a bit
So I am taking the transparent bags,
And picking up the trash from my past.
The promise ring from a poisoned heart, the heart locket from a ghostly mistake, the book with the repeated dream : “I love you, I love you, I love you”.
It’s a mess right now, and I want to prepare for better company.
My heart is opening wider than the world, but I am not prepared to host.
This sanitarium of machine for strange demands is all broken from bad seasons
I have offered love to no person
Only to lashes,
And to furrowed heads over bundled shoulders,
And to whelps of misery in silk confines,
And to ravens who ravage romance and revenge,
But these cold fires blistered and bruised.
Those men painted gold by my admiration noticed themselves sparkle once I saw their cracks,
I have lifted vultures to marvelous nests and sang them to sleep as the pecked at my breasts.
I wandered with minions who’d forgot their direction, and colored a map they considered perfection.
The dancing mirage made me feel warm.
Product from labour, supply to the forlorn.
But the mechanisms broke every time I made a gift.
And the team left long ago when I had no offers of benefit.
So the wind took hold and grabbed my monuments on the way.
Spinning and ravaging it tore at the roof.
Greedy and blind it pummeled my truth.
Days and nights bled, no sun for my home,
My muscles were burning over frozen bones.
But then one simple voice stood silent in the rafters
With the kindness to stay until the cuts had faded
She loved the dust for it gave her a story.
She helped me with the metal blocks and protected me from the sparks
And she said “you can’t dance from the street to the penthouse,
Give yourself calm and you’ll figure it out”.
She squeezed my hand gently and the wind seemed to sigh.
The factory was grey still but now I know how to try
I can start very small and savor structure again,
And the kindness of loving will come from gentle men
The evil I’ve met is just human in the end,
But it lives as an enemy if I am not my own friend.
I wanted to put the factory up for sale
But I cannot leave now where my heart once was frail.
For wherever I go I’ll be running from the wind,
It is a cure to know that the spirit can mend.
By: Sarah C Louise

I Remember Grandpa Tom Now

His lips curled while he laughed

He spoke in love

The tip of his spoon rattled the pot as he stirred the oatmeal for porridge

he ate peanut butter sandwiches after dinner

He pointed at squirrels who’d made it to the carpet & plank swing in the back

The stones were aligned crookedly, and seemed to lead to the edge of town

He had a warped copy of Beauty and the Beast, but that was the only film he had that wasn’t home made

His toy inventions, his paintings, his typed records and basement library

his eyebrows could reach the top of his head if he expressed surprise

His prayers felt like wrapped parcels in careful hands

I remember so much

And yet barely anything.

By: Sarah C Louise

https://sarahclouise.bandcamp.com/track/tom

Sarah on the Run

I want to tell one of my stories.

The truck was rumbling as we raced over hills, the ocean sitting peacefully below. “Stuck inside these four walls, Sent inside forever, Never seeing no one nice again”: the perfect song. And my heroic friend, Brad, was calmly controlling this truck (it belonged to his brother, who loved altering the features to make for a larger sound, despite hindering the functionality), letting the wind toss over his smile. We were bound for East Bay, a week of adventuring in the woods and relating summer stories.
And I certainly had some stories. My mind was flashes of the roughest moments: the dream-hallucinations when I camped in the forest of the farm, the scary man who was trying to convince me to watch the football game with him in Drummondville, rolling into town after dark and seeing only dark houses, waking up to find that all of my possessions outside of the tent were stolen, having my tire pop three times in one day in heavy rain. But I got through it.
“Well, the rain exploded with a mighty crash as we fell into the sun, and the first one said to the second one there, “I hope you’re having fun.””
My mission was to bike from Montreal to the head of the Cabot Trail (Baddeck) in Cape Breton to meet an old friend from home for an adventure. I allowed myself twelve days to get there. My bike was a beauty, borrowed from Kate and Michel (my saviours), and was in mint condition for this trip. I was full of feeling like I was going to be stronger after this trip, whatever came of it.
And I was strong: my first day I could only manage 60 kilometers, but after that it was 100, 120, 140, 190. I was becoming stronger every day internally too. I was scared to ask random people if I could set up my tent on their property for the night, but I only received one “no” – and that was a man, on behalf of his old mother (he thought she would be frightened). I was scared to bike on highways in the middle of no where where anything could happen and no one would no me (especially after all my identification was stolen, cell phone, my bike lights (yayee…) – but, thankfully, not my journal). But I got through it all, and I almost made it.
It was five kilometers outside of Whycocomagh, where I’d planned to grab a little snack before racing through the last leg of road before Baddeck, that I heard a great SNAP! Immediately, there was something very different about the way my back wheel was operating, running more and more vigurously against the breaks. A spoke had snapped (too much gear on the back, and not a strong enough wheel). Seemed clear I wouldn’t be going anywhere at all anytime soon, for Whycocomagh didn’t appear to offer many services at all.
I made it to a grocery store where I bought some bananas and a muffin. I knew the answer but asked the clerk “is there anywhere in Whycocomagh that could help me with my bike? I have had some trouble, and need it to get fixed.”
“No, the nearest place to get help with that sort of thing is Sydney, about an hour up the road”.
“By car”.
“Yes, by car. Guess that doesn’t help you much.”
“Well thanks anyway”. As I thought.
“You know, you could go to the blacksmith. It’s just around the corner. I bet they could help you with your bike. Best option around, anyway”.
Woah. “Ya, you know, I will. Thank you”.
This smithy was in a bright red barn. And John (the Smith-er?) had a big grey beard, with the iconic rubber apron. John Mason was the guy I met who welded me a new end to my broken spoke, warned me about biking beside the Canada-day drunks on the Cape Breton roads, invited me to stay at his place for pasta-rhubarb-rum dinner, praised Eat, Pray, Love the film so much that we had to watch it, and offered me a sheep rug to sleep on in his toasty living room among his decorative iron lamps and under his decorative iron fixtures (his inventions, of course). He even offered me his phone so I could call brad, just across the lake, and ask for a ride to the bike shop.
I told John about my trip. How everything had gone wrong and I needed so much help. How my mother loaned me money so I could finish the trip. How people had gone out of their way to help me fix my bike so I could carry on. How I tried and tried to do the trip myself but just couldn’t.
His response?
“Whatever! You needed people. So what? It’s because you needed help that you met everyone you met. People love showing how helpful they can be. They love giving the needy a hand. You helped them by needing help, so don’t be sorry for that. I can speak from experience. You needed my help real bad, and I’m so glad for that”.
Maybe it was the rum talking, but it seemed the truest thing I’d ever heard.
“Well, the night was falling as the desert world began to settle down. In the town they’re searching for us everywhere, but we never will be found”.
I had a lot of heroes on that trip (my mother, John Mason, Brad from East Bay). But I couldn’t have done it without the support of strangers. Those beautiful people who trusted me at the first glance and gave me the momentum I needed to make it to my next destination.
I hope I can be a hero like that to a great many people.
“And the county judge, who held a grudge, will search for ever more.”
By: Sarah C Louise

What’s in an age?

This is the age of vanity.
We track our progress by approval.
We give up knowing for little, frugal tastes.
We honor our schedules without a trace of identity.
And all the magnets drawing us to offer up our dignity win.
This is the age of idolatry
People distract us from the figures that give us joy.
We base our personalities off another’s employed love.
The possibilities of us embodying the features is enough ultimately.
And to watch another’s abandon is sufficient Gaiety to bring back on Monday’s morning for the doorway conversations.
This is the age of minimal.
It takes so long to get everywhere.
It takes much more to act on the care prescribed.
Letters are a burden, so is honour, so is pride, admittedly.
And though there are those sacrificing all for another’s humanity, there’s too many episodes to go, and too many snacks in the pantry, and too much energy required for every action of every degree.
What magic there would be
if we gave up on money.
Gave up on uppers internally.
Gave up on what anyone else defined as free.
And walked under the sun where it is warm.
By: Sarah C Louise

The Drag of Departing

It’s better in an airport to make no sense at all. Everyone around you has given up on their time. The mother stares blankly while her babe discovers the magic of repeatedly smacking their chair. The tired, suited woman forgets her latte-treat clutched I’m their hands. The couple simultaneously turns the page of their paper, no notice of news in their expression. Some organize and orchestrate their books, papers, sweaters in their bags, then forget their coffee mug at the very bottom, grateful for another activity of order to mask their panic and being business-less. And cheer the fates for making Muculkin pass so young, for the theories and bio-features offer tones of juice to sip the minutes away and the man who horks and snorts and blows and crows is annoying! I feel annoyed! I’m overjoyed! Thank goodness that boy keeps petting my shoulder like I’m his prized puppy toy. And thank goodness for the punk who, squeaking his sneakers, chucks his bagel wrapper at his wasted mother, who catches my curious eye and proudly whips it back (attack!). But especially, thank goodness for the girl and her teddy, over twenty and over zealous.
Time to go home.
By: Sarah C Louise

Woah I am bored so bored

Baby skunk, baby duck
What’s this joke? I cannot hear.
This man at the bar thinks the identity punch
Is a treasure in a floorboard

This song, Everclear?
What’s this about being little?
Yelling about being small in a big world
Like he hasn’t been old for some time

Bartholomew’s pub is dead?
But the artists need a place
To write all their silly poems
For their good thoughts to grow on

Another empty Wednesday!
No instruments to play
Never have I hoped for a faster pace
Too many useless words to carry

No wild side for my nights
I don’t know where they’re hiding
The ocean might be the only place
To see a mystery in this pretty town

Nothing to put in the evening
But a book or netflixxxxxx
Somehow these occupations revulse
All I can think to do is draw silly cartoons.
By Sarah C Louise