Honouring and Respecting women today, and the amazing, strong, caring, wise women who made me.
Prayers
Night of his grandmother’s death,
he called Charlie Watts in a dream.
Drummer’s long arm resting by
the telephone, he told Charlie a joke
and Charlie laughed, yeah, yeah, man,
yeah, so he told another and Charlie
laughed again. So relaxed as Charlie
laughed again and again, made it matter,
made it back to making it matter, again.
The more people die, the smaller
your world, the more you need Charlie
to light the world. Charlie Watts.
Charlie light-my-world Watts. Charlie’s long arm
resting by a telephone, so relaxed and lit dim.
Charlie’s slippered feet resting on brown burber
in a London living room at 3 am, newspapers
spread on a coffee table, open. Always open.
Charlie Watts, always awake, awake at 3 am.
Cup of tea on a coffee table in a London living
room at 3 am, long arm, slippered feet, brown burber,
long arm beside the telephone, sitting by a gold lampshade,
flood lit in a dark London living
room, 3 am. Charlie Watts.
Always London, always Charlie, always
Charlie Watts. When someone dies, telephone
rings, Charlie Watts long arm resting on a table by
a telephone. Tell Charlie a joke, and Charlie
listens, always laughs. And if you do tell Charlie
tell Charlie someone died. Someone died, 3 am.
Charlie Watts, always open,
waiting for you to call him.
– Veronica Gaylie
Prayers originally appeared in The Poetry Review (Volume 93, No 4, Winter 2003/4)
“We have to preach equality on the continent and all over the world. There’s as much talent in girls as there is in boys. They have to be given the opportunity too. At the end of the day, you see them walking taller.” Masai Ujuri, Founder Giants of Africa/President, Toronto Raptors
The charity Giants of Africa uses Basketball as a tool to advance education and empowerment for African youth.
What Gorgeous Thing
By Mary Oliver
I do not know what gorgeous thing
the bluebird keeps saying,
his voice easing out of his throat,
beak, body into the pink air
of the early morning. I like it
whatever it is. Sometimes
it seems the only thing in the world
that is without dark thoughts.
Sometimes it seems the only thing
in the world that is without
questions that can’t and probably
never will be answered, the
only thing that is entirely content
with the pink, then clear white
morning and, gratefully, says so.
A Purification
by Wendell Berry
At start of spring I open a trench
in the ground. I put into it
the winter’s accumulation of paper,
pages I do not want to read
again, useless words, fragments,
errors. And I put into it
the contents of the outhouse:
light of the sun, growth of the ground,
finished with one of their journeys.
To the sky, to the wind, then,
and to the faithful trees, I confess
my sins: that I have not been happy
enough, considering my good luck;
have listened to too much noise;
have been inattentive to wonders;
have lusted after praise.
And then upon the gathered refuse
of mind and body, I close the trench,
folding shut again the dark,
the deathless earth. Beneath that seal
the old escapes into the new.
Veronica Gaylie 