Monday, September 14, 2015

per annum (we are what we've got)

how many days are in a year?
how much good can come, mornings dawn,
fresh arrivals take their place.
the soul can have a thousand dark nights an hour;
how many nights are in a year?

One year and we're still going. All the world in tumult,
and here we sit, hands clasped across the table,
holding on because  we are what we've got
to hold on to. How much us can fit here?

Too much, as it seems.
But, too much is ours to take, ours to wear, ours to name:

our love is big,
the good choice our vows became.

I would carve it out again for you;
this thing that's started us, continued us, tried us,
winned us, and held us in its grip: this year, our first.
our bests, our worsts, and as the world rained,
our home, and the places we ran to.
All of this is ours now, to keep and process, live
and leave behind, or carry close. This year is ours now.

And you, love,
you are mine.

Walt Whitman said it, and said it best:
We were together, I forget the rest.

Sunday, August 30, 2015

Tooth Fairy Absenteeism


We've spent four days watching it wiggle. It began, quite suddenly, to loosen. That front tooth has gone from a little loose to a craggy, comical near-drop, all in a matter of days. We've spent four days watching her squirm, with anticipation. She looks at it in the mirror every time she sees a mirror. She wobbles it with her tongue whenever she isn't checking it with her fingers (and she is always checking it with her fingers). We've coached her through the fear of pain, and assured her, ad nauseam, that she won't swallow it in her sleep. Every morning she jumps out of bed to see if her tooth has fallen out over night. Every hour, or so, we are asked to see, look, look at how wiggly it is. If I were to count how many times I've checked, I would have lost count by now; and I'm only half of the Wiggle-Judge Panel.

But, for the third time this year, the Tooth Fairy won't be coming to our house. We might get a picture on a cell phone, and a new reality next time we see her. The real transition, that big moment, will be on someone else's doorstop, under someone else's roof. Someone else will hold her hand or rejoice with her when the big moment comes. We will hear about it.

I suppose someone less selfish wouldn't mind so much. And, I suppose, by now I should be used to this whole sharing thing. But I'm not.

Saturday, July 18, 2015


find me on instagram. currently in first place for most boring.


Flux (n): the mind behind afterthoughtcomposer
Fill in the blank:  TO DO LIST(s).
This makes: time important

New project this week:  Brainstorming. Daydreaming. Happy-creating.
Where my mind just went: check-marks, ah-ha moments, happy accomplishment
Fear & self loathing: in check.
Current musical obsession: Christine & The Queens - Christine
Why tell you this, again?  just sssh and go listen to it. tie your soul to the rhythm & get going.
This week’s biggest surprise: I've got a lot of ideas.
Today’s nostalgic observation: Long stretches of time are over-rated. Life is full and won't allow that anymore. Take minutes captive and cram your art into them, even though they're short. Otherwise, you won't create anything.
Where my mind just went: sprints, dashes, late-night owls & words that matter
Coffee & Dreams: "Creativity is often best at night" - @chels_martens

Thanks: to those friends of mine who create as they breathe, constantly; who surround themselves with beauty and the act of making things. To those of you who are unapologetically yourselves, in everything you do. It's very inspiring. To name just a few: Naomi, whose art installation will soon be up all over Edmonton (watch for it!). Chelsea, who turns everything she touches to design-gold. And to my mom, who is currently illustrating what will be our first children's book (due out, I hope, by spring).

Saturday, July 11, 2015

little boat

like the boat  
and the water
I tip    and sway
re-course   and wave
 swell   and stay

like the boat  
on the water
   I leave    the shore
 behold   no more  life's surety

venture out     on the water
hold fast    my sails 
  to  true  things  hail
as best
as    best    I

then drop them.


little boat, big water
big world, small heart;
when the storm rolls in
my little eyes dart
 Oh fright! How Deep!
"I don't swim!" I cry,
    I won't live! Not me.

Despairing, and wearing a hole
through the row I am pacing inside
my little life's boat,  I fret
and I tumble
and watch every   crest,
  with fear! anger! terror! rising up
                               in my chest.


this water's too deep
so i drop to the floor
can't hear that whisp
at my little life's door.
can't hear that wave
take a breath   and retreat.
can't feel a hand
plant my sea-sickened feet
to the floorboards.
now the ocean's roar has subsided;
that feet-planter's hand
did come alongside, did
mend the sails, did calm the sea,
and me, and did point
this vessel homeward.


Another go   
in a boat
on through life   
big like water

I leave    the shore
behold    no more
          life's surety

fabulous illustration © MB, source
mediocre poetry © afterthoughtcomposer