Summer of ‘67 the British had invaded and Canada celebrated 100 years of confederation – and Dad, at the top of his game, came home
“Is that you father?” acquaintances would ask – voices deep and dreamy. Particular about his dress, meticulous in his grooming, Dad’s eyes sparkled oceans his
Played us with hopeful promises – glimpses of calm – our tyrant father. (Added for Fandago’s Daily prompt: Control) (Written for Ronovan’s Weekly Haiku Challenge
Freedom is four hundred and fifty square feet of moveable tin, wheeling down the highway, destination unknown. It is long walks through exotic forests, where
The years have done their damage, resentments, like border guards, line up between us… and then you just show up, as if somehow that makes
This path I walk is not my own; it’s paved with genetic markers, familial dysfunction, and ancestral angst. Can you see them walking with me?