Category: travel

Oh, Canada!

Welcome to my country,
there’s so much to explore.
We really are a friendly bunch
but there’s a few things we abhor

So, we’ve written specific rules
for our visitors to keep in mind –
above and beyond the expected
these oddities are considered crime.

Please refrain from removing
a band-aid while in a public place,
and it’s more than just offensive
to fart when in another’s space.

Should you happen to encounter
our most coveted royal, the Queen,
avoid startling or scaring her, or
your arrest will cause a scene.

Driving a sleigh down the highway
may seem a ludicrous thing to do,
however; it’s actually acceptable if
your horse sports bells more than two.

Taking your feet off bicycle pedals,
is illegal in Ottawa, our capital town,
and riding through Sudbury with a siren
will elicit more than just a frown.

While sightseeing with your mother
in Toronto – our largest city by far –
no matter how much she provokes you,
save any expletives for inside the car.

Climbing trees, tying laces, and even
painting wooden ladders, all have laws
you’ll need to abide, so next time you’re
in Canada, before you act, give pause.

And for goodness sake, be sure to
visit our beauteous province of B.C. –
but leave your gun at home, for
killing a Sasquatch is illegal, you see.

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(The final prompt invites a little humour – to write about strange historical facts or laws.  These little known Canadian laws are courtesy of narcity.com)

Whales and Protocols

“What is that?”
a boy, two seats over
echoes my thoughts
“I’ve been wondering that too!”
I blurt, disregarding social protocols.

What are the protocols for people
herded onto a ferry, headed across
open water, seated in close proximity
to neighbours?

“A whale?”
his mother asks, obviously as eager
as I to catch sight of one.

“Not whale behaviour, really –
it hasn’t submerged.”

“Sometimes they roll on the surface.”

I’m not an expert on whales, but doubt it.

“It’s a boat,” the father declares
bursting our bubbles.

A curtain draws between us –
they return to their lunch
and talk of things unrelated to whales.

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(Today’s challenge is to incorporate dialogue into our poetry.)

6 Wheels

He drives; I sit
armrests down
blanket secured
seatback reclined.

We are trucker-high
panoramic witnesses
living a transformer life –
retractable walls, 6 wheels

bus-like we navigate
destination discovery
former stagnation distant –
we are nomads, defying roots.

He drives, and I sleep
two old people undertaking
a journey of impermanence
thriving in each given moment.

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(Today’s challenge is to write a paragraph describing some aspect of life and then by erasing words to create a poem.)

Vancouver Island

Is it the robins, whose morning song, so sharp and crisp awakens me in this enchanted place or the warble of Juncos, whose hooded black faces delight me as they forage between the dried, curled aftermath of a cold winter, now pushed aside by new life sprouting.  The absence of rain drops on tin roof offer promise that the sun might appear today, the buds on the oak trees as anxious as I for the warmth.  I raise the window shades to reveal the lush green of Douglas firs, the walls that divide us from our neighbours, nomads like us in this quest to commune with a simpler way of life.  We are metal boxes tucked within green pockets, quiet souls hushed by the grandeur of the forest we currently call home, reticent to disturb the wildlife that also grazes here – squirrel, fox, and rumours of cougars. Occasionally bear.  We are skirted on one side by marsh, a lush welcoming for geese and goldeneyes, and on the other by ocean, where seagulls and terns claim driftwood as perches.  It is the raven who is master of this land, their large black wings casting shadows, their thrumming call, sometimes belligerent, sometimes like a purr, a reminder that this is their land, that the totem poles that dot the island are a testament to their place, their royalty. Offshore, seals roam in masses encouraged by the schools of trout and halibut, and soon the salmon runs.  Orcas gather in semi-circular formation, readying the hunt.  Spring is a time of proliferation – abundance after the winter chill.

arise, old woman
nature evokes new rhythm –
spirit wants to dance.

(Day 12 of NaPoWriMo invites us to write a haibun.)

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The Journey So Far

From the North we travelled,
left just as autumn’s brilliance
retreated under the startling
white of winter’s cold breath

Drove through towns grayed
by overcast skies, witnessed
a reversal of seasons, return
of burnt oranges, rusted reds

until green gave over to desert
hues – chalky yellow hills with
dusty, low shrubs, burnt umbers
and muted violet prickly pears

Westward we drove, over wide
open spaces, followed rivers
into mountains, tracked birds,
wildlife, the mystery of saguaro

Encountered red rocks and black
mountains, the Colorado, and
further expanses of barren land
desolation betraying hard times

Continued on till highways widened
and the congestion of civilization
startled us out of our desert sedation
tossed us back into urban bustle

Then we turned north, headed back
to the mountains, now green, rolling,
promising milder temperatures and
the reassurance of flowing river beds

In time, we’ll turn eastward, set our
compass for home, knowing that
there will be disquiet, this lust for
wandering settling in old bones.

(The image is from my personal collection.  To read more about our adventures on the road, visit me at One Woman’s Quest II.)

Snapshot of L.A.

Batman cruises by in a compact,
adjusts his speed for a photo-op,
and the woman in front applies
mascara without slowing down –
all on the way to Los Angeles.

My eyes burn in the smog
where traffic creeps along
the freeway like post- concert
attendees pushing their way
out of the crowd, and I wonder

are they visitors like us, or
trapped in this swell of compressed
stress, immune to the claustrophobia
of L.A. where elegance poses next to
the indecorous, apparently desensitized?

We lunch in Marina del Ray –
watch grebes swim amongst
the yachts, while the woman
next to us, with over-plumped
lips, has difficulty enunciating

and I try not to gawk, but she
is loud and sends shards of light
scattering everytime she moves
drawing attention to blonde,
boobs, and leathered skin.

We drive up Sunset Boulevard,
entranced by the towering trees,
and stop at a neighbourhood
Starbucks, where moms in spandex
buy frothy drinks for school-aged kids

and mutter under grimacing breath
about ex-husbands, and rigorous
routines; and we ponder the cost
of real estate, as we coast past homes
sets atop hilltops with ocean views

before rejoining the parking-lot
highway, inching our way back
to the suburbs, still choking on
far-reaching pollutants, mountain
views clouded in a haze of disdain.

(Our visit to L.A. is documented on One Woman’s Quest II.)

Ode To The Road

A kettle over boiled
will put him in a snit
Leaving a light on,
a sin I often commit.

He forgets the garbage
leaves it in public sight
likes clutter around him
causes me such fright.

Annoyances are doubled
when living in tiny space
yet never will they overtake
the magic of this chase…

For everyday is adventure
when life is on the road
imagine all the memories
and stories yet to be told.

Mesquite

Tenacious are we,
will not be derailed
by rock-hard inflexibility
nor disintegrating foundations

we endure, require little
in the way of adulation
or support, self-sufficient
warriors, timeless

we adhere to a call
of evolution, indestructible,
sustained by a productivity
and a steadfast will.

(Inspired by this photo taken at Coon’s Bluff, Tonto National Forest, Arizona.)