I am resurrecting poems I wrote a few years ago when I belonged to a writing site that unfortunately closed and left many of us without our tightly knit, albeit world strewn, community.  Here is the first one I have moved...

Rooted in the Past

I am from grainfields,
Red River carts bumping into Tent Town,
arduous ocean tossing crossing from the land of bagpipes,
London tailor shops, & wicked Swedish stepmothers
to those virgin homesteads of the true north strong and freewhich turned out to be gnarled roots pulled like decaying
teeth from soil dotted with backbreaking boulders
that must be rolled and cursed before rows of winter wheat wave in summer breeze
promising full belly satisfaction for two horses, a dozen hens & a single cow and pig.

I am from cherry dappled pipesmoke curling round lazy afternoons,
Shetland ponies named for great Indian warriors,
melting moment marathons to Cotton’s General Store
for that six pack of Orange Crush & begging for a lazy return home
cradled in Grandad’s grey tank with seats reeking of old tobacco and summer sweat.

I am from front row seats of moth suicide under the marquee
one heavy handed August nights when my room became a prison
of stifling flannel sheets & both sides of the pillow scorched my sunburn cheeks.

I am from prayers (pleasedearjesusforgiveusnowandatthehourofourdeathamen)
that aunties and grannies arrive before I sleep and God
protect them in the swirl of snow dancing the treacherous miles
from here to there and inbetween.
And wasn’t that reindeer hooves stamping the roof?
Don’t tease me with any scientific explanation
of icy shingle nails screaming from Winter’s hostile bite.
I’d recognize those tooth-marked carrot stubs as Rudolph’s anywhere
& look how Santa drained that tumbler of Lamb’s Navy with a dash of Coke.

I am from Thunderhill & tumbling rides on runaways racing for home,
hunting out our promiscuous Beagle’s litter before all dozen drowned in a gunnysack.

I am from Madge Lake Sundays and one July
terrorized by nuns doling out plastic Virgin Marys with praying hands
and a single droning Father preparing us for the Body of Christ.
Flash forward to one stifling Sunday when the choking host
threatened to weld itself to the roof of my mouth for eternity everlasting
so help me Jesus.
The unmerciful veil rasping raw my neck,
the pious Witch in the pillbox hat behind & her muttering threats:
‘sit still quit fidgeting ’ & my mother nowhere close,
while my atheist unbaptised father scratched concentric circles in summerfallow,
uninterested in this eldest daughter’s ascension.

I am from cold cucumber sandwiches with butter and salt & pepper
and the ‘bastardly barley dust’ sifting down my neck,
worse than any tulle torture from 1st Communion Sunday,
Pixie Stix, giant jawbreakers & marshmallowy strawberries:
three pieces for a penny from mammoth jars at Reiches,
4H at Nell’s kitchen and the roundup cookie cookoff
and five times braving the Bullet at the Midway
until I walk like a beer garden rodeo clown
with his upside downside sort of stumble.

I am from Princess & PeGe and knock-kneed calves & boots left lost in the mud.
Rows upon rows of stolen carrots wiped on sleeves to crunch in double time.
Mustn't forget the lipstain of Raspberries washed away with lime Freshie
slowly sipped from countless quart sealers.

I am from manic rooster attacks and turkey trots,
late night Mole burial in the vegetable garden
complete with choir and head-bowing mourners.
My Gran shaking in her grief while granary flames lit the Back 40-
so certain Grandad shared Uncle Gordon’s grave.
Nothing could stop her wails until he stumbled up the lane
& her tears turned to the relief of rage.

I am from flashlights under cover at night
& tinny transistors and their talk shows squashing my loneliness.
Two week silences and countless quivering quiet dinners,
shrinking in shadows praying to remain unnoticed,
but dolefully summoned by garden weeding threats
to listen up and shake in my boots.

I am from summer escapes from Alcatraz, cannonballs melded with side-splitting bellyflops
at Phantom pier where tye-dye ruled Summer &
smelter smoke choked the life from
mountain ash at 195 Wright Ave.
And wishing myself 16.

This was me.