ArtSpace ‘Breaking Barriers’ Journalists, 2.9.2016

It’s our time

for the

organic Wildness

within

to step forth

with

dignity and

hope.

It’s time

for the

colours of our

Gardens

to climb

and walk

through the

webs of our pasts

out

into

the flower of

our future.

At 12 There is No Mask

At 12 There is No Mask

He was grinning -

sans mask -

in a photo with

friends at 12.

He is laughing like

a boy

of the earth and sky

no reticence no

 albatross on

his back.

No bills

 hurt, lies

no cynicism

yet.

No one has

taught him

to shield

who he is.

It hasn’t occurred to him

yet.

Here in this moment is just light

air of

serotonin joy

atoms floating

in

time and place

in that photo

at 12.

            ---

At 13,

 the photo

is  posed.

He decides where

to take it;

what he will wear

now

who he will choose

to be seen

with.

He constructs

his own Brand.

Who put that

first seed of,

‘You’re not good enough’

into his guarded™

eyes?

 Soiled his

free mind-of-possibilities

  with judgments

yet to be weighed upon

this guise?

Homegrown: For the 2016 Thames Art Gallery Homecoming

Homegrown

On the occasion of the Thames Art Gallery’s ‘Homecoming’ exhibition (January 23, 2016)

This January Gust of

Inertia has brought

you

home

to the Tender Stems

of your

   Beginnings.

It was here that

Mirror Mirror

showed you Odysseus

through Polyphemus’

silk-spun eyes;

or told

  fairy tales

each night before

a lush sleep,

like little Katzman

watercolours jigging

beside your crib.

Having your

‘Head served on a Platter’

only happened

in distant lands

like Kathmandu

or, god forbid,

Toronto.

No here, at home,

with these Small

Monuments to

your childhood

tales, you

transform the portrait

of whom you once

were to

who you are

now.

Here, your

two halves

share the same canvas,

both selves focused on

   immediate

 intentions.

Two beings:

looking you

straight in the eye

of home.

For Kristy Cons 'Identities' Exhibition, ArtSpace, Chatham

This is Woman

On the occasion of artist Kristy Cons’ exhibit, “Identities” (January 23, 2016)

“Fatty!” the tosser-lescents

shame me,

their fellow female,

as I trot by,

trying to lose this excess.

Why bother?

Underwear cutting

  soft flesh;

foolish– like a circus

bear on a tricycle-

rolls at War with the worlds

around,

but I don’t have to be:

I will paint my nails black.

Stand on my head.

Jump rope (even double-dutch

if I so please).

I will wear square specs, and

let my long, luxurious

Big

Hair go,

down

stroking over those

skinny stragglers that

prod and

poke.

I will ride

My big butt

by.

Because this is

woman.

- Kara Smith, poet Ghobhainn

Stratford Chef School Meal at The Prune

Four courses with Prune

We all emerge from water,

Tentacles of eight roasted in slow, fragrant seas until

we

are tested

to be served;

Potatoes of the earth

nourish from the root,

growing long in warm soil,

filling with the taste

of the cord of life.

In air, country pigeons

take flight.

“It’s so rare to get them with

their heads still on,” Prune

considers,

“best serve them

next

to the seeds they eat.

Toasted”

On fire.

Invention of human,

born of the sacred four:

elemental

courses.

Ridgehouse speaking

Ridgehouse

‘Hello, It’s me…’

I’m still here

standing these

years,

grandparent to

the 11 children,

who grew with me,

and George

whose hands crafted

and sanded, stroked my

curves,

molded me.

 “mother” who scrubbed

me clean of small

brown fingers, washed

my floors and

fell to her knees

11 times as blood

and baby

dropped into my legs.

Their collective hair

adorns my walls,

sheets and toys,

shoes passed down

from one pair feet

to another.

Biscuits, bread, once

baked in my hearth,

now outlawed by

  fire chief who walked

through last Spring.

Lavender, sage hang

by my heart.

cloves in oranges

scent my lungs.

I once knew

Song, and

voices raised in laughter,

prayer

debate.

Neighbours leaned

in close

against my railings.

Coal brought in by horses

and dumped

down upon my

root

of thyme

now gone.

Stay with

me; remember

who I once

held, my

town of

ridges.