Divorced Men

A poem I wrote last night.

Divorced Men:

I miss you
You always smelled like flowers
Like a woman
I wanted that scent
so I could breathe it in every day and feel you
picture you
put in on and become you
I still want to become you
You're perfect
Your dirty blond hair
Your moon-shaped glasses
Your shoulder bag
Your salads
Your smile
Your quick wit
Those rebellious ears that stick out
Just like you do
In a crowd
The freckles and tiny hairs on your arms
Your slim fingers
So perfect
So immaculate
So precise
Your forest green cardigans and white dress shirts
Your tweed jacket and pants
Your ancient blackberry
Your voice
Smooth as milk and honey
Your exercises
Your books
Your mind
Your ring
Which you no longer wear
What do divorced men do with their rings?
Do they make love to them?

Spring Cabana

I decided to make a different post for whenever I post poetry.  This is probably the one I'm most proud of of the poetry I'm posting today...

Spring Cabana:

Like a holiday in a person
The ultimate diplomat
Gilded with tweed
Won the Euclid and the Fermat
Child prodigy
And a perfect gentleman
A perfect gentleman

You were Atlantis
when I first met you
I was so terrified
that I couldn't impress you
You were so perfect
So beautiful
You smelled like flowers

Had to know what the smell was
What flower?
Where are you from?
What are you?  Who are you?
A breath of fresh air?
An angel, a fairy?
A devil, a liar?

You packed up your Viper's tongue
Your lyre
Your childish analogies
It seems you have a taste for
skinny pale intellectuals
with unusual but not improbable hair colours
And now you're in Florence

Did I scare you away?

Today and Missing Mom

It's snowing again!  I love it when it snows.  When I went outside to pick up my history paper, there were millions of snowflakes floating through the air.  But the cold was nearly burning my face off.  The pros and cons of winter.

I got a B- on my paper.  I wanted an A of course, but a decent mark is fine.  I'm very relieved!    I finished writing that paper literally five minutes before the due date.  I was really last minute. 

I woke up at 2 pm today.  I'm very ashamed.  I went to bed at 3 am, but it's still pretty deplorable, not to mention a record-breaker.

I need to study for my history final, so I don't want to waste too much time.  I want to ace it!
I went shopping at the mall by myself yesterday.  Very enjoyable, albeit crowded.  And I was thinking about how much I missed shopping with mom.  How I usually loved spending that time with her.  But I was a kid then.  But then I realized... I'm an adult.  I dress myself, I can drive, take the bus, the train all on my own, I make my own food, I have jobs and have had jobs, most of the money in my bank account was earned, I see my family less often (sometimes only twice a month) because I'm getting less and less dependent on them, no one wakes me up in the morning, I can legally drink, and I do (I've acquired a taste for white wine and cheap beer), I have my own room in an apartment, no one tells me to do chores, do my homework, clean my room, I buy my own groceries and shop on my own.  In a few years I might be completely independent, with a boyfriend or husband, a job in music, my own house.  I'm a woman, not a girl.  It feels weird to say that.  But I miss my mom.   I always wanted to watch the Nutcracker with her during the holidays.  Why didn't we do that?  I miss shopping with her, watching concerts, musicals, operas with her, riding the GO train with her, asking her for advice on outfits, makeup, hair.  Asking her what the high was (she always knew), her waking me up early, decorating the Christmas tree with her, baking and cooking together, practicing while she worked in the study, driving lessons (she either looked completely worried or not worried at all), watching chick flicks with her, camping trips as a family, seeing her pull into the driveway after a long day at work, speaking french with her.  So many memories.  But for some reason I especially miss our shopping trips at Erin Mills.  We'd leave and say we'd be gone for an hour, but we were gone for four hours.  Dad would call us and say, "Where ARE you?!" and mom would tell him that we were almost done or on our way home.  She was a shopaholic.  I miss her.