Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 3

Poem 19 – We the Mourners

Onward we poem!

We the Mourners

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give you our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel
the future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress, intelligence
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive

We the mourners
refuse politics as a container
for global exchange we trust
in the evolutionary grit of the
radical amygdala, of the hankering
left brain right brain continuum
we believe in the flux capacitor
the lorax the lord the god the goddess
– in the souls of scrolls fossils
petroglyphs zircon crystal dragons
flies roaches and clonal aspens quaking
for 80,000 years and counting – we’re
counting. We believe in the flat line as
a goal post to be lifted and moved shifted
and shoved as a means to share
Everything – We believe in Munsch

We the mourners
cloak and swagger in the
silence between screams
explosions faces slaps car
crashes thunder rolls forks
scraping plates nails scratching
chalkboards – the silence between
tantric orgasm pants labour moans
and the first pure newborn vibrato
We are collectors of the vibrations
of love matter-ing inside life’s bold
and brittle becomings. Our satchels
perpetually overflowing with
the juicy soma of now

We the mourners
knit with yarn of loneliness
needles click-clacking inside
the calm light of moon sigh
and sun whisper – the depth
of your lavender longings, your
yellow yearnings, your purple
hopes, your green envies
your spectrum of abilities to
love is a scarf pattern we
art with and for so to warm
the throats in existence
all the voices tangling
to talk in the perfect depths
where soul pieces await the
communion of connection

We the mourners
undulate we gyrate as we spectate
the immaculate sufferings of
today – we bud in spring we bloom
in summer we fall in fall we patient
in winter we season in your seasons
of loss and gain – again and again
we orchestrate the alternate
mouths of Fate we wait we wait
we satiate the grand debate of
‘Why?’

We the mourners
do not fit a mould
we are water fire air
we genuflect to the land
with its doctorate in
Wonder & Awe its Masters
in Chaotic Change its
Bachelor’s in Creative Writing:
education is classroom-ed in the
witnessing of human
reactions that like the elements
thrive in the chaos and after-
birth of suffering’s children

We the mourners
spiral on the puckered
kissing lips of radical
empathy – fearless
in the grand maw of
self-compassion’s
voracious persistence –
the body battles the
soul’s unconditional
devotion to self-love
we understand this
internal war: we warrior
we fence-jump
we edge-leap
we do our own stunts
for your pleasure

We the mourners
cook in the kitchens
of your trauma
sharpened, we prep
lean strips of safety
hand out meal tickets
for your final feasts
in the death rows of
your personal growings
this is no diet but a
style of healing that
serves all universally
the kitchens are always
Open – dessert is
served in the sink:
your anger bowled like
ice cream your fear fired
like brulee – the more
you chew and swallow
and release the more
you enjoy the meditation
that is hand-washing dishes

Poem 18 – We the Mourners

Good Friday…and a long weekend ahead…here’s 18!

We the Mourners

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give you our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel
the future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress, intelligence
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive

We the mourners
refuse politics as a container
for global exchange we trust
in the evolutionary grit of the
radical amygdala, of the hankering
left brain right brain continuum
we believe in the flux capacitor
the lorax the lord the god the goddess
– in the souls of scrolls fossils
petroglyphs zircon crystal dragons
flies roaches and clonal aspens quaking
for 80,000 years and counting – we’re
counting. We believe in the flat line as
a goal post to be lifted and moved shifted
and shoved as a means to share
Everything – We believe in Munsch

We the mourners
cloak and swagger in the
silence between screams
explosions faces slaps car
crashes thunder rolls forks
scraping plates nails scratching
chalkboards – the silence between
tantric orgasm pants labour moans
and the first pure newborn vibrato
We are collectors of the vibrations
of love matter-ing inside life’s bold
and brittle becomings. Our satchels
perpetually overflowing with
the juicy soma of now

We the mourners
knit with yarn of loneliness
needles click-clacking inside
the calm light of moon sigh
and sun whisper – the depth
of your lavender longings, your
yellow yearnings, your purple
hopes, your green envies
your spectrum of abilities to
love is a scarf pattern we
art with and for so to warm
the throats in existence
all the voices tangling
to talk in the perfect depths
where soul pieces await the
communion of connection

We the mourners
undulate we gyrate as we spectate
the immaculate sufferings of
today – we bud in spring we bloom
in summer we fall in fall we patient
in winter we season in your seasons
of loss and gain – again and again
we orchestrate the alternate
mouths of Fate we wait we wait
we satiate the grand debate of
‘Why?’

We the mourners
do not fit a mould
we are water fire air
we genuflect to the land
with its doctorate in
Wonder & Awe its Masters
in Chaotic Change its
Bachelor’s in Creative Writing:
education is classroom-ed in the
witnessing of human
reactions that like the elements
thrive in the chaos and after-
birth of suffering’s children

We the mourners
spiral on the puckered
kissing lips of radical
empathy – fearless
in the grand maw of
self-compassion’s
voracious persistence –
the body battles the
soul’s unconditional
devotion to self-love
we understand this
internal war: we warrior
we fence-jump
we edge-leap
we do our own stunts
for your pleasure

Poem 17 – We the Mourners

More than half-way through April!

We the Mourners

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give you our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel
the future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress, intelligence
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive

We the mourners
refuse politics as a container
for global exchange we trust
in the evolutionary grit of the
radical amygdala, of the hankering
left brain right brain continuum
we believe in the flux capacitor
the lorax the lord the god the goddess
– in the souls of scrolls fossils
petroglyphs zircon crystal dragons
flies roaches and clonal aspens quaking
for 80,000 years and counting – we’re
counting. We believe in the flat line as
a goal post to be lifted and moved shifted
and shoved as a means to share
Everything – We believe in Munsch

We the mourners
cloak and swagger in the
silence between screams
explosions faces slaps car
crashes thunder rolls forks
scraping plates nails scratching
chalkboards – the silence between
tantric orgasm pants labour moans
and the first pure newborn vibrato
We are collectors of the vibrations
of love matter-ing inside life’s bold
and brittle becomings. Our satchels
perpetually overflowing with
the juicy soma of now

We the mourners
knit with yarn of loneliness
needles click-clacking inside
the calm light of moon sigh
and sun whisper – the depth
of your lavender longings, your
yellow yearnings, your purple
hopes, your green envies
your spectrum of abilities to
love is a scarf pattern we
art with and for so to warm
the throats in existence
all the voices tangling
to talk in the perfect depths
where soul pieces await the
communion of connection

We the mourners
undulate we gyrate as we spectate
the immaculate sufferings of
today – we bud in spring we bloom
in summer we fall in fall we patient
in winter we season in your seasons
of loss and gain – again and again
we orchestrate the alternate
mouths of Fate we wait we wait
we satiate the grand debate of
‘Why?’

Poem 16 – We the Mourners

Happy sweet 16!

We the mourners 

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give you our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel
the future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress, intelligence
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive

We the mourners
refuse politics as a container
for global exchange we trust
in the evolutionary grit of the
radical amygdala, of the hankering
left brain right brain continuum
we believe in the flux capacitor
the lorax the lord the god the goddess
– in the souls of scrolls fossils
petroglyphs zircon crystal dragons
flies roaches and clonal aspens quaking
for 80,000 years and counting – we’re
counting. We believe in the flat line as
a goal post to be lifted and moved shifted
and shoved as a means to share
Everything – We believe in Munsch

We the mourners
cloak and swagger in the
silence between screams
explosions faces slaps car
crashes thunder rolls forks
scraping plates nails scratching
chalkboards – the silence between
tantric orgasm pants labour moans
and the first pure newborn vibrato
We are collectors of the vibrations
of love matter-ing inside life’s bold
and brittle becomings. Our satchels
perpetually overflowing with
the juicy soma of now

We the mourners
knit with yarn of loneliness
needles click-clacking inside
the calm light of moon sigh
and sun whisper – the depth
of your lavender longings, your
yellow yearnings, your purple
hopes, your green envies
your spectrum of abilities to
love is a scarf pattern we
art with and for so to warm
the throats in existence
all the voices tangling
to talk in the perfect depths
where soul pieces await the
communion of connection

Poem 15 – We the Mourners

Fifteen down – fifteen to go!

We the Mourners

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give you our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel
the future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress, intelligence
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive

We the mourners
refuse politics as a container
for global exchange we trust
in the evolutionary grit of the
radical amygdala, of the hankering
left brain right brain continuum
we believe in the flux capacitor
the lorax the lord the god the goddess
– in the souls of scrolls fossils
petroglyphs zircon crystal dragons
flies roaches and clonal aspens quaking
for 80,000 years and counting – we’re
counting. We believe in the flat line as
a goal post to be lifted and moved shifted
and shoved as a means to share
Everything – We believe in Munsch

We the mourners
cloak and swagger in the
silence between screams
explosions faces slaps car
crashes thunder rolls forks
scraping plates nails scratching
chalkboards – the silence between
tantric orgasm pants labour moans
and the first pure newborn vibrato
We are collectors of the vibrations
of love matter-ing inside life’s bold
and brittle becomings. Our satchels
perpetually overflowing with
the juicy soma of now

How’s the Editing Coming Along?

Thought I’d drop a wee line or two about how the editing is coming along! I’ve been working pretty consistently on edits. Not every day as I should be…but nearly every day. I’m definitely thinking about the novel every day, but golly, sometimes it’s hard to get my butt in the chair and actually work on it.

Today has been a productive day. I got through two chapters, and started on a third.

Here’s what I’m doing:

Cut and paste a chapter at a time from the Word document I used for beta reads, into a ‘main’ Google document. I’m writing in a Google doc because my little old laptop does not enjoy working in Word, and because it constantly updates safely. Edit the chapter. Word by word. Line by line. There have already been several chapters where *major* changes have happened. Thank you again to all those who offered incredible feedback in the beta reads. Print the chapter. Read the chapter again. Make more edits. (I always find a least one typo when I read the chapter out on paper.)Make a list of the main scenes and any important information (like, what day it is, or if there’s something I need to remember in the chapter for a forthcoming chapter) on a large cue purple card. Staple it all together. Make the new edits in the chapter on the Google doc.Cut and paste the chapter into Scrivener in a new manuscript. Scrivener houses ALL versions of the story. Cut and paste the next chapter to review in the Google doc. Repeat.

I admit that even after all these years writing, I still get insects in my tummy before I sit down and write. It’s like…I’m nervous to work on my own writing, with my own characters. I’m nervous to face the immense amount of work each chapter asks of me in editing. But then…when I finally start, and just ‘do it’, my tummy relaxes and I do it. It feels really great to have some tactile exchanges with the writing when printing out hard copies and making chapter notes.

But friends…there’s still sooo much to go!

Alas, this is the process.

I’ve made a self-proclaimed deadline for a full edit completion by early August. I will then hire a copy-editor and pay for a copy-edit. I hope this edit as well as all the consequent edits I’ll make after that will be complete by September. While the copy-edit is happening, I will razzle-dazzle-ize my query letter and make a list of agents to submit to. Or publishers. I don’t know yet, actually, what I’ll do first. !!! I don’t think I can make that decision until the book is complete and my heart leads me.

And so it goes.

Some things that have inspired as of late:

Shawna Lemay’s Transactions With Beauty

The Marginalian

Supr Ordinary

Also…I made this fun cover…for my novel…

And another Essy Beau book cover…

This design is based on a leading book cover design circa 1986. In story time, that’s when this book would have been published.

And…for those movie-lovers like me…do watch…

It’s jam-packed with anxiety-driven comedy by a star-studded cast…and LOADS OF CANADIAN FILM & MUSIC LOVE! Thank you, Seth!

Poem 14 – We the Mourners

Found a type in day 11’s poem! Hee. Fixed it. And…I forgot to paste the entire poem in yesterday’s post?! Sheesh. Here’s stanza 14!

We the Mourners

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give you our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel
the future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress, intelligence
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive

We the mourners
refuse politics as a container
for global exchange we trust
in the evolutionary grit of the
radical amygdala, of the hankering
left brain right brain continuum
we believe in the flux capacitor
the lorax the lord the god the goddess
– in the souls of scrolls fossils
petroglyphs zircon crystal dragons
flies roaches and clonal aspens quaking
for 80,000 years and counting – we’re
counting. We believe in the flat line as
a goal post to be lifted and moved shifted
and shoved as a means to share
everything – We believe in Munsch

Poem 13 – We the Mourners

Lucky 13…

We the Mourners

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress. Intelligence is
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

We the mourners
eat grief for every meal
spice it with saffron & sage
agrimony & quassia
sauce it over pasta
spread it on warm bread
there is enough grief
to feed trillions and trillions
need to eat. Grief is thick
tender sassy sticky ripe
sweet nasty juicy rich
like hand-churned butter
batter-beautiful and bold
we overeat and bloat
blissfully for your griefdom
to continually thrive

Poem 12 – We the Mourners

Saturday, hey, hey!

We the Mourners

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give your our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel, the
future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception

We the mourners
preserve the tip of the tongue
it is getting lonely, discarded
in the speed of need-to-know
no, no – the tip of the tongue
is the holder of creativity’s
cauldron, the altar of imagination’s
fierce fortress. Intelligence is
the tastebud of transcendence
– why flounder it
to artificial accoutrements?
we heed the healing force
genuine in our care for the
tongue’s mighty roar

Poem 11 – We the Mourners

Happy Friday!

We the Mourners

We the mourners
roam the land
a planet-sized graveyard
witnessing the body as tombstone
inclined toward the sharp knife of
Love’s lapidarian urges
etching Time wounds
into our skin –
urging the most tears

We the mourners
swallow the sour spaces
between right & wrong
holding the knowledge
of their folly – fools alive
enough to write songs
poems plays paintings
in the lush language of loss
of lust of legends – heads
bowed into palm-praying
hands throats humming

We the mourners
take pride in the stride
of the single falling tear
in the animal-gutteral growls
of the multi-breathed sob
in the rib-shaking depth of the
long-winded wail
cry weep bawl – we bowl
our bodies into the sacred
howls of healing

We the mourners
are bodies built
trench-laden & weaponed
for the onslaught of wars
unceasing on land
in sky in water in
mind in flesh gushing
bloods deviant with
DNA unleashed since
the First Body bloomed
– we weapon with Love

We the mourners
do not forget the first light
the second dark & all the
colourful shadows between
– fiery & untimed unnamed
do not forget before Before
when the body tingled after
flights stardust-drowned
delirious determined
to omit its genesis

We the mourners
strum the nervous system
into freedom – braiding
fight flight freeze zingy
nettles embrace
stinging fingertips
lips bloodied
elegant & ebullient

We the mourners
continue the chants
benedicted protectors
our knees so swollen
we are double-capped
cradled in earth’s
dancing dust –
praising we choir

We the mourners
clutch the One True Prayer
that begins with
the sprawling what if
and never ends
Oh we bead the voices
of the dead lift them
seeding back to the sky

We the mourners
move among you
slip under tongues
rage under ribs
hover over hearts
contaminate your rituals
of goodbye with the
staining ink of memory
sew them to the souls
of the next bodies to Be

We the mourners
engage with our voices
we give your our faces
we listen with our bodies
we answer the calls
we respond to emails
we talk through texts
we post, we comment
we like, we share on the
Love-net that is human
to human interaction
we do not have cell
phones or laptops or
computers – we have
each other we have you
we patience we kind
we hold we carry
we here, we hear
we you, you, you

We the mourners
are the carpenters of shelves
designing and building
your golden libraries
home-ing the books of
your storied lives
we parchment, we ink
we hand write the words
of humanity’s be-ings
if you look closely, you will
see letters in your blood
love loves to read and
the past is a series we
each contribute to, the present
is a manufacturing marvel, the
future, o, the future is a window
tucked in the basement with
ghosts and clowns and spiders
and mice – lounging in the
detritus of deception