Tag Archives: foolishness

Some of my poetry attempts, published in OHForgery

Open Heart Forgery is a lovely free journal that “aims to energize Halifax writers from the grass roots up.” It does exactly that, giving poets a chance to see their words in print. I miss it greatly now that I’ve decamped to Ontario.

Before I left, they graciously accepted some of my doggerel. I’ve attached them below. Enjoy…

Photo by Free Photos.cc on Pexels.com

Gloomily Ruminating On the Day Ahead, or
waking to an email saying I have been rejected
by Dorothyanne Brown June 2014

Sleep tastes like cat hair in my mouth
I peer at my iPad, one eye,
The good one for reading,
Barely open, the other shut
So as not to confuse
“Thank you, but no,” the message says
Confirming again
My utter failure as a writer
My uselessness as a conveyor of emotion
My uncounted wasted hours
Cheer up, my friend says
You’ll do better, later
Think of Stephen King!
(He does not write, my friend)
I pull in my eviscerated organs
And plod on, blinking.

On receiving an unwelcome package in the mail
Dorothyanne Brown February 2015

Oh frabjous day, callooh callay
Said Carroll long ago
I rather imagine his joyous day
Was not like mine, oh no.

For on this day I smiled wide
To see a letter lie so
Against my lonely mailbox side
Where only bills seem to go

I clasped it in my sweaty hands
Excited as a child
Only to read on the return address
That it was THAT test inside

A fingertip of Death’s cool hand
Poked in my quivering belly
“It’s time to screen your poo,” he said
“A task most awfully smelly.”

It is a shabby life I lead
When the post is so unexciting
That even a test you smear and return
Seems ALMOST quite inviting.

Learning again
Sonnet by Dorothyanne Brown April 2013

When I was just a tiny girl
I used to want to find my boy
But now that my whole life’s awhirl
I find that men, they do annoy.

They want a gal to fill their tum
And keep them warm and often touched
Unless I cheer them, they are glum
And lay about and scratch and such.

But as I age I feel the ache
Of living lone and sans a mate
It seems I must a big step take
And find a chum before too late

To learn to care again is tough
I only hope to love enough.

A humble joy

Once and awhile, I wonder what drove me to abandon all I knew and flee eastwards, where family is distant and old friends are further still. Here I perch on the edge of Canada, blasted by the Atlantic, covered by fog, quite quite alone a lot of the time (I am fortunate to have wonderful friends nearby, thank heavens).
It seems a crazy thing, and yet I knew it was the right thing three years ago and the longer I stay, the more right it feels.
Part of the rightness comes from simple pleasures, like tonight’s meeting of the Halifax Ukulele Gang (called so because, as our fearless leader Mike says, it sounds much fiercer than “group”). It’s a mad mad crowd of people who get together once a month to strum or air strum, depending on skill, and sing tunes of all sorts. Bless their furry little hearts – they haven’t tossed me out for my enthusiastically played missed chords or my not quite in tune voice – everyone just has a good time.
Tonight one woman played percussion on the table for “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer”. Another sang falsetto for an AC/DC tune. We struggled through more songs about death and hangings than we should have for a fun group, but leader Jonathan was ready to lead us in a cheery version of “long black veil” and we ran along beside strumming madly all the way.
We even ended all together once or twice and the whole room erupted in cheers.
I don’t really know any of these people. Most of the time I attend alone, leave alone.
But not alone.
Tonight after we were done, you could see people carrying ukuleles dispersing everywhere through the mist, visible only by their smiles. We’ll meet again, next month, and greet each other like old friends.
And that’s why I’m so glad I moved here, after all.
Because as we Nova Scotians, old timers and come from always like myself, peer out into the sea bound fog together, we don’t hesitate to bring along whoever is standing beside us.
Twice in my life now, Nova Scotia has saved me. Once, 14 or more years ago, when I found myself somewhere in the Annapolis Valley. Now, here in the HRM, as they call it, where I hang out on the “dark side” with my fellow Dartmouthians.
This place is in my bones and flesh and heart and soul.
And in my ukulele.