Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history ~ Plato

Friday, July 31, 2015

Black Water

I set upon the rapids
Water
Black and thick as molasses
Welcomed me
As eagerly
As the rays of the rising sun
The white water churned slow
A channel as sweet as salt water taffy
Rocking the row boat 
To the unsteady rhythm of its morning song.
Mist, scented in natures pheromones
A heady brew
Of moss and lily pads
With notes of the towering pine that gave shelter
Swallowed me at the breach of stillness
Where the current calmed
The song became whisper
Without the need for reason
Or wordy explanation
I was accepted

Natasha Head



Friday, July 24, 2015

Designed to Kill


Vehicles
Designed for transport
Of people, of packages, of things
Operated by humans
Thus prone to accidents
Deaths
Crime
Therefore subjected to
Licensing requirements
Registration, regulation, inspection, 

Spoons
Designed for eating
Of fruit, vegetables, chemicals deemed safe
By governmental standards
Operated by humans
Thus prone to overuse
Resulting in obesity
Heart disease
Death

Guns
Designed for killing
In some countries
Easier and more affordable to obtain
Than a vehicle
Operated by humans
Who can't control their spoons

Natasha Head


Monday, July 13, 2015

I'm Listening

She told me love was a thing reserved for angels and devils. That only mythic creatures created to explain the unknown could ever comprehend the complexities of a human heart.

He told me love existed for everyone. That it was only in selfishness that it became misconstrued and used as a weapon for control.

I listened to them both. I loved them for their efforts. The way I see it, listening is the closest we can get to love. It's in the telling of our stories, in freedom of expression, that we come to understand ourselves. A dozen red roses and a hallmark card can't compare to a heart willing to hear.

Natasha Head

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Good Morning

Here comes my light. Filtered between buildings. It turns the black of my curtains to fire. Catching the contour of every thread, dancing off the prism of cut glass that decorates my window.

This moment is so brief, sandwiched like we are, wall to wall, story to story, in a tiny town too far North in Ontario to be counted beyond the cottage season. Come winter, the moment will disappear, the sun riding too low in the sky for the light to find its way in.

If not for the houses beside me, my horizon would include a lake. Cobalt waters against an azure sky. Large enough to churn waves like the ocean when the winds are willing. Sending whitecaps ashore to sandy beaches where driftwood collects and tidy marinas where boats dance in their wake.

It's not home, but it's close.
For now, that will do.

Natasha Head