Poetry Collection of Linda Woolven

Winter Strangers

The dirty grey of winter

settles,

laying its slush into storefronts,

as they open their winter doors,

yawning wet ice crystals

into breathy steam.

The bars burp into the night,

clouds of yeast churn

with the snowflakes that settle

in the hair of the regulars

trying to shut out

the cold:

the dark loneliness of December,

on bar stools

with other strangers,

equally starving,

in the death of winter.

Music plays, loudly,

like heavy feet

falling in the snow,

so distant,

thudding,

echoing

of loneliness,

and the emptiness of

drunken conversations.

The blackness of the street

pencils in, like erasable charcoal visions:

all temporary for the night,

where amber bubbles

caress, then bruise

with forgetfulness.

Anxiety/Summer Storm

White caps of madness,

as memory stirs

the shadows

of the deep water:

the black wounded depths,

roll,

running from consciousness,

into huge untreadable

waves.

 

And you are swallowed

into the unbreathable strangle of the past,

suffocating in memories

so painful when they surface.

Anxiety

tries to dog paddle

in the storm.

Sinks,

as your lungs fill

with huge gulps

of desperation—;

howls from the past—;

force breaths of fear,

and crawls with indecision.

You are stillborn

on the waves,

locked in the

nakedness

of your own

fragility.

Cold and shivering,

alone,

in the

lightening,

the thunder.

Childhood Hide and Seek

The smell of

damp wool

and summer wind

hiding with me,

and I am back

to all

those valleys

so long ago.

Little girl

in sandals

runs in the street

lost at play

with the neighbourhood children.

Her insides stilled for a moment

feeling free and happy in the wind.

The count is done

and someone is looking for her

in the twilight

as the stars stare overhead.

Soon the street lamps

will wink, light between the leaves,

and she’ll be called home for the night.

To bed and the darkness within,

where the wind is shut out

and the shadows sometimes

loom into

shapes,

angry,

words raging

in her ears

and her tears

find her pillow

and she lies in

the wet dampness

of her

desperation.

Night Sky

The moon

glances

at the horizon,

slack eyed,

lazy its journey.

Summer’s ripe

on the stalk,

heavy and full on the vine.

Gossamer wings

edged in sliver,

whisper soft things

in the night.

Hush,

hush,

little child goes to bed,

scared of shadows

and the voices in the dark.

The moon

slows to watch,

winks

sparingly

through the blind.

As stars select

their toes for pointing.

So soft on

the stage.

So fairy eyed

and dreamy.

As the child

falls asleep,

sucking the night

sky with his thumb.

Tucked warm

in the night’s embrace

and its midnight layers.

Two Italian Lovers in the New Country

He leaves his socks on,

he is always in a hurry,

puts the blinds down

so it is always dark,

like he can leave

the smell  of oranges

and sunshine outside.

In here, it is serious business.

Like a exercise routine, or morning ritual.

He remembers each of his moves,

going through then

one by one, so thoroughly,

making sure to do each one

as thoroughly and well as he

does everything else,

even with the lights off.

and the sounds of the old country dimmed.

It is his ritual,

I, am his ritual,

and we have been doing it

for over 25 years.

I am an anniversary, an echo,

of the old country:

his peasant girl

in bare feet,

smelling of olives

and the sea.

He finds it

still,

in my recesses

where I keep it:

my gift to him.

It is belonging,

even here, with the rituals so far

removed

from our home.

Two Italian lovers, husband and wife,

finely aged in the

Toronto cask that our

house is with its blinds down

on such days,

fermenting

to a fine wine,

a memory of the old country.

Linda Woolven have published over 75 poems in journals across Canada, the United States and the U.K.. The poems have appeared in Journals like, Descant, Dana Literary Society, Amethyst Review, Write On, Sepia Poetry Magazine, New Mirage Quarterly, The Kaleidocope Review, Canadian Writer's Journal, Pink Chameleon and Fullosia Press. One of my poems received an award from Dana Literary Society. Linda also published a chapbook, called "Life's Little Lessons" a few summers ago that featured 26 poems. 

Linda have also published a short story in Happy, and a story in Characters.