When my mother said I could wear heels
I thought HIGH heels; was disappointed it was almost a flat.
About an inch high.
It did not make a satisfying click.
I had hoped to be taller.
At five foot two, I coveted being higher up.
Only one eighth grade girl got to wear heels to our first dance.
The rest of us hated her; our jealousy floating around the room.
Until her feet got so sore she started to limp.
None of us cheered, but there was some gloating.
I gave my girlfriend a thumbs up.
I wore my first high heels at prom.
They were beautiful. I could barely contain my joy.
Now I was the one limping with callouses.
It was worth it, I told myself, because I felt beautiful.
But it wasn’t.
When I was a young mother in my early twenties,
I fell off both high heeled shoes when I was walking up concrete steps
On my way to work.
I had sprained both ankles.
I went from “feeling sassy and sexy” to miserable.
It was the last time I wore high heels.
This was in 1980.
I have this recurring fantasy. I travel to northern Ontario and hire a bush pilot who flies me to the Great Slave Lake. It is a one way trip.
I carry my trusty Ronco Survival Knife that I bought for $19.95 in a weak moment a few years ago after watching one of those late night infomercials. The top of the large serrated hunting knife is a compass, which screws off to reveal fish hooks, a bit of line, some matches, a folded up saw.
I take one eighth of my ancestors with me, the Cherokee relations. I will survive the bitter cold and the bears and wolves. I will fish, find wild berries and rob honey trees.
Lichen broths are supposed to be nutritious, even tasty, I understand.
filling the feeders
I watch for
the Northern Flicker
(Published Simply Haiku - Spring 2009)
Colours
A passionate Red Man, in this cold, cruel, blue world,
stands, – one eighth blood in his veins, that doth swirl –
on his own, watching black prejudice all around, unfurl,
permeating every fiber, every grain of his marrow
that lay within the heart of the bones, the soul of this Red Man,
from the time the Europeans, the white man stole his land.
They coned, they pillaged, they raped, they stole with deaths hand.
The world they knew, gone, horror left, nothing but black !
Nothing the white man can do will ever bring it back !
The spirt , the soul, the heart and dignity,
all lost – for most - in the raging sea,
of the white mans greed
to satisfy his need.
B. J. “A” 2
March 27th 2004