A Forever Home – A Poem

We were nearingfranklin_trees_01

the end of

the Forever Forest.

Sunlight was starting

to pour through

the tree tops

and it left

diamond shaped shadows

on the ground

all around us.

My hand was

still clasped firmly

in yours, it’s

warmth bringing me

comfort. I watched

the Forest change

around us as

we neared its

end. Gone were

the shadows that

had been ever

present, absent were

the dark creatures

that used to

fill the trees

branches. Instead, there

was only the

whisper of the

wind as it

moved through the

tree leaves, sounding

as if the

trees themselves were

whispering at us.

“What do you think we’ll find when we leave the forest?”

I asked. You

turned to me

and said simply:

“We’ll have to see.”

At the very

edge of the

forest, on the

top of the

highest branch, on

the very last

tree that graced

the path, a

black bird sung

to us. As

we watched it,

yellow feathers began

to sprout from

amongst the black

until the bird

was no longer

black but a

brilliant shade of

gold. I looked

at you, confused.

“What’s happening?”

“Don’t you know? You’ve changed, so the forest must change, too.”

As we moved

past the tree

and out of

the forest completely,

the wind increased

and I heard

cracking of wood,

and the bending

of branches. I

turned around, my

hand still clasped

in yours, and

watched the trees

change and morph

before us. The

burnt black bark

of the trees

began to flake

away, filling the

air with what

looked like soot.

As the pieces

of bark fell

through the air,

they, too, changed.

They began to

shimmer and pulse.

It took me

a moment to

realise that the

pulses followed the

beats of my

own heart. Everywhere

a piece of

bark fell, a

flower grew up

out of the

ground, quickly, as

if it were

thirsty for air.

Soon, the forest

floor was covered

with them. I

laughed out loud

to see such

brightness in a

place that had

held me prisoner

for so long.

“It’s beautiful.”

I said softly.

“So are you.”

You replied. The

heat that ran

through my body

whenever I thought

of you intensified

and for a

moment we both

glowed as bright

as stars. We

walked a little

further, into a

meadow filled with

grass and trees.

It astounded me

that, just beyond

the forever forest,

there had been

such beauty, just

waiting to be

found, but I

had been to

lost amongst the

shadows to see

  1. Standing in

the centre of

the meadow was

one tree, still

blackened. I wondered

at its placement

so far from

the forest, and

amongst such beauty

as the meadow.

“Why is this here? Why isn’t it back there with the rest of the trees?”

You looked at

it for a

moment and thought.

Then you said:

“Even in light, there is darkness. As in darkness, there is light.”

We walked nearer

to it. Up

close, we saw

that it wasn’t

blackened by soot,

instead, the tree

was made from

what looked like

a black stone.

“It looks like black onyx.”

I said. Nervously,

I approached the

tree and ran

my hands along

its trunk. My

fingers saw two

similar shaped grooves.

I pointed them

out to you

and you came

closer to me.

“They look like handprints.”

You said. I

nodded and put

my hand in

one of them.

Nothing happened. I

looked at you.

“Maybe we both have to place our hands on the tree at the same time?”

I said. You

nodded and placed

your hand in

the second indentation.

Still nothing happened.

Then I had

a thought that

went off inside

my head like

a brilliant light.

I reached out

and took hold

of your other

hand. The moment

our hands were

connected, the tree

and the air

around it began

to hum. The

song-like noise grew

louder until the

very air around

the tree began

to vibrate and

started to glow

with its own

inner light. We stood

back and watched

as the tree

began to shift

and change shape,

morphing into something

new. It became

a curved archway

and I could

smell different scents

coming from it,

could hear noises

of people, strange

sounds so unknown

yet so familiar.

When the archway

was done shaping

itself into its

new form, there

was a blast

light that was

warm on our

faces. Then it

was still. We

looked through the

archway and saw

a new path,

leading towards what

looked like a

great mansion, a

house that stood

empty but even

from where we

stood, I knew

it was lonely

for someone to

live within it.

“It’s waiting for us.”

I whispered. Beside

me, you nodded

and squeezed my

hand. I turned

and stood on

my toes to

kiss you, trying

to communicate everything

into that kiss.

When I pulled

away, I saw

we were both

glowing once more.

You took my

hand and smiled

happily at me.

“Our forever home awaits.”

You motioned at

the archway and

the house that

waited for us.

“Shall we?”

“We shall.”

When we stepped

through the archway,

the forest, that

had held me

for so long,

let out a

chorus of birdsong.

It was the

most beautiful feeling

in the world

to me, outshone

only by my

love for you

and your love

for me.

The Scent of Ink – A Poem

I walk insideold-water-well-black-and-white-ms-judi

myself until I

reach its resting

place. It looks

as it always

has, timeless but

aged nonetheless. I

run my hand

along its stone

rim, feeling its

warmth. I hear

the voices whispering.

I look down

into the darkness

of the well.

It smells of

water and salt

and something more.

There is a

scent of potential

in the air,

something waiting to

be described, to

be detailed on

the page. I

never know where

my mind will

go or where

it will pull

the stories from,

but they all

come from here.

They all come

from the well

inside of me.

Sometimes, the water

level is quite

high, the stories

and voices pouring

forth so quick

that all I

have to do

is hold the

page so that

it can catch

the droplets. Other

times, the water

level is lower

and I have

to use the

wooden bucket that

is secured by

a thick rope

to gather the

water within it.

This is one

of those times.

I start to

lower the bucket

gently downward, trying

to place the

scent. It’s not

brick or mortar,

nor grass or

soot. It is

something thicker, with

more substance. It

reminds me of

what wishes would

smell like, if they

had a scent.

The bucket hits

the water and

I feel the

rope pulling taunt.

As I begin

to pull the

bucket up, the

scent grows stronger

until it is

all I can

smell. Something clicks

within me and

I know the

scent. It is

indeed the perfume

of wishes. It

is the scent

of ink, waiting

to be shaped

upon paper into

words, into story,

into being. As

I pull the

bucket even higher,

I can hear

the voices of

characters I have

yet to write

speaking softly to me.

“Keep going, you’re almost there. Almost there.”

I give one

final pull on

the rope and

bucket is on

the edge. It

teeters for just

a moment, almost

righting itself, but

then it topples,

spilling all over

the ground. Where

it hits, waters

and plants begin

to grow, and

the land is

no longer barren

I feel the

water, the ink,

surging within, waiting

for me to

shape the ink

into places, into

people, into being.

I open my

eyes and sit

back, inhaling deeply,

the scent of

ink strong within

me.

A Letter to OC Transpo

I don’t normally post about this kind of stuff on here, but as it’s something I wrote and my blog will reach the highest number of people possible, I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion.

OCTranspo_red_small

To Whom It May Concern,

I wish to make a complaint about one of your drivers. Today (Wednesday May 20th, 2015) he was driving the 1 Ottawa/Rockcliffe at 3:02. It was bus number 5172.

The driver is normally rude and belligerent with passengers. I’ve watched him kick off multiple people for various reasons and even threaten to contact the police against a young adolescent. I realize that bus drivers have a stressful job, but that doesn’t excuse his behaviour.

This afternoon an autistic teenager got on the bus with his caretaker. He noticed a transfer on the ground so picked it up and tried to hand it to the driver. He had really poor motor control so he just kind of threw it at him. You have to understand: this teenager could barely speak, had difficulty walking and no control over his body.

The driver stopped the bus and told the kid and his caretaker to get off the bus. The caretaker explained that he was severely autistic. One of the things he likes to do is clean, so he was trying to be helpful. This was how the rest of their conversation went:

Driver: I don’t care, I don’t like s**t thrown at me.

Caretaker: Look, he has special needs. He’s autistic.

Driver: I don’t f*****g care, I don’t like f*****g s**t thrown at me.

Caretaker: Look, I get it. You deal with people every day. I get that. But you’re not looking at the bigger picture.

Driver: Go sit down.

The caretaker said it wouldn’t happen again.

When they went to get off, the caretaker said “Thank you for letting us stay on the bus.”

The driver made no reply.

I know that drivers have to put up with the public and that many of us can be rude or dismissive of bus drivers. They have to deal with many stressful situations that often bring their lives into danger. They do a job that I wouldn’t and couldn’t do.

However, no one, and I repeat, no one deserves treatment like I witnessed today. It was rude, terribly unprofessional and perhaps one of the meanest things I have ever seen. A special needs child was just happy to take the bus. He wasn’t doing any harm. Neither him nor his caretaker deserved that kind of treatment.

Bus drivers deal with the public on a daily basis. As such, they should treat riders as they would wish to be treated. Drivers are responsible for keeping their passengers safe. How safe do we as riders feel when we witness treatment like that? This is but the most recent in a string of bad behaviour from this driver. My only regret is that it took me so long to say anything.

I know that I will likely not get a response to this letter. To that end, I am posting this letter to my blog, Facebook and Twitter. It is my hope that someone sees this letter and does something about it. My opinion of OC Transpo wasn’t great to begin with, but it fell quite far this afternoon.

Yours truly,

Jamieson Villeneuve

Who I Had Become – A Poem

I hadn’t beenIMG_0726

through the suitcase

for some time.

It had sat

forgotten in my

storage locker. I

unzipped it and

found many forgotten

items. Among them

was an engagement

ring that a

man from my

past had given

Its shine

was gone, its

lustre dimmed. I

did not remember

who I had

been when he

had placed the

ring on my finger.

I could picture

him though: a

little lost, afraid,

surrounded by people

in the bar

where he had

given his proposal.

There was never

any question in

his mind that

I would accept.

I wore the

ring but after

only a little

time, it felt

too tight, as

if it was

burning my skin.

This was not

a fear of

commitment, but only

what I would

become when I

was wedded to

him. I remember

one of the

first things he

said when meeting

me face to

face for the

very first time.

“Well, you can stand to lose a little weight, you’re quite fat. I’ll design a workout for you though.”

There were no

terms of endearment,

only criticisms. He

would look at

me after I

had said something

off the cuff.

“Oh, my little freak. Who’s my little freak?”

As I came

to know him,

I realized how

little we had

in common, how

little we had

to talk about.

“Why do you read so much? Would you please put down the book and stop ignoring me?”

That was his

constant bitter refrain.

“What joy can there be in books, my little freak?”

When I found

the ring, all

this came rushing

back to me,

condensed into a

single memory, as

if there was

a time lapse

camera inside of

my head. I

saw who and

what I had

been. It was

made even more

clear to me

what I had

become. I was

stronger, I was

more whole and

made complete by

the love of

a man who

loved me unconditionally,

who loved everything

about me, who

cherished every thing

that made me

all of who

I was. I looked

at the ring

with no remorse

for what had

transpired, no hate

towards that man,

nor did I

hate who I

had been. Instead,

I looked at

the ring and

said, softly:

“Thank you for showing me that I was worth more. Thank you for showing me what I didn’t want. Thank you for showing me that I was stronger than I thought I was.”

Then I let

the ring fall

from my fingers

into the trash,

along with who

I had been.

I turned away

and instead focused

on who I

had become.

Bus Guru – A Poem

He sat on homeless-shoes

bus in the

front seats. He

had his legs

crossed, and thus

he had three

seats to himself.

He had long,

shaggy black hair

and he wore

sandals on his

feet that were

falling apart. Even

from my seat,

he smelled of

something akin to

rust and dirt,

as if he

carried the scent

of earth and

grass with him.

His hands were

together as if

he was in

prayer. There were

a stream of

words coming from

his mouth that

I couldn’t fail

to overhear from

my seat. I

leaned in a

little closer while

everyone else kept

as far away

from him as

was humanly possible.

“They say God doesn’t exist, but I know that God is many things, he’s the ground we walk on, the clouds we walk under, the sky they are painted on. He has many names, so many names.”

A woman sitting

closer to him

than I was

let out a

snort of laughter.

He didn’t stop

flow of words.

“See how they laugh at you, how they choose not to know you. Even the most un-religious person must agree that our home came from someone. The angels tell me you exist and so you must, my faith is that strong.”

He kept his

eyes closed, but

still managed to

look peaceful as

if he were

talking to a

friend. Perhaps he

was. Maybe there

was a link

between him and

a higher power.

The woman laughed

this time instead

of snorting. The

man turned his

head towards her,

though he still

didn’t open his

eyes. He pointed

a finger at

her and she

almost shrunk into

her seat.

“You are married to a man who you do not love. Love him or let him go.”

She gasped and

put a hand

to her mouth.

He pointed to

a man sitting

behind the woman.

“You are too angry. People are afraid of you. Let the light in to chase the darkness away. Only then will you be happy.”

The man made

a sound like

he was clearing

his throat and

coughing at the

same time. He

turned his head

and pointed at

me. I wondered

what he would

say, what wisdom

I had to

learn, what God

or the angels

had to say.

He was quiet

for a moment

but then spoke,

ever so softly.

“Sparkle on.”

He said. It

was as if

the whisper came

from someone else,

sounding different than

his normal voice.

I wondered if

one of the

angels spoke through him.

“Sparkle on.”