Death and dreaming

teas in a pod


Over the spring and summer, I wrote a few poems, one about my friend Steph’s painting, another about satellites and whales, and string and forks and waiting. I wrote a eulogy for my dad, sprinkled his dust. I wrote some great titles for stories. I had some wonderful dreams… I fought imaginary and real battles, with myself and others. I think I am growing up.

Do we, though? We grow along, maybe. We curve and bend.

I keep writing, and editing, about all sorts: climate justice, dreamers, art, homemade soap, dinosaurs, life and all that’s in it, rainbows… and Christmas, of course. I might start putting words to music. I am making some great kids books. I have the beginnings of a very fun novel, with some choice characters. For now, here are some poems. Press ‘play’ symbol below for gorgeous music and colours…

We must keep all things because they matter and life depends on it

That dog needed to be drawn.

The lines overlapping and the pencil dull.

Some scratched out ears. A smile and wonky eye.

A perfect tail, body lying on its side.

No name to it.

No name needed.

It waited years, that dog.

To save my life.

Hovering in a rustle of other papers

These things we forget to not keep.

Dog is gone. The child, too.

The lines are not.

That day, the scratching out. The tears. The stuffed toy on the table.

Reaching the perfection of a dog.


Response to ‘Wake’, a painting by Stephanie Fawbert

I cut the water, thinly, 
quiet in the darkness, 
cold grasps away the warmth I was left. 

Life is on the way, 
on the way

Below, a pool of dark water.
Above, the sun winks out

The world is big. 
So I’ve heard.

Stars press in and out of time.

Fireworks in the darkness, 
to flare and flame

I see a clever video. 
The Earth a head on a pin, 
each life a point of dust, 
the stars perhaps a million dandelion seeds, 
floating in space. 

I can see this.

The thickness of night
This blanket
opens and slides away—
to vapour. 

And I can see it.

I look at the shadowed trees, 
I look to the hills beyond. 
I see across them, over and through, 
I am no longer cold. 

Does it matter 
what is fire 
or vapour, 
pin or seed, 
dark or light?

I am breath and muscle and time, 
ribboning out, shimmering through black.

I return, sometimes, to this moment.
-Robin Pridy

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