Member Bio: Joanna Gale
Joanna has been published in a variety of Newsletters, Chapbooks and Anthologies as well as online. She is an active member of TOPS and CFP and reads at various open mic events. She’s been a guest poet at Poetry Cafe in Oakville and has co-ordinated poetry events at Seniors Residences. In November 2007, she published her first Chapbook, Workshop Sketches, by Beret Days Press. Originally from Sudbury, Ontario, Joanna now resides in Markham. She enjoys writing and hopes her poems give others the same pleasure she gets from writing them.
***
back then, I never knew
there, in black and white, sitting on rocks by the lake
your hair upswept, held in place with bobby-pins. and
quite ‘a looker’ you at that time, though, i never knew.
back then, i wore my hair in pigtails you braided or ringlets
set in rags — leftover from those sewing machine dresses
finished off by hand, smocking or embroidery work
hours spent in your busyness of home-
baked cakes and pies and that chocolaty fudge heaven sent
fresh bread from the dough you kneaded to save money
we needed when the miner’s went on strike.
you dreamt of a wool shop or hair salon
we have the room ———————but,
back then, a mother was a mother to sip tea with
and to talk about that perfect man we’d wed.
growing ourselves into teachers or nurses or maybe
a secretary — or airline stewardess definitely
some high-heeled lipstick glamour-help for us,
back then, the way of a woman.
Received honourable mention in The Ontario Poetry Societies Contest, ’Emerging From the Shadows’, 2010
Joanna Gale (L.) and Sheila Texeira (R.) reading from their poetry book at the open mic during the Words Alive Literary Festival.
The following three poems were written jointly by Joanna Gale and Sheila Texeira.
THE EAST DOOR
Slender doors open to Jacob’s ladder
The musicians – instruments arched
Upon their backs – climb
Curved stringers.
Octaves play through columns
Lifting disciples who follow His way
Proclaiming the gospel’s
Equality for all people.
Where once musicians wrote
We lean into inspiration, our notes
On slants and shelves.
THE ARK
A temple
Within
A temple
The Word
Cushioned on velvet
NO. 4 CURRENT
He had a black scarf. He could read and write. He seemed
a gentleman all right. His script was neat, boxed with other
items accessible to a padlock unlocked. Perhaps not.
Was he returning from that Political Meeting noted?
No rights to anything except this small metal trunk, black
scarf, quill, letter and other artifacts? No accession number?
This gentleman seemed to be off. His luggage, lost with the
key. Locked. Perhaps it was – unlocked. Was anything
removed before found?
The spectacle case was most dignified.
Trenton to Toronto
who are these soldiers of an Afghan war?
who fight to restore
another land on another shore
Banners of Canada
wait and wave over
pass overpass over
marks the Memorial Route passes
underneath
the envoys that carry each
fallen soldier’s passage
racing horns of honor
home on grandstand
maple-leaf salutes
for where they’ve been
for what they’ve done
brave
Icon’s
quest in history
rolls past The Highway
Heroes turnoff at Port Hope
the flags lowered
the ributes raised
Trenton to Toronto
‘lest we forget’
***
only moonbeams
my fingers loosely hold a diamond’s light,
protected in the tiffany case, my palm
becomes, like a shell to sheild the treasure
within. rays filter through flesh
from the jewel. no sun
to keep it warm.
only moonbeams
my heart floats.
***
All photography by Doug Wright. All poetry by Joanna Gale.
Up Yours
By Tom Taylor
You do not need my story, or any
Out of the garden, a saviour on earth,
A young prince knowing. None desired.
No relationships, no love, no God.
No history, no philosophy,
No music, no painting, and no poetry.
Nothing is needed, no studies required.
Breath, eat, drink, sleep, excrete, procreate, die.
Nature is storyless, so can man be,
Running with the animals, nothing seen.
Two fingers held up oe’rhead, say “up yours”.
An English archer, caught ages ago
Lost both his bow fingers, to a French foe.
His index and middle finger, chopped
Gone forever, no more to pull a bow.
Jeering and screaming, warring to riot
His friends at days end, the killing gone quiet.
From lines across a field of death they speak,
Hold up two fingers still on bloody hand
“Got mine! Up yours! Kill you lot and be dammed.”
You do not need my story, or any.
But wake up please! You are smarter than that.
History is vital to know your being.
It’s who you are. Your story once known,
Two fingers held up, the message is grown.
Consciousness, using words for memory,
Resurrect dead combatants with their strife,
And bring meaning to the experience
Of life.
April 15th, 2010 at 5:05 pm
Only Moonbeams is my favourite. It really moves me. You have a precious gift and I sense you nurture it. Namaste, Betty