I've been a bad blogger. Again. There's no excuse, really. These things just happen sometimes. I resolve to write, but circumstances (mood, family drama, work that pays, etc.) get in the way and I don't. And before I know it, weeks have passed. Again.

This doesn't mean I'm not having any fun. Last weekend, some girlfriends and I hiked through Moore Park to Brickworks Organic Market, and I bought some delicious tidbits, which I proceeded to eat that night, instead of having a proper dinner, while watching Twilight, which was bad, but not THAT bad (the movie, not the tidbits).

The tidbits included a small jar of picked milkweed pods from Forbes Wild Food. They were sort of like extra-large (and fat), lemony-sweet capers. Sort of. I'd have them again. If they're good enough for the monarchs, I guess they're good enough for me.
Creative Commons monarch photo by Cris Watk.
In response to those of you who've asked what happened to the recent post "Lenny Bruce is not afraid" -- I took it down. Someone emailed asking me to do so, imagining herself the subject. It was a silly piece, and I figured not worth arguing about, so I accommodated her in the hopes that she would go away. She went away. So all's well.

I have nothing to say, or maybe too much to say. I dunno. I'm clearly off my game at the moment. So here's a poem I wrote when I was 20. It's about monarchs. Sort of. And like most of the poetry I wrote back in the day, it's crap. But that's okay. It's good to face our embarrassments.

Monarchs

The monarchs are flying to Mexico in swarms.
Adorned in the colours of autumn and edged in black, they are mosaic.
They rest in Erie with the lazy cottage dwellers.
They light in poplars and on the sand, which is foolish.
The hands of children find them there,
and with a touch their fairy dust is history
and Mexico an impossibility.

The monarchs are flying to Mexico, but not all of them make it.
Those left behind are taken to the monarch museum.
They’re pinned so you can see them.
Their colours, exquisite without life, their wings without flight lift and flutter
with the smallest breeze from the pursed lips of a visitor.
They are prisoners,
inspired, expired and cautionary.