Category Archives: poetry

The Weary Carry (Month 2: Day 23 of Dear Me, I Love You.”

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We all have defining memories, those perfect moments where the world felt simplified and safe. Perhaps it’s a quiet evening where the fire burned low, or a moment when a lover said, “You and me against the world.” For a long time, I held a moment trapped in memory to preserve the feeling of simplicity and safety the tent we built out of sheets provided against the harsh reality of life outside our bubble. To release that memory felt like a betrayal of what, I once thought was ever-lasting love, but was not strong enough to withstand the buffeting and pummeling of the winds of life.

I carried that memory for many seasons, long after the snow stopped and melted. My promise to forever carry it in my heart grew heavier and heavier; a physical weight holding me tethered to a past and a relationship that had died, not through death, but through our own human frailties. We confuse endurance with love, and mistake exhaustion for failure to thrive.

Today’s Month 2: Day 23 poem of Dear Me, I Love You, my year-long commitment to write a love poem a day, is about the moment of necessary surrender. It’s about letting go of the burden of the past so that we can finally be caught by something greater than our thoughts. The Weary Carry is the realization that when you set down the burden of the past, there is space to hear Love whispering, “Carry me. I will never leave you.”

The Weary Carry
by Louise Gallagher

We built a tent out of the sheets 
and lay naked under its domed protection, 
fingers and toes touching. 
The fire burned low while outside, 
snow fell into the silent night, 
tucking itself into memory.

“You and me against the world,” you said. 
I held my hand against your chest 
where your heart kept quiet time with mine. 
“No matter what,” I said, “I carry you here.”

The snow stopped, 
the fire dimmed, 
and time passed. 
Springs came 
and passed away 
into summers, 
then autumns, 
and winters again.

I carried the memory for many seasons,
 until my own heart grew weary 
of remembering the weight
of all that was lost
when I believed love had died.

Free of the burden of remembering
lightened of the past,
Love caught me and whispered, 
“Carry me. I will never leave you.”

Gossamer Dread

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When my daughters were young and we’d spy the sun shimmering on the water, I would make up stories about the Sun Fairies who danced and played on the water’s surface, leaping and spinning in the pure, absolute delight of being warmed by sunlight and refreshed by water.

As I sat on the rocks at the ocean’s edge, the Sun Fairies danced and I fell under the spell of their enchanting song.

I wonder sometimes, how do we hold onto the magic we see through a child’s eyes? How do we treasure those moments when the wonder they see inspires us to let go of the heaviness the world sometimes brings? How do we fall from despair into the awe and delight, the mystery and the miracles of everyday?

When will we ever learn, war does not restore, it kills? Peace is not built on destroying the ‘others’ we deem unworthy of living? And, silencing the guns does not bring peace if our body – heart, belly, mind – still holds onto the belief that we were right to kill another to make our own peace in the world? When will we ever learn?

I sat at the water’s edge and watched the Sun Fairies dance and felt the ebb and flow of the tide calling me to let go of fear, to embrace the gentle power of hope, and to finally understand that true peace begins within, flowing out like these shimmering waters to embrace all beings.

Lost in these thoughts, the muse whispered sweet tantalizing urges to write it out. With grateful heart, I accepted her gift.

Gossamer Dread
by Louise Gallagher

I wrap my mind
in gossamer threads
woven
full
of dread
dripping 
doom 
falling
like bombs tumbling blind
from darkened skies
shielding the no-see-ums 
buzzing
in my head.

Did you cower deep
below
London’s darkened streets
crumbling 
above 
your head
dreading 
the next bomb?

Did you fear, eyes shut 
tight
against the sky
raining death 
in the night
as the world slept 
and children
cried and 
mothers pleaded
for a future they could not see
defenseless 
against the bombs
tumbling blind?

When will we ever learn?
Our humanity is not immune
to war.

Hard-won Breath (a poem)

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My husband lives with COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease). I use “lives with” intentionally because COPD has no cure; the lungs don’t repair themselves. Eventually, they harden, limiting breathing until the heart can no longer withstand the stress. It’s a pernicious disease that kills, one way or another.

Not a happy ending to our love story, for sure. But then, all life ends the same way. It’s just about quality, how we live whatever life we’ve got, and timing.

Is there ever a good time to die? No. A bad time? Yes — like today, or tomorrow, before I’ve lived fully, before I feel truly done. Before all our “I Love You’s” are shared.

Listening to my husband struggle for breath, hearing the rattles and chugs of his lungs as he sleeps, talks, walks, does anything, is a constant reminder of death’s presence and Love’s eternal grace.

Love teaches me: I can’t avoid death. And so, I’m choosing to befriend it, or at least, to acknowledge its presence without fear and loathing colouring our interactions with dread,resistance and foreboding.

This poem is my way of grappling with its presence, and honouring my husband’s courageous fight for each breath.

Hard-won Breath
by Louise Gallagher

Hardened lungs
gasp,
struggle for air,
a painful search
for release
from disease
that chokes
each breath, hard-won
against a crown-of-thorns starfish
leaching life
from bleached coral dying
for life.

Finding my happy place

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Do you ever hear a little voice inside that causes you to doubt your worthiness?

May reminds me to Celebrate LIFE! Celebrate JOY! Celebrate the incredible people who enrich my world, who have stood by me through thick and thin, always believing.

AND – celebrate being ME! I am worthy.

Have you celebrated the amazing you today? If you could whisper something truly uplifting to your own heart right now, what would it be?

Come join me on my Substack today and let’s have a conversation about just how worthy, amazing and magnificent you are!

Grace Unfolding

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You know those days where magic seems to permeate every drop of sunshine streaming through the air?

Those days where Orcas appear as you cross the Strait and sunbeams dance like fairies on the water?

Yup. Yesterday was one of those days. I do hope you come and revel in the beauty of it all! It was so exquisitely magical!

The video of my day is on my Substack HERE.

On friendship (NaPoWriMo)

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Day 17 of NaPoWriMo invites poems on friendship. Being a flexible rule-bender (I so prefer doing things my way and if no one’s hurt, why not?), I skipped the painting inspiration and simply wrote about friendship.

While the deepest friendships are long and intimate, this poem is short and sweet – unlike my often lengthy (and sometimes less sweet) verse, and my bittersweet reality of not writing daily this April. The fact is, my inconsistent NaPoWriMo efforts say nothing of the immense appreciation and gratitude I hold for my beautiful, life-enriching friends.

Regardless of how many words I write, the truth is: the sweetest friendships are a work of heart, not words.

Things I want to ask my sister… but she’s gone.

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The wind is blowing fierce today dragging the temperature down in its wake.

Standing on the rocky shoreline, salt spray washing my face, I feel the presence of my sister’s absense.

She would have loved it here.

Drowning in a sudden remembering of all that was lost those many months ago, the muse whispers, “Write it out.”

And so I do.

How's life, or death, on the other side?
by Louise Gallagher

These moments slip 
in silent, 
stealthy, 
unbidden nudges  
awakening 
memory 
rushes into
the gaping gash 
of my mind 
grown numb 
in the absence of 
your soft voice.

It’s hard 
learning to inhabit life 
since you left 
in the early hours 
of a harsh November morning 
closing in 
on two years ago 
when it was so easy
to believe
you wanted to stay
as much as we
didn’t want you to leave.
I want to tell you this.

And I want to ask 
How are you? 
How’s life 
or is it death
over there
on the other side 
of the here 
and now 
where I feel the loss 
of each day 
without your presence 
reminding me 
to send that birthday card 
to our middle sister, 
clear my fridge of unidentifiable blooms,
clean the oven of greasy grime
 and dust the shelves 
I cannot see because 
I am the short one 
who didn’t look up 
to see how hard 
this life had become 
for you 
to live 
another day 
beyond the last.

Yes. I am Breathing.

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April is Poetry Month, and while my intention was to write a poem a day, life had other plans! Still, as they say, better late than never.

One poet who consistently captivates me is Mary Oliver. The depth and richness of her writing, her ability to conjure vivid images with such sparse, carefully chosen words, always leaves me in awe.

Her poem, “Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches?”, poses a question that resonates deeply: “Listen, are you breathing, just a little, and calling it a life?”

Thanks to Ali Grimshaw’s Writing Circle, I now use an exercise to deeply connect with poetry: read a poem aloud twice, then write. The initial reading is about experiencing the flow of the words. The second is a deliberate listen for resonating words and ideas that inspire your own writing. (To do this solo, I record my reading, allowing for a focused, eyes-closed second listen to identify calling words and images, which I then underline as my inspiration.)

“Yes Mary Oliver, I am Breathing” is my response, my riff, to the powerful inquiry from Mary’s poem and the question, “Listen, are you breathing, just a little, and calling it a life?”

Yes Mary Oliver, I am Breathing by Louise Gallagher Breathing deep, slow breaths, ripe with potential life overflowing, untroubled by chattering minds, warning bells of danger lurking. Breathing, there is no hunger. Moments ease fluid and smooth, one breath to the next, misty vapours rising into the morning, becoming the ghost of time voiceless drifting softly away. Breathing, there is no thirsting. Questions of ‘What’s next’ cannot dim the bright blossoming of life’s rich bounty, painting the sky full of wonder and awe splashed haphazardly against the sharp, sweet joy of this moment passing – right now. Breathing, there is no yearning. Each breath, a symphony of delight singing in unison wth every leaf and stone, with waves rolling in and birds flying high. Breathing, there is no time to be, but now. Arms flung wide, neck stretched back, wide-eyed receiving life’s bounty savouring each drop doused in anticipation of what’s next, soaking up sun-warmed flesh ripe with possibility spilling over effortlessly into the startling wonder of being here alive in this moment right now.

Grey on Grey: A Writer’s Walk

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I walk along the shoreline with Beaumont, my Sheepadoodle. He sniffs every blade of grass, every seaweed-strewn rock, his tail wagging in delight. I, on the other hand, am on a different kind of hunt.

My eyes scan the vast expanse of grey – the sea flows like breath, in and out, a constant rhythm of life. The steel-grey clouds swallow the horizon, the charcoal-grey ocean stretches towards the invisible shore. Beneath my feet, the ground is a muted slate carpet punctuated by the occasional glint of ebony. It’s a grey on grey world, mirroring the swirling greyness within my own mind.

But amidst this monochrome landscape, there’s a strange beauty, a sense of quiet power. It both calms and unsettles me. I breathe in the crisp, salty air, tasting the tang of seaweed and the faintest hint of pine. The soft January breeze teases a strand of hair from behind my ear. It tickles my cheek. With each step, I feel the tension in my shoulders easing, my thoughts beginning to settle like sediment in still water.

I walk and consume each step like a chef testing a pot of risotto, seeking the perfect balance between taste and texture. I am a woman on the hunt for stillness; a path back to the computer screen I have left mid-sentence, black on white words trailing off into empty space. Their storyline is not yet formed, their purpose not yet clear.

I left my desk frustrated, confused, even angry. Where is this story going? Who is it truly about? I thought it was the heroine’s story, but as it unfolds, painful keystroke by keystroke, it’s becoming something else. It is the mother’s story, her struggles, her complexities. The heroine is but a foil to her mother’s emotional turmoil and angst.

But I don’t want to write the mother’s story. She is an enigma to me. I want to write the daughter’s. The one whose journey parallels mine in insignificant and sometimes significant ways, but who also holds charcteristics of her own. She is not given to self-sabotage. She is not driven by fear. How can I write of the mother whose constant whining for attention leaves me shaking with grief.

Is the mother more me than the heroine?

This is where the muse finds me. She slips in with wraithlike grace, beguiling, provocative, whispering enticing tidbits of inspiration into my swirling mind before floating away.

Carrying tendrils of her words and images with me, I return home and heed her urgings to “write it out.”

And so it is.

And so a poem is born.

Where Does Your Voice Find Refuge?

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The news remains bleak. World peace feels elusive. History echoes with the clang of wars waged by those who crave land, power, control, dominance. Consensus crumbles beneath the weight of age-old conflicts, each side fighting to shape the world in its own image. I’ve wrestled with these heavy thoughts, searching for a flicker of hope in what often feels like overwhelming darkness. The struggle feels relentless.

Where Does Your Voice Find Refuge?
by Louise Gallagher

It is easy to stand for freedom 
when there’s no cost to stand 
blowin’ in the wind 
with the prevailing view.   

It’s easy to voice your disagreement 
with someone else’s opinion 
when there’s no consequence to your safety
for holding a different view.

But where does your voice find refuge 
when dissent is weaponized?   

What do you do when your words become 
the tool others employ 
to vilify and demonize you as ‘other’?   

Can free speech find its truth
in a world where only those opinions
acceptable to some 
are deemed worthy?

Can anyone be free
in a world where some voices are tolerated
and others are obliterated?

Can freedom survive 
when only the few use their power
to grant it to the voices who stand
singing their tune?

Perhaps there is no clear-cut answer, 
no easy path to save freedom from demise. 
But dreamers dream of freedom
leading us to hope 
that our voices rising up, 
our hands reaching across 
the words that divide us, 
will reclaim the truth: 
We are one humanity, 
no matter where we stand
or what song we sing.