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Category Archives: Travel

You look

You must have discarded
a whole heap of dirty garb
to get that clean

How did you
shed the rust
of your unhelpful relatives?
How did you free
the remedy of your inherent habits?
Can you take it for what it is
if you bring
it out of me?

Nature has Her ways, souls
rubbing souls
for Earthly calibration
I am the catalyst
You are the Scientist’s prescription
for a healthy heart
Good health
is sensitive to unhealthy servants
and no one knows it more than you
how even the undeserving have a purpose
“There’s nothing more necessary
than the unnecessary”
There’s nothing more divine than losing your religion

As I sit
with you
under the toenail of a
closed cathedral
I wonder, what if
out of the 144,000
you were the first

When the question hitches a ride with
the westbound wind
you catch on too with your photo-maker
causing a traffic jam raising the blade
of your eyebrow all to say without sound:
I’d be the first to refuse

See, this is why I like you
you’re no anchor
no black hole ether

You just haven’t met anyone
who catches light
like you yet

Britta B.

Stewing in the skin of my inward eye
probable and prone to tunnel vision
I satisfy
the perversity of repetition

When impulse takes me by the hand
we give substance to silhouettes
We do what we must
to quiet the fuss

Out to seek
what is seeking me
Hunting for a higher Truth

People hand the best they can
not the way
you want them to

When I say, I have no words
I’m not trying hard enough
When I say, I have no choice
my mind’s been made up

We do what we must
to quiet the fuss

With my voice, I collapse
I’ve never had my heart broken
only an ego scratched
and my desire requires many reminders

Harmonious woman, you deliver life
everything else passes or purely assists
Don’t try to make love
it already exists

And excuse
my imposition
but consider the privilege
it is to consider the position

you’re in

isn’t as much as what you leave
as it is
to where you return

When will you learn you have so much to learn?

Oh, we do what

Britta B.

It’s not true, you’re just crazy

lips and tips,
                      garment rips
hot tea sips and flips a table
turn tables; Gladys Knight and the Pips
under a lunar eclipse
saw a rock climber with identity grips
paper clips
you, me and all these ex relationships
first class trips into
Bloods & Crypts
Goons, tunes and hips
swinging half moons and heavenly
hash chocolate chips
and smooth sailing ships
you, me and all these Jump Rope for Heart beat skips…

You wanted a little more, didn’t you?

Britta B.

For pictures from the shoot and more eye candies, check out Andy’s blog:

She who has yet to learn to love landscapes, not men
Loses herself in thought, constant thought, thinking and feeling
Her imagination is cruel
She’s obsessed, addicted to
Nature, and her attempts to nurture it
(she’ll die from natural causes anyway)
She is a mountain lion on a public beach
She is but a loose thread from a ripped sleeve
Wrapped around a thrusting heart
A heart that pumps and bumps into many things
All she wants
Is to be still

Growing old in her mid-twenties from looking
At love through the eyes of the past
Compulsive thinker she is,
Her mind uses her
All she wants
Is to be still

With candles lit, hot tea sips
She begins now to
Break free, open
Puts her mind between her hands and into a good book
She watches where her mind goes, loses it
Enlightened, she
Realizes she is not the thinker she thinks she is and instead
Watches her self think
Observes her self feel
She disconnects from mind and body
She is a soul again
Resting alive in peace

“You are one with all that is”
Please, be still.

Britta B.

sitting on these slanted rocks
thinking ’bout these slanted thoughts
contemplating on jumping
into this lake or
falling back in love.

Britta B.

my mind
face planted against a glass ceiling 
the moment he walked in and stole the room’s attention.

him, yeah him, that one

he barked with a grin about how good of a day he was having
as i made an unannounced agreement with my pride to not say anything
to seduce him

yeah him, that one

shortly after,
we locked eyes

and i was high
looking down
at the remains of my heart

i had to remind myself to blink

it was like i was watching myself in a car crash
replaying it in my mind (actually seeing me step out into the street)
but from the angle of a hospital bed
hooked up to a moniter with a wristed IV


how smoothly the morphine spread throughout my skin…

feeling how good it feels to be weak
every. single. time. he began to speak.
he licked my spine
with his limerick pick up lines
and i felt parts of my soul splatter and leak

the walls of my mind, i was dripping
the walls of
my mind, i was dripping
the walls
of my mind, i was


off of his chin
and into his lap


he leaned in my direction across the table
and confessed,
what are you doin’ later? i need company
he was honest.

him. yeah him. that one.

why can’t we all be more honest?

like him. yeah him. that one.

i’ve never felt more vulnerable
as I did watching another man

himself for me.

Britta B.

They say, “Everyone smiles in the same language”
But what does the rain sound like in France,
Columbia or Saudi Arabia?

What does Chinese food taste like in China?
Or how about green curry in Thailand?
How do Egyptians get sand out of their eye?
And what is it that’s keeping people up at night in the city that never sleeps?
I wonder if we share the same dreams…

I wish I could pack up my bags and take ’em down
to the fastest way out of this town
Dive heart-first into a crowd
full of foreign faces
Untie my laces, wiggle my toes
and dig my feet into the soil of what somebody else calls ‘home’
I want to find myself getting lost
in the middle of the world everyone else seems
to think they know
so well.

Britta B.

Last week I had a conversation with a friend
and without meaning to inspire me he reminded me,
“The whole point of language is to be understood”

I wrote that down on a piece of paper in hopes of saving it for later,
“The whole point of language is to be understood”…

It’s funny ’cause just a few weeks ago
this friend of mine was a stranger
And years before that, the English language was even stranger

For instance, I remember when I was a baby; I had my own
ways of communicating:

Cry if I’m hungry
Cry if I’m sick or scared
Laugh if I fall down
Or cry again if someone’s watching just to have them
pick me up and hug me

Since then, I’ve learned so many words to help others understand what I want
but sometimes the things we say
can turn into ghosts that haunt
the backyards and playgrounds
of our hearts
Maybe that’s why making new friends can be so hard

I get shy just giving people my name sometimes
because I’ve come to realize
I’m not so easily defined…

First of all,
I consider myself lucky. I have scars to remind me
there’s a survivor underneath all this skin

This skin, is a smooth rocky-road brown
bordered with train tracks reminding me of where I’ve been
and how I got here
This skin, holds me close
like it knows it’s got something good inside,
something too good to let go

I’ve got skin to keep me together when I feel
like my world’s falling apart

Hey, look- so do you

But just because yours ain’t the same as mine
don’t mean you should treat me any different

What I do with my hands is far more important
than the colour of skin they are wrapped up in
That’s like if I gave you a present and you spent more time
criticizing me for the way I gift-wrapped it
than noticing what I put inside

Take a look at what’s inside!

Don’t let all this skin I’m dressed up in fool you
I am human too

It is so cliché
to talk about how cliché it is to it is to say
to “Never judge a book by its cover”
But I bet the world be a much better place if we just opened up
and gave each other a chance to get to know one another

I have a story, I bet you do too

Britta B.

1. The lack of security cameras in the mailroom of the apartment building I lived in when I was in sixth grade. I would open tenants’ out-going mail during Christmas time, throw the cards signed ‘with love’ in the trash and keep the money that was inside.
My dad, the Superintendant of the building worried, “Somebody’s breaking into the mailroom again.” 

Since then, I’ve learned that getting caught is nothing compared to guilt.  

2. Getting cut from the volleyball team in seventh grade. That’s how I learned who my real friends were. Funny how a little competition can make you do that, huh?

3. The four courses I failed in university: EC120, SP202, BI396F, and PS270. Well, clearly I didn’t learn anything from that experience. But look at that pretty face on the cover of Laurier’s 2008 view-book!

4. Basketball. Playing, coaching, refereeing, watching, filling water bottles –it was all worth it. I learned the importance of teamwork and that the pre-party is on Fir St. NOT First Street.

5. My high school English teacher making a mockery of my poetry with that stupid red pen.
“This is an essay assignment. Please re-write and follow the instructions.”

6. The day my dad took me to a talent agency and the man standing behind the counter looked at me and asked, “What did you do? Pluck your eyebrows with a pair of pliers?” It hurt at the time but I can laugh now.

Life is good at planting little treasures for you to cherish at a later time. At first, the digging may cause a bit of discomfort but once the scar tissue heals, you’ll find youself better for it.

7. The cities, towns, and communities I have visited. I think I listen better on the road. I have learned a lot about the world through my travels and have gained a greater sense of freedom.

8. For you. Whether we’ve shared a bag of chippies together, just met, brushed shoulders, or slept under the same sky, you mean something to me. You inspire, reconsider and create who I am. Thank you.  

Britta B.