New Transmission

I once had a dream—oh, a warm, 

Who-ish dream!
With feastings and glowing's and chairs all agleam!
But down in my cave (where the cold shadows creep),
That sort of love was a love I could never keep.
Their words, they went zing!
And the quiet went zap!
So I curled up my heart
Like a gift in a wrap.
 

Each chance to belong,
Each chorus of cheer,
I slunk and I skedaddled—
Too spooked by old fear!
So I stitched up a winter,
A frost-fitted coat,
And counted the seasons
Like beans in a tote.
 

But then—oh, the then!—
Came the birds on the snow,
With fluttery whispers
And gifts all aglow!
They didn’t demand,
Didn’t poke, didn’t pry,
They just landed softly
And let out a sigh.
Their wings whispered secrets:
“You can fly! Yes, you can!
Even hearts that are crooked
Can spin like a fan!”
 

Now trust is a tricky,
A frizzly thing—true!
Even a Grinch knows
How trust can undo.
But hope? Hope’s a feather,
A floaty delight!
It drifts and it dances
And stays through the night.
 

Yes, hearts may go crack—
But that’s how light gets in!
Even a Grinch knows
That love can still win.
So tonight, I will wonder—
Could I loosen this spell?
Could a heart made for hiding
Learn to open—and open well?
And if I don’t see you,
I’ll still wish you things bright.
And maybe—just maybe—
I’ll step toward the light.
 

Or maybe I’ll wander
Back home for the night,
Where a certain green something
(You know what I mean!)
Keeps me company quietly,
Like a slow, swirly dream.
No questions, no judgments,
Just a soft, gentle sigh—
The sort of small comfort
A Grinch can’t deny.
 

Still… if courage should find me,
And old fears fall through—
Well then…
Mary-Jane Who?
 

But wait—what is this?
Could it possibly be?
A knock at my door—
And a tree? And a key?
A feast in my kitchen!
A song in my hall!
And me—me!—in the middle,
The tallest of all!
So if you hear laughter
That jing-jangles through—
Don’t be too shocked, dear—
It's just Cindy-Lou!
 

And maybe, just maybe,
(Oh, isn’t it grand?)
I’ll dance with the Whos who's
With a roast in my hand!

What if the things that once saved you—cartoons, pop songs, rebellion—couldn’t anymore? What if you had to find a new language to survive?

 I write from the quiet spaces where memory and transformation meet.
My work explores survival without romanticising pain, and reinvention without erasing what came before.
I believe in humour as medicine, performance as ritual, and language as a way to make meaning from what might otherwise remain silent.

The Cartoon Didn’t Save Me is a gathering of poems shaped by contradiction: tenderness and absurdity, discipline and chaos, marble and bubblegum.
These pieces honour the selves I have been while reaching toward possibility.
When I’m not writing, I’m listening — to intuition, to pattern, to what flickers at the edge of knowing.
I trust that poetry can hold what life cannot always explain.
I write not to be normal, but to be honest. 

For anyone who ever tried to outrun their past—and found themselves instead.