...because a serious (?) form is still something I think the flowers need, I decided to try something a little different and yet something lyrical that might enhance the bouquet. I'm not sure if it is working; I was troubled trying to produce "a happening" in the prose part of the haibun. My reasoning for this poem is a non-happening is as much a happening as something is happening. (I sort of pilfered the title from a book review, not quite the same, but VERY similar).
Why I’m not a lilac
Every day my north-facing window is a barometer of time, an aging reflection; I drink earl grey while watching the state of the season out the kitchen window, this time spring, the yard in a phoney flux of puberty. I gaze through double-paned glass at the lilacs, a profession of limbs budded like cosmetic surgery, the potential of purpled parcels, the ruse of branches— each one so old and prim they barely bend with the wind, those lavender coiffed buns bound by brown stick-pins rapidly popping from bee-hived dos. The flowers are forms held wisely in place, no closer to opening than an eruption of lava from prairie earth. But appearances are deceptive— lilacs are the poster gals of decorum, have silently slept their way to the top, spent years rooted in affairs, apple-blossoming under eyes and bruised lives gossiped by sparrows and I, each bud a curiosity trained tightly on the yard
memory is pinch-
lipped, stiffens with age—
lilac-petals pulled
Saturday, May 13, 2006
gulls
there are a hundred gulls
or a million -- we place bets
that will never pay --
the air saturated with sound,
voices thrown, impossible to count
we can hear only the gulls,
can only hear them:
the constant cheering
of a hometown crowd,
an unseen arena,
deep in the secrecy of the marsh
even hunched in wind and age
last year's grasses are tall gawkers
that fence off the game, rustling
brittle pennants above our heads
we can only imagine the plays --
the dives and saves, the taunts
and dekes -- as we watch the defeated
rounding slow, silent laps in the clouds
there are a hundred gulls
or a million -- we place bets
that will never pay --
the air saturated with sound,
voices thrown, impossible to count
we can hear only the gulls,
can only hear them:
the constant cheering
of a hometown crowd,
an unseen arena,
deep in the secrecy of the marsh
even hunched in wind and age
last year's grasses are tall gawkers
that fence off the game, rustling
brittle pennants above our heads
we can only imagine the plays --
the dives and saves, the taunts
and dekes -- as we watch the defeated
rounding slow, silent laps in the clouds
Friday, May 12, 2006
Slumber party
Slumber Party
Bouquets of peonies are overnighting
in my home, houseguests
in shades of pink-tipped white,
some sporting big winey heads.
Others are balls of pale innocence
hiding smears of red
in random places
like butcher’s children
unaware of what’s been cut.
Fragile balls of petals fluttering
in open windowed rooms,
the odd crowd overflows
from blue glass vases,
a small collection.
The yellow Fiesta pitcher
and one burgundy clay vessel
were pressed into service
for their spacious accommodations.
Canning jars
show linear
green stems
in still water,
vertical reminders
of the rootless state
my blooming friends
find themselves experiencing.
Tonight I can only
offer them another drink
and lie about the prognosis.
I won’t know their names
‘til I find books with their pictures –
too late I fear,
to share with my nodding quests—
all handsome
as Marie Antoinette
before that cake remark.
Bouquets of peonies are overnighting
in my home, houseguests
in shades of pink-tipped white,
some sporting big winey heads.
Others are balls of pale innocence
hiding smears of red
in random places
like butcher’s children
unaware of what’s been cut.
Fragile balls of petals fluttering
in open windowed rooms,
the odd crowd overflows
from blue glass vases,
a small collection.
The yellow Fiesta pitcher
and one burgundy clay vessel
were pressed into service
for their spacious accommodations.
Canning jars
show linear
green stems
in still water,
vertical reminders
of the rootless state
my blooming friends
find themselves experiencing.
Tonight I can only
offer them another drink
and lie about the prognosis.
I won’t know their names
‘til I find books with their pictures –
too late I fear,
to share with my nodding quests—
all handsome
as Marie Antoinette
before that cake remark.
sleeping habits
i watch you poke at sleep
with your toe, then begin
a slow wade -- half an hour
later it only laps at your ankles
you're still, curled into a snail shell
but sleep gathers then recedes
according to the moon
through our window,
the currents of your mind
inching in, twitching each step,
it is a slow process --
swimming lessons for someone
who has known drowning
chest deep, the cusp
of sleep, you prepare to dive
your breath hardens, explodes
through your nose the way
it does when you laugh
with your mouth closed,
your belly kicks out
i used to ask you what was funny,
bringing you to the surface
every time, but now i wait
for you to finish paddling,
for the folds of your mind to loosen
soon your body forgets me,
my hand on your chest,
and sleep is so far over
your head you breathe dreams
and float
i watch you poke at sleep
with your toe, then begin
a slow wade -- half an hour
later it only laps at your ankles
you're still, curled into a snail shell
but sleep gathers then recedes
according to the moon
through our window,
the currents of your mind
inching in, twitching each step,
it is a slow process --
swimming lessons for someone
who has known drowning
chest deep, the cusp
of sleep, you prepare to dive
your breath hardens, explodes
through your nose the way
it does when you laugh
with your mouth closed,
your belly kicks out
i used to ask you what was funny,
bringing you to the surface
every time, but now i wait
for you to finish paddling,
for the folds of your mind to loosen
soon your body forgets me,
my hand on your chest,
and sleep is so far over
your head you breathe dreams
and float
Anti-aging
I'm aging
ungracefully,
ungratefully.
Others claim
amazement
that I look so young,
a backhanded compliment
if ever I heard one.
But I know my
face more intimately.
That red spot
on my nose
is new
this year.
That little bump above my
right cheek
I expected to fade
never has.
I yank white hairs
unmercifully,
pretending it's a
manageable job,
though they have
moved from isolated
incidents to a crop
that grows more
plentiful each season.
The lines
beneath my eyes
multiply monthly
and I suppose
I should take solace
most of them are
born from laughter
but it hasn't helped
that I've spent
years squinting
trying to see things
farther away
than I was meant to.
But seriously,
how can I be expected
to accept the idea
of myself as sage-ing when
I still get zits
and crushes
and am
still taken
suprise by
my period?
I still hate fish
and black olives.
I still fear
the laughter
of teenage girls.
I still dream
of boys out of reach
and exams I'm late for.
I've never conquered
impatience or sitting still,
size six jeans
or the lack of desire
to have children.
I still lose myself
in romance novels
and prefer
19th century insights
to our own
post-modern angst.
But three fears I've overcome:
being alone
living without love
and missing out on
that which I was Meant to Do.
ungracefully,
ungratefully.
Others claim
amazement
that I look so young,
a backhanded compliment
if ever I heard one.
But I know my
face more intimately.
That red spot
on my nose
is new
this year.
That little bump above my
right cheek
I expected to fade
never has.
I yank white hairs
unmercifully,
pretending it's a
manageable job,
though they have
moved from isolated
incidents to a crop
that grows more
plentiful each season.
The lines
beneath my eyes
multiply monthly
and I suppose
I should take solace
most of them are
born from laughter
but it hasn't helped
that I've spent
years squinting
trying to see things
farther away
than I was meant to.
But seriously,
how can I be expected
to accept the idea
of myself as sage-ing when
I still get zits
and crushes
and am
still taken
suprise by
my period?
I still hate fish
and black olives.
I still fear
the laughter
of teenage girls.
I still dream
of boys out of reach
and exams I'm late for.
I've never conquered
impatience or sitting still,
size six jeans
or the lack of desire
to have children.
I still lose myself
in romance novels
and prefer
19th century insights
to our own
post-modern angst.
But three fears I've overcome:
being alone
living without love
and missing out on
that which I was Meant to Do.
sigh. i have on-going computer issues at home. this is yesterday's poem. back to default settings. this still feels very drafty to me... i'm having issues with structure and transitions...
body search
we look one another over
for woodticks, check freckles,
poke moles to know
which flaws belong, are built
into the skin
at your temple i find one
white hair, the single poplar
in a stand of cedar and pine,
and show you mine --
spokes of a spider web
spreading over darkness
where eyes can't reach
we roam with fingers, feeling
for small worries
that crawl and root
i follow the brook of your spine
with my hands, trace a rivulet
of sweat and discover
a shallow basin that receives
my fingers, boots in creekmud
we put away the matches
but keep up the search with lips
on the back of your neck
i come across my own handwriting,
tinged with woodsmoke, the pages
i gave you from my notebook,
words that got the fire going
body search
we look one another over
for woodticks, check freckles,
poke moles to know
which flaws belong, are built
into the skin
at your temple i find one
white hair, the single poplar
in a stand of cedar and pine,
and show you mine --
spokes of a spider web
spreading over darkness
where eyes can't reach
we roam with fingers, feeling
for small worries
that crawl and root
i follow the brook of your spine
with my hands, trace a rivulet
of sweat and discover
a shallow basin that receives
my fingers, boots in creekmud
we put away the matches
but keep up the search with lips
on the back of your neck
i come across my own handwriting,
tinged with woodsmoke, the pages
i gave you from my notebook,
words that got the fire going
Thursday, May 11, 2006
I know better than to watch the news,
wrapped in the quilted distance
between where I sit
and where roadside hells
explode sitting soldiers into bits –
primetime statistics, thrown
through satellite waves –
or whatever communication
miracle brings this crap
packaged between commercials
for local car dealerships
and fast foods’ latest offering
of some manly feast on a bun,
too slick not to swallow,
right before the weather and sports.
I know better than to sit and hear
the numbers dead, casualties –
somehow ours more
than those not in uniform –
thumping against my quilted chest,
soft and silent as bodies of dead robins
thrown at my body
for no apparent reason.
wrapped in the quilted distance
between where I sit
and where roadside hells
explode sitting soldiers into bits –
primetime statistics, thrown
through satellite waves –
or whatever communication
miracle brings this crap
packaged between commercials
for local car dealerships
and fast foods’ latest offering
of some manly feast on a bun,
too slick not to swallow,
right before the weather and sports.
I know better than to sit and hear
the numbers dead, casualties –
somehow ours more
than those not in uniform –
thumping against my quilted chest,
soft and silent as bodies of dead robins
thrown at my body
for no apparent reason.
Improvements
While you are not here, I improve
the house. I hang pictures, I fix
the creaky door's creak, I manage
to install a garbage disposal. Our bed: new sheets.
The living room: new lamps, a series of
shadowboxes which hold many
meaningful photographs featuring people
who love us and are loved. The upstairs
bathroom: shelves and a mirror,
which reflects my harried hair
and my lonely eyes. I cut the lawn, I weed
the garden, I plant ten begonias down
the side of the house. I pull up the carpet
in the basement. On Friday
I move all the furniture around,
in the hopes that it will stop reminding me
that you are not here to use it.
You will not recognise things when
you return, you will be amazed, you will
see with new eyes all the places
you took for granted and realise how much
you missed them, how beautiful they are
now, how much you want to know them
again. You will love it.
the house. I hang pictures, I fix
the creaky door's creak, I manage
to install a garbage disposal. Our bed: new sheets.
The living room: new lamps, a series of
shadowboxes which hold many
meaningful photographs featuring people
who love us and are loved. The upstairs
bathroom: shelves and a mirror,
which reflects my harried hair
and my lonely eyes. I cut the lawn, I weed
the garden, I plant ten begonias down
the side of the house. I pull up the carpet
in the basement. On Friday
I move all the furniture around,
in the hopes that it will stop reminding me
that you are not here to use it.
You will not recognise things when
you return, you will be amazed, you will
see with new eyes all the places
you took for granted and realise how much
you missed them, how beautiful they are
now, how much you want to know them
again. You will love it.
Stutter
Some days all you can do is put the rice on,
trust the rest will come, lace your running shoes
just twenty minutes, just. Push yourself through
with a stopwatch. Some days you’ll coax
fear out the window with nothing but a wooden spoon
and some honey, the wasp slow to take
and you wanting to hit it as hard as you can
to stop the live radio feed in your head--
the voice that says I’ve lost a few pounds,
my pants fit again, that’s something,
but the next cheque’s already spent, can’t
even brown bag it on my front porch, every penny’s flipped,
job boards the new pack-a-day habit–-
your arm swings back, your face twists,
but something in you asks to be merciful.
So it continues.
The wasp stutters against the glass.
trust the rest will come, lace your running shoes
just twenty minutes, just. Push yourself through
with a stopwatch. Some days you’ll coax
fear out the window with nothing but a wooden spoon
and some honey, the wasp slow to take
and you wanting to hit it as hard as you can
to stop the live radio feed in your head--
the voice that says I’ve lost a few pounds,
my pants fit again, that’s something,
but the next cheque’s already spent, can’t
even brown bag it on my front porch, every penny’s flipped,
job boards the new pack-a-day habit–-
your arm swings back, your face twists,
but something in you asks to be merciful.
So it continues.
The wasp stutters against the glass.
I'm retiring
from couplets for awhile. Actually, I simply tire of them. I will think of some other form in which to place my bouquet.
Pick and Gogh
The sunflower is a victim
of her own success—
shades of the girl next door,
once good looks and sunny
dispositions preserved her
role in the spotlight.
Now she’s clichéd,
the wasted model in mass
produced t-shirts and towels
a multiple personality—
the sunflower scrabbles through days
turgid in suburban portraits,
loses sight of the path, movement
of the sun. Follows instead
plots sown, unseeded in the core
of her being, beliefs shed
black-eyed weathering, the future
pecked clean by posturing.
Pick and Gogh
The sunflower is a victim
of her own success—
shades of the girl next door,
once good looks and sunny
dispositions preserved her
role in the spotlight.
Now she’s clichéd,
the wasted model in mass
produced t-shirts and towels
a multiple personality—
the sunflower scrabbles through days
turgid in suburban portraits,
loses sight of the path, movement
of the sun. Follows instead
plots sown, unseeded in the core
of her being, beliefs shed
black-eyed weathering, the future
pecked clean by posturing.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
one of my goals with this mayday project was to use the opportunity to experiment, but i've been finding myself sticking to my same old, mouldy habits. (with the pressure of a poem a day, i've been reverting to doing what i know and am comfy with.) today i'm trying out a found poem (never done this before... not even sure how to do this) because i just couldn't resist the gems contained within the preface to my thesaurus, circa 1962, which i borrowed from my Dad when I was writing a high school essay and never returned. here i've edited down some the selling features -- removed only context and a few words here and there. is that what a found poem is?
what this book can do for you
it offers you immediate,
practical and invaluable assistance
whenever you are in trouble
with a few quick synonyms
for a word you have been over using
you feel that your language lacks
freshness or vigor, your ideas
drab, weak, vague or overly general
laboring over phraseology,
you desperately search
the recesses of your own mind
before you start
tracking down a word,
one particular word
that will most successfully convey
the subtle shading of emotion
you wish to get across to him
what this book can do for you
it offers you immediate,
practical and invaluable assistance
whenever you are in trouble
with a few quick synonyms
for a word you have been over using
you feel that your language lacks
freshness or vigor, your ideas
drab, weak, vague or overly general
laboring over phraseology,
you desperately search
the recesses of your own mind
before you start
tracking down a word,
one particular word
that will most successfully convey
the subtle shading of emotion
you wish to get across to him
Creature Comforts
Sump pump serenades me
like a fat cat, purring
in the basement, all slurpy
with the water seeping in
the cracks,
such fragile foundations,
moist hairlines seeping,
keeping the spring soup soil
outside the place,
keeping us dry and content
aware of how important
a roof over our head
really is,
no matter
how flowers quiver
in the skywatering or
splay their luscious leaves
heavy against grass
gorging in the dark,
all the rooty things
sucking up the wet
catching what they can
letting only ribbons
of irregular rain
run past, percolating
through saturated soil,
ribbons of river
thin as mouse tails
enter and triggers the purring,
the float in the bucket
a worn toy, bobbing.
Sump pump serenades me
like a fat cat, purring
in the basement, all slurpy
with the water seeping in
the cracks,
such fragile foundations,
moist hairlines seeping,
keeping the spring soup soil
outside the place,
keeping us dry and content
aware of how important
a roof over our head
really is,
no matter
how flowers quiver
in the skywatering or
splay their luscious leaves
heavy against grass
gorging in the dark,
all the rooty things
sucking up the wet
catching what they can
letting only ribbons
of irregular rain
run past, percolating
through saturated soil,
ribbons of river
thin as mouse tails
enter and triggers the purring,
the float in the bucket
a worn toy, bobbing.
fence lines
The bison huffs all dark woolly head
hump and hindquarters
then lowers himself into the ditch
its banks of spring gumbo funk already hoof-split
already baked hard
The bison locks his thin front legs
considers the sun-shot wings of mites
the foot-waggling wallow of a cow
her dark mufflers and trailing streamers of winter fur
upheaving
cloven hooves up and down
the dry mud lifting and clouding around her
The bison dips his chin
into reflections of last year
sucks and strains green bleached blonde
garrump gone to spawn
lifts it streaming to the calf
all pulled caramel all legs and on pointe hops
takes his biting attendants his airspace of geese growl
and gull scream of overhead airplane
and peripheral auto drone
and moves off
hump and hindquarters
then lowers himself into the ditch
its banks of spring gumbo funk already hoof-split
already baked hard
The bison locks his thin front legs
considers the sun-shot wings of mites
the foot-waggling wallow of a cow
her dark mufflers and trailing streamers of winter fur
upheaving
cloven hooves up and down
the dry mud lifting and clouding around her
The bison dips his chin
into reflections of last year
sucks and strains green bleached blonde
garrump gone to spawn
lifts it streaming to the calf
all pulled caramel all legs and on pointe hops
takes his biting attendants his airspace of geese growl
and gull scream of overhead airplane
and peripheral auto drone
and moves off
Hands
Blind shackled creatures we so often ball, fist,
harnessed to our daily tasks,
they’re the poster child for repetitive stress,
all that verbing. Sensitivity burnt off their tips;
testing the bath water
always gives an inaccurate reading. Better to use
the ankles, elbows, or wrists. And yet when it rains,
our first gesture is to hold
them up to be pin-pricked. So rarely do we lay them flat,
praise their ability to touch. Lifelines cracked with dry skin,
every tool they grasp
is only an extension of the hand, a poor copy.
----
I'm strugggling with this one. I thought putting it in a pretty form
(aka Stephen Dunn) would help, but I'm not sure. Is it too "poetic"?
Am I a prisoner to sound? Is something missing? Do I need to explode it
and write more before tightening again? Thoughts?
harnessed to our daily tasks,
they’re the poster child for repetitive stress,
all that verbing. Sensitivity burnt off their tips;
testing the bath water
always gives an inaccurate reading. Better to use
the ankles, elbows, or wrists. And yet when it rains,
our first gesture is to hold
them up to be pin-pricked. So rarely do we lay them flat,
praise their ability to touch. Lifelines cracked with dry skin,
every tool they grasp
is only an extension of the hand, a poor copy.
----
I'm strugggling with this one. I thought putting it in a pretty form
(aka Stephen Dunn) would help, but I'm not sure. Is it too "poetic"?
Am I a prisoner to sound? Is something missing? Do I need to explode it
and write more before tightening again? Thoughts?
Dandy Lions
Inspired by Tracy's meditation on dandelions the other day.
We grasp
yellowing stalks
and blow
our wishes
sky high
content to
pay the price
for this cosmic lottery
later
when our wishes become weeds
to be cursed, despised
and destroyed
divine retribution
perverse, unfair
for have we not waited
to yank these ghostly
genies from
the living ground
until they are
giving their
dying gasps?
have we not
helped them
fulfill their
botanic genetic destiny?
We grasp
yellowing stalks
and blow
our wishes
sky high
content to
pay the price
for this cosmic lottery
later
when our wishes become weeds
to be cursed, despised
and destroyed
divine retribution
perverse, unfair
for have we not waited
to yank these ghostly
genies from
the living ground
until they are
giving their
dying gasps?
have we not
helped them
fulfill their
botanic genetic destiny?
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Behind in everything from bills to dishes,
plants still sitting in their plastic trays
losing patience with me as I say,
Not today, but soon. They know I lie.
I am becoming one of those people
who will have to make up stories
to entertain the creditors, to get them
to offer quick pay by phone, the easy way
to get their money, which I have, and
me to get some sleep, which is becoming
more and more a test of tossing
without waking my loved one,
who does not guess how the bank balance
is a poor reflection of how I tend
the family finances when I am absorbed
with every other detail I concoct.
The plants are lucky there is rain,
but other chores need attention
before the whole thing gets out of hand.
plants still sitting in their plastic trays
losing patience with me as I say,
Not today, but soon. They know I lie.
I am becoming one of those people
who will have to make up stories
to entertain the creditors, to get them
to offer quick pay by phone, the easy way
to get their money, which I have, and
me to get some sleep, which is becoming
more and more a test of tossing
without waking my loved one,
who does not guess how the bank balance
is a poor reflection of how I tend
the family finances when I am absorbed
with every other detail I concoct.
The plants are lucky there is rain,
but other chores need attention
before the whole thing gets out of hand.
synthesis? or just a new word for cowardice
taurus terror
autre hauteur
|workplace bullies|
it said on the tv screen
with closed captioning
in the learning commons
abilitybelittled
bullyidiot
this unquantifiable effect.
micro-objectified
embattlement
with a side of belittlement (as in beef)
where the marginalized
by the wrongly strong
belong.
who's the flawedlogical bully
who's the idiot whose deeds are
at the behest of the beast
are glimpses of the human inside
enough to keep playing along?
you can't beat the vestigial salvajuices
out of the postmasochristic idiot
raised as he was
by offending commands
agency pairs with patiency
courtesy of
|Polarity, Dialectic & Organicity|
bullyidiot
abilitybelittled
autre hauteur
|workplace bullies|
it said on the tv screen
with closed captioning
in the learning commons
abilitybelittled
bullyidiot
this unquantifiable effect.
micro-objectified
embattlement
with a side of belittlement (as in beef)
where the marginalized
by the wrongly strong
belong.
who's the flawedlogical bully
who's the idiot whose deeds are
at the behest of the beast
are glimpses of the human inside
enough to keep playing along?
you can't beat the vestigial salvajuices
out of the postmasochristic idiot
raised as he was
by offending commands
agency pairs with patiency
courtesy of
|Polarity, Dialectic & Organicity|
bullyidiot
abilitybelittled
mcgillivray falls
this afternoon we drank water
from bottles, ate apples
cleaned on our sleeves and
tracked an eagle
along a creekbed as it stitched
trees to trees either side
of the narrow stream
we paused to watch the water
fall away -- constant froth
like thick new moss
on the rock -- and lost our way
of telling the white head
and tail from the pale poplars
we were the first to leave
our fingerprints, this season,
on the fine branches
that crowd the path,
the trail littered --
used spruce needles, cedar
scraps, crumpled pages of birch
miles from monday, hours
from a calendar,
we could have believed
in being remote,
but the far off trucks
on the highway were flies
that don't bite, just insist
on your ears
this afternoon we drank water
from bottles, ate apples
cleaned on our sleeves and
tracked an eagle
along a creekbed as it stitched
trees to trees either side
of the narrow stream
we paused to watch the water
fall away -- constant froth
like thick new moss
on the rock -- and lost our way
of telling the white head
and tail from the pale poplars
we were the first to leave
our fingerprints, this season,
on the fine branches
that crowd the path,
the trail littered --
used spruce needles, cedar
scraps, crumpled pages of birch
miles from monday, hours
from a calendar,
we could have believed
in being remote,
but the far off trucks
on the highway were flies
that don't bite, just insist
on your ears
Road Work
Ringside, I watch as dump trucks lumber
up my street, avalanche dirt
from their humped backs. Workers
emerge from underground bunkers,
in their reflective orange spacesuits,
to lunch in the loose gravel, juggle
coffee cups and wrappers into the gutter.
Traffic re-directed through a slalom
of orange pylons and signs No stopping,
Detour, sewer pipes’ cement lengths
lie shrink-wrapped and bundled
on the sidewalk. Dormant. Walking home
I pass giant eggcups, mixers, remnants
of the day’s work crusting the edges, spare sets
of backhoes’ teeth, sawdust and fresh stumps.
The choked bark of each remaining oak.
Wonder what roots are left among
the labyrinth of pipes and cement,
where I once thought, foolishly,
there was solid earth.
up my street, avalanche dirt
from their humped backs. Workers
emerge from underground bunkers,
in their reflective orange spacesuits,
to lunch in the loose gravel, juggle
coffee cups and wrappers into the gutter.
Traffic re-directed through a slalom
of orange pylons and signs No stopping,
Detour, sewer pipes’ cement lengths
lie shrink-wrapped and bundled
on the sidewalk. Dormant. Walking home
I pass giant eggcups, mixers, remnants
of the day’s work crusting the edges, spare sets
of backhoes’ teeth, sawdust and fresh stumps.
The choked bark of each remaining oak.
Wonder what roots are left among
the labyrinth of pipes and cement,
where I once thought, foolishly,
there was solid earth.
3 Cinquains and another Somethin'
Hrm, been having Blogger issues, but here are some recent efforts:
3 Cinquains
Bed
soft ours
holding joining forgetting
we aren't supposed to
Rewind
Icecream
sweet luxury
dip lick consume
in my forbidden pleasure
Sugar
Bike
forlorn abandoned
standing waiting forgiving
rain caresses dirty wheels
Rust
=========================
And from Sunday...
Editing
that which will not be edited
History
all that has passed
Story
what is to come
Cutting
that which is irrelevant
Pasting
together things that were
never supposed to touch
Compressing
years into minutes
Images
what never was and never will be
Yet
through the power of
Creation
Is
3 Cinquains
Bed
soft ours
holding joining forgetting
we aren't supposed to
Rewind
Icecream
sweet luxury
dip lick consume
in my forbidden pleasure
Sugar
Bike
forlorn abandoned
standing waiting forgiving
rain caresses dirty wheels
Rust
=========================
And from Sunday...
Editing
that which will not be edited
History
all that has passed
Story
what is to come
Cutting
that which is irrelevant
Pasting
together things that were
never supposed to touch
Compressing
years into minutes
Images
what never was and never will be
Yet
through the power of
Creation
Is
Eight months: the peanut gallery
How’s the morning sickness?
Is it…a good thing?
Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?
Or do you know and you’re not going to tell me?
What names do you have picked out?
Was it…planned?
You’re not going to carry that are you?
Be careful… don’t fall.
When are you due?
Don’t fall –
Oh! Can I help you with that?
Are you sure you should be…
Are you planning to breastfeed?
You are going to breastfeed, aren’t you?
Careful! (Don’t fff– )
When’s the next one coming?
* * *
Sorry for my absence over the last few days...I've been feeling VERY tired. I DO plan, however, to go back and read/re-read/memorize every poem I missed...
Is it…a good thing?
Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?
Or do you know and you’re not going to tell me?
What names do you have picked out?
Was it…planned?
You’re not going to carry that are you?
Be careful… don’t fall.
When are you due?
Don’t fall –
Oh! Can I help you with that?
Are you sure you should be…
Are you planning to breastfeed?
You are going to breastfeed, aren’t you?
Careful! (Don’t fff– )
When’s the next one coming?
* * *
Sorry for my absence over the last few days...I've been feeling VERY tired. I DO plan, however, to go back and read/re-read/memorize every poem I missed...
Three Cinquain
The inspiration was easier and harder than I thought it would be. I did two traditional and one modern. They were fun.
Yellow
A weed:
dandelion—
fear of the past rising.
Truth is fluff of our selves— lifting
each day.
Daisies
Painted ladies
trim, set, feign.
Are they happy here—
stained?
Daisies
Yellow
eyes set in white
cheeks— how sharply fate falls
gathering outcasts in grudging
bouquets.
Yellow
A weed:
dandelion—
fear of the past rising.
Truth is fluff of our selves— lifting
each day.
Daisies
Painted ladies
trim, set, feign.
Are they happy here—
stained?
Daisies
Yellow
eyes set in white
cheeks— how sharply fate falls
gathering outcasts in grudging
bouquets.
Sidewalk Pause
Waiting for the rain that may not come
next door to the reading that starts later
some young woman singing on the speakers
adds lyrics to the rush hour rhythms.
The cost of coffee gets me a seat
and floor show, sparrows hopping
in bagel crumbs, snatching supper .
Here at the corner cluster of cafes
bookstores and over-priced antiques
I see the city trees turn leaves
light side up, plant prayers for rain,
cupping veins to catch what water falls,
but only if the clouds slow down—
running so high and fast—
past brickwork facades and overhead wires,
parking places for assorted birds
not ready to settle into their nests
just yet. They must be waiting for
the maybe rain, a quick drink
before heading home to sing
their own city sky verses.
5/8/06
Waiting for the rain that may not come
next door to the reading that starts later
some young woman singing on the speakers
adds lyrics to the rush hour rhythms.
The cost of coffee gets me a seat
and floor show, sparrows hopping
in bagel crumbs, snatching supper .
Here at the corner cluster of cafes
bookstores and over-priced antiques
I see the city trees turn leaves
light side up, plant prayers for rain,
cupping veins to catch what water falls,
but only if the clouds slow down—
running so high and fast—
past brickwork facades and overhead wires,
parking places for assorted birds
not ready to settle into their nests
just yet. They must be waiting for
the maybe rain, a quick drink
before heading home to sing
their own city sky verses.
5/8/06
Monday, May 08, 2006
telling
i know by touch
the scar that darts
across your cheek,
i've learned it with my lips,
but i can't remember
what childhood play
cracked your face
open the wine and tell me
again, i've known your stories
so long i've forgotten them
tell me how you taught yourself
to ride a bike, how you met me
and in between
skip the history that lives
with us -- your world halved
so early and the wound still ugly,
slow in healing and always asleep
somewhere in the house
i want to know you over again,
your birthmarks and first loves,
lost toys and late nights
empty the bottle into these two
slim-lipped mouths, round
with thirst, but patient
i know by touch
the scar that darts
across your cheek,
i've learned it with my lips,
but i can't remember
what childhood play
cracked your face
open the wine and tell me
again, i've known your stories
so long i've forgotten them
tell me how you taught yourself
to ride a bike, how you met me
and in between
skip the history that lives
with us -- your world halved
so early and the wound still ugly,
slow in healing and always asleep
somewhere in the house
i want to know you over again,
your birthmarks and first loves,
lost toys and late nights
empty the bottle into these two
slim-lipped mouths, round
with thirst, but patient
Instinct
North wind peeling whitecaps, late afternoon sun–
February makes vacationers of us
after a record slog of rain. Our dog quivers
at the ocean’s edge eying a stick bobbing just out of reach,
but it’s stay and leave it, we don’t want wet car seats
so we toss upwind, admire each speckled oval
at our feet. Each rock asks to be palmed, pocketed
while our framed prints gather dust.
No critics on the beach to say what is and isn’t
art, save ourselves. Driftwood figures
emerge from knotholes, a southwestern
cattle skull, a seal’s head, each shape
mouthed by canine jaws seconds
after we lay it down.
Hair in our eyes, sand-hijacked cuffs
we huck a few choice heavyweights into the salt,
whoop and holler at the splash like six year olds,
at the backlash of tide, thinking for a second
we caused it. Cry out when too late–
our dog goes barreling into the surf.
February makes vacationers of us
after a record slog of rain. Our dog quivers
at the ocean’s edge eying a stick bobbing just out of reach,
but it’s stay and leave it, we don’t want wet car seats
so we toss upwind, admire each speckled oval
at our feet. Each rock asks to be palmed, pocketed
while our framed prints gather dust.
No critics on the beach to say what is and isn’t
art, save ourselves. Driftwood figures
emerge from knotholes, a southwestern
cattle skull, a seal’s head, each shape
mouthed by canine jaws seconds
after we lay it down.
Hair in our eyes, sand-hijacked cuffs
we huck a few choice heavyweights into the salt,
whoop and holler at the splash like six year olds,
at the backlash of tide, thinking for a second
we caused it. Cry out when too late–
our dog goes barreling into the surf.
weeding
I exercise my dominant mammal rights
on this small piece of land between the house
and the sidewalk. The plants here
are mine, to do with as I will. Trowel in hand,
I commit genocide on yarrow, povertyweed,
the never-defeated armies of dandelions.
I dig deep, going for the roots, I understand,
as conquerers must, that the most important defeat
must happen underground, that the smallest defiant shred
can raise an army again, that a nation
of nodding peonies cannot live in the shadow
of purple loosestrife.
on this small piece of land between the house
and the sidewalk. The plants here
are mine, to do with as I will. Trowel in hand,
I commit genocide on yarrow, povertyweed,
the never-defeated armies of dandelions.
I dig deep, going for the roots, I understand,
as conquerers must, that the most important defeat
must happen underground, that the smallest defiant shred
can raise an army again, that a nation
of nodding peonies cannot live in the shadow
of purple loosestrife.
Sunday, May 07, 2006
The Iris Liberation Front
We marched with our horticultural artillery,
spades at the ready, clever hand tools
made for lifting things to freedom—
unidentified rhizomes barely visible
beneath a crust of dappled dirt.
We stab and dig and lift
beneath the sword-shaped leaves
cut down by the developer’s
hired mowers, oblivious
to Ruby’s years of care.
We imagine the missing blooms
the spring palette of colors
unfolding in old fashioned
unnamed strains, mingled over time
and waiting for their rescue.
We parade the stolen flowers back
in my rusty red wagon, destined
to carry moss rose one more summer,
this mission the most it’s ever traveled,
carrying the iris to new soil.
We marched with our horticultural artillery,
spades at the ready, clever hand tools
made for lifting things to freedom—
unidentified rhizomes barely visible
beneath a crust of dappled dirt.
We stab and dig and lift
beneath the sword-shaped leaves
cut down by the developer’s
hired mowers, oblivious
to Ruby’s years of care.
We imagine the missing blooms
the spring palette of colors
unfolding in old fashioned
unnamed strains, mingled over time
and waiting for their rescue.
We parade the stolen flowers back
in my rusty red wagon, destined
to carry moss rose one more summer,
this mission the most it’s ever traveled,
carrying the iris to new soil.
a sunday buncha stuff
back online! finally up and running after an internet downage since friday. i am pleased to report that despite that primo excuse to slack -- and on a gorgeous weekend, too! -- i diligently produced a poem a day. once again, these feel a little slim to me. i'm not sure if that's just what comes with not living for something very long, but i'm resolving to come back to these and give them more attention. maybe in june.
(may 5th)
estranged
you come home boiled clean,
reduced to nerves and words,
twisting in your skin to find
a fit that isn't there
you set your suitcase in the hall
and it sits zipped for days,
your watch a memento
of another timezone
your mind drifts behind, too,
a helium balloon on a string
caught too easily on everything
you've read, everyone you've met
you have a job you can't
remember, a phone number,
a grocery list and garden
you shake hands with your lover
you know it won't keep -- this state
too delicate, too impractical,
but you stay awake until you can't
knowing you'll grow back with sleep
(may 6th)
early may
tulips begin their stoop,
red heads suddenly loaded
with thoughts of summer, unbearable
for slim green spines, they slacken
with the daffodils, laughing
or sighing into the dirt
we've only just lost the snow
and already this spring is old,
grass past our ankles, weeds
dug in for the season
it's early may, our first, and
so well used we can't even find
the robin song in the evening anymore
(may 7th)
heat
you slide sideways between trees,
arms raised as if you're lifting
drinks through the crowd, green fingers
under your shirt leaving cedar
scent that will live on your skin all day
then stain the bed sheets
the sun begs you to take off
your clothes, ferns unroll
their tongues, moss softens
flies lick at your ears,
rev against lips
you aren't used to this attention,
too practical for romance and shy
as the loons watching
from the far side of the lake
but the wind wears you down, hot
and exhausted you lie on the lichen,
ants circling your thighs, and
let the sky at you
(may 5th)
estranged
you come home boiled clean,
reduced to nerves and words,
twisting in your skin to find
a fit that isn't there
you set your suitcase in the hall
and it sits zipped for days,
your watch a memento
of another timezone
your mind drifts behind, too,
a helium balloon on a string
caught too easily on everything
you've read, everyone you've met
you have a job you can't
remember, a phone number,
a grocery list and garden
you shake hands with your lover
you know it won't keep -- this state
too delicate, too impractical,
but you stay awake until you can't
knowing you'll grow back with sleep
(may 6th)
early may
tulips begin their stoop,
red heads suddenly loaded
with thoughts of summer, unbearable
for slim green spines, they slacken
with the daffodils, laughing
or sighing into the dirt
we've only just lost the snow
and already this spring is old,
grass past our ankles, weeds
dug in for the season
it's early may, our first, and
so well used we can't even find
the robin song in the evening anymore
(may 7th)
heat
you slide sideways between trees,
arms raised as if you're lifting
drinks through the crowd, green fingers
under your shirt leaving cedar
scent that will live on your skin all day
then stain the bed sheets
the sun begs you to take off
your clothes, ferns unroll
their tongues, moss softens
flies lick at your ears,
rev against lips
you aren't used to this attention,
too practical for romance and shy
as the loons watching
from the far side of the lake
but the wind wears you down, hot
and exhausted you lie on the lichen,
ants circling your thighs, and
let the sky at you
Flower power?
Aging Relics
The hollyhock is fashionable
in leftover attitude, her style
worn more than once and simply
widespread. These days she’s domestic
a diva keeping her dated flair tupper-
wared and available.
Multi-coloured and petalled,
she looks groovy
wallpapered against aluminium.
Thin is still in. Never hippie
she’s theatrical in belated O’Leary—
a turning on of weeds, a tuning in
to any conversation. Openly bi-annual
she’s a long-lasting hustler,
the straight-haired sixties stem,
perpetually pawned in the wind.
The hollyhock is fashionable
in leftover attitude, her style
worn more than once and simply
widespread. These days she’s domestic
a diva keeping her dated flair tupper-
wared and available.
Multi-coloured and petalled,
she looks groovy
wallpapered against aluminium.
Thin is still in. Never hippie
she’s theatrical in belated O’Leary—
a turning on of weeds, a tuning in
to any conversation. Openly bi-annual
she’s a long-lasting hustler,
the straight-haired sixties stem,
perpetually pawned in the wind.
Nineteen
I remember how it was
to be stupid-young, so pretty and so
new to it, drunk on power like
a thirteen year old on strawberry wine,
my breasts my hair my navel
tarted out in ten-dollar tanktops
and thirty-dollar shoes. I threw myself at
the world, expecting it to catch me,
a million hands opening to receive
my bounty.
The closest practice I had for it was
when I was ten and had just learned
about mosquitoes - the way they follow
carbon dioxide back to the source, the way
that they can track you from miles away. I went
into my bedroom, knelt at the screen and
breathed out gently, watching with avid
glee the frantic swarming that
followed.
to be stupid-young, so pretty and so
new to it, drunk on power like
a thirteen year old on strawberry wine,
my breasts my hair my navel
tarted out in ten-dollar tanktops
and thirty-dollar shoes. I threw myself at
the world, expecting it to catch me,
a million hands opening to receive
my bounty.
The closest practice I had for it was
when I was ten and had just learned
about mosquitoes - the way they follow
carbon dioxide back to the source, the way
that they can track you from miles away. I went
into my bedroom, knelt at the screen and
breathed out gently, watching with avid
glee the frantic swarming that
followed.
Productivity
(a found poem with commentary)
Coughing
[which I am
doing much of
these days]
is your body's way
[my body's special way]
of removing foreign
substances
[where did they come from?]
and mucus
[where will I put it?]
from your lungs
and upper airway
passages.
[but who protects
the lower
passages?]
Productive coughs
are often useful
[but sometimes not?]
and you should not try
[but not trying means
giving up and I
never give up]
to eliminate them.
[eliminate sounds
so harsh -
I mean only to
send them
elsewhere]
Dry, hacking coughs
respond to honey
[you catch more flies
and more coughs
with honey...]
in hot water
[we're in hot water now]
Elevate your head
[always]
with extra pillows
at night .
Quit smoking.
[caught out...]
Avoid exposure
to inhaled irritants,
[cocaine?]
such as smoke,
dust,
or other pollutants,
[invest in a bubble]
or wear a face mask
that is appropriate
for the exposure.
[seek appropriate
face mask]
Many kinds of face
masks are available.
[wear a new one
for every occasion]
Check with your health
professional
to determine
which type
of face mask
will provide you
with the most benefit.
Coughing
[which I am
doing much of
these days]
is your body's way
[my body's special way]
of removing foreign
substances
[where did they come from?]
and mucus
[where will I put it?]
from your lungs
and upper airway
passages.
[but who protects
the lower
passages?]
Productive coughs
are often useful
[but sometimes not?]
and you should not try
[but not trying means
giving up and I
never give up]
to eliminate them.
[eliminate sounds
so harsh -
I mean only to
send them
elsewhere]
Dry, hacking coughs
respond to honey
[you catch more flies
and more coughs
with honey...]
in hot water
[we're in hot water now]
Elevate your head
[always]
with extra pillows
at night .
Quit smoking.
[caught out...]
Avoid exposure
to inhaled irritants,
[cocaine?]
such as smoke,
dust,
or other pollutants,
[invest in a bubble]
or wear a face mask
that is appropriate
for the exposure.
[seek appropriate
face mask]
Many kinds of face
masks are available.
[wear a new one
for every occasion]
Check with your health
professional
to determine
which type
of face mask
will provide you
with the most benefit.
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