Poem 17

We want to be the solar light
along the path from road to door.
Dutiful diurnal then
the only thing you see at night.

Oh to be the first bird each morning
to sing for all to hear. Or
the last to stir the branches
to sleep in fragrant limbs.

But here upon the mud we stand
some stuck, some bootless
forgetting our song
ignoring the vast.
Humming monotonous
without even knowing.

Let wind be the bow over strings of trees
Let stars be the hooks for lost souls
When you fly let yourself
When you lie lose the rest
We are not here
We are not there
but everywhere
and now.

Poem 16

There is a squirrel who visits our yard
Each day, performing his rounds
Collecting what he can
He has taken to a pole with a view of it all
He climbs it perching on the top
Tail balances him as he turns west
then holds him steady as he points south
Every day in early afternoon
He'll be there
Like a painter surveying the scene
or the poet in meditation


We sit too lofty & we all know it
feeding on manufactured flesh
treading on fields of of silk
with boots of steel.
We chain, we beat into submission
& squeeze out the last cells of dignity
for our entertainment.
You cannot tell me the eyes are not windows
The heart is but flesh &  dreams are ours only.

Poem 15

I spent the afternoon scratching
away at the earth  gentle as brushing my dog
Combing out the crusty remnants
uncovering moist new homes to insects
as shocked to see me as I them.
The chatter of birds & the infrequent roll of a car
pushed the sun off  dusty deck
then over the fence and away.

I filled two bags with this well used winter blanket
as trees sighed or so it seemed
and let the light come in.

Poem 14

Normally the sight of hundreds of flies
on the front door would harken thoughts
of The Exorcist or other demonic maladies.
Is the house cursed, posessed or rotting?
Is someone from beyond reaching back in anger?
Did the delivery boy spill?
Has my dog been up to something?
But as I stood there assessing this invasion nay
this occupation the door and frame nearly speckled by plague
I wanted to stay

My back felt the heated fingers of spring take me in
then its entire hand gripped me in this moment
the same speck of time the fly was in
Each one of them I noticed
luxurious with no schedule
only here
only now.

Poem 13

This is a true story:

There has been a stone in my foot
okay it was a grain of sand
but it was there for over 3 years
it was like a small lump only painful
should I step on a garden hose or threshold
as it was situated in the middle of my foot.
Each summer or on a winter beach
while walking barefoot the hole would open
more sand might enter.
For weeks in long baths I would work on this mine
wondering all the while
why no pearl would form
after all this time.

I blame myself for this ailment
for once having written:
I am coming home but
there is a stone in my shoe.
Although heavily poetic
I swear this is true.

Poem 12

Wind is tearing the trees apart
I would hide if I liked to panic
Next it will be the roof
but I am not going to go there yet
I will wait until the neighbor's house
goes past my window
before I close my eyes.

Poem 11

My brain is a lazy sectional
good for parties
or long evenings.
It takes up half the room
forces you to lay down
it comes apart at the ends &
comes in many dimensions.
You can choose its look
texture, colour etc.
If you have a small room
I don't recommend
But for larger spaces
You cannot go wrong.

Poem 10

Dear novelist

Let me express my awe

Your ability to dive into

Fleshy soft unknown

A body to come home to at nite

Wake with each morning

I envy your base of continuity.

Tenacity is not for poets &

I do speak for myself

When tenaciousness is lack

I slip in melancholy muck

So each word squeezed is painful and

Every image eyeful

No lively description here I fear

Just recollection

Dear Novelist you stay with something

‘til it’s right and then

to understand

you fit your body whole

Protected second skin

Glove around

The poet walks into walls

Never comes home at nite

Sleeps with whom she wants

For a good line a soft bed

A place to hide

Then sacrifices all things good

For a word she would

For a life she would not

Never at home in her skin

Nervous & itching & hot

C’mon give her a scratch

With long nails

Slow strokes

Lively tales

You know you can

And that you want to

Or leave a bowl of milk

On the steps beside her things.

You with the long stories

Enough wood for this hearth

Poem 9

The ad read:
    Experience required, salary commensurate.
It sounded perfect
I gathered my papers
Showered & dressed
Got there on time
Sat in a line

They gave us paper
Said to write
something happy.
I could see the man next to me
had no pen so I gave him one.
Soon the room was bartering for pens or pencils
and before we could begin our time was up.
Someone was collecting the (mostly) blank sheets of paper
People were shuffling toward the door
Some of us remained seated

Then I went home.
I watched the news
read a book
listened to the radio
& fell asleep with the lights on.

Poem 8

To read the quiet lines of the poet or to
follow the blur of the painter
you will be the grasping hand on cliff's edge
a second before the fall
You will be the pinnacle of light
on a shooting star before the event horizon
No one shall witness
or record.

Go on spend your life
scribbling & scratching
a free range chicken
home on the range top eventually.
Keep moving  spiralling  tumbling
back into the beginning
the ending
the nothing
the All.

Poem 7

Dirty snow slips between
brown lawn like sand
the last of it glistens goodbye
You could hear its crumble
if not for birds feeding
the wind's push.

Later on asphalt
we cut through air
on elliptic orbs
Riding through the neighbourhood
as restless as stallions
set free.

Poem 6

There is a square of sunlight on living room floor
my dog finds daily (weather permitting)  he eats his
first meal then slurps his water bowl dry
finds the red ball or the green & should I
be engaged by task or dreams
he ambles over to the front room
more like a worker leaving the factory
aching & tired   he reaches
the luminous patch
I hear his bones
a heave of air
then always as all dogs do
the satisfied smacking
the settling heart.

Poem 5

His last break-in


It's the way they leave the lights on
every evening at five even though it's spring &
the melting snow on the drive is pure & white
it's the same lamp there
in the corner against the pale blue wall
which tells him they're old
not to mention a wreath on the door
the embroidered throw just visible on the sofa
the living room wall is covered in photos
it tells him they're old
it tells him they're gone


the glass pops out of its brittle frame
and lands without shatter on a bed of envelopes
if he's lucky there's a card or a cheque
he sees Doris White's name on a lavender envelope
but before he can fill his greed & take his feed


He see Doris on the floor
her blue eyes staring 
at the wall of photos
she's stiff she's cold
she's really gone

Poem 4

This is no joke


A guy walks into a bar
says Whiskey Sour with 6 drops
bitters  get the drink with six straws
instead looks around the empty bar says
He doesn't get it
Bartender says neither did he
Have some nuts but
What's the joke?
He could use one right now
with the rain & damp, the pain
Have some ruts he hears

Poem 3

-SLIPPING AGAIN-

Freud says one cannot distinguish between leaving & being left

The poet from time to time mistakingly

writes living instead of leaving & deft for left. 

 

She begins:

“ If all trees are oak trees

or some pine for love

when truth arrives on its way south to escape the cold”

She madly scribbles words about living

(She meant leaving)   then

She mentions the cold

innate notions   ingrained flight routes  and when it comes to what is deft  

(She meant left)

She cannot find the words

Feeling enough has been already said

She is ready to close her notebook

retract the lead in her pencil &

head out beneath periwinkle skies

At this point oblivious when birds fly overhead  
or speak from branches (and once only) 

They whisper the secret mission they are on and

How they know flight patterns & seasons

Far more random than the human mind can fathom

Restless with a promise to return

balanced on a wing

a new story inside hollow bones

and the softest of thick feathered

warmth covering a cage of ribs

which has never contained anything

but that which we can never touch

They  would tell her this and more, for a few seeds only.

But she has closed her notebook and is late for something she has forgotten where.

Poem 2

After reading Jan Horner’s new book ref=dp_image_0

an Empress of all the streetlights

a cake and all its candles

Reading you

reading her or

what was left

Left me alighted (charged)

Electric was my answer

for what’s your favorite word

A silly game after a dinner long ago

but I can see how necessary

this word in your world when

plugging in to hers

It’s been ten years

from me to you

and a hundred

from you to her

Can one frail life run on dragon blood

bridge two run on words

Poems with questions are maddening

When the poet is the one with the pen

I left your city in the year of the dragon

anaemic and bloody at the same time

Battles lost, a war

called on lack of interest

rain atmostpheric disturbances

inclimate and too intimate to share

The last time I saw you was in a coffee shop

& it was raining out

See?

I think you cried

But not for me

Thankfully not

And I did too

I was saying good bye

But did not know it at the time

& it was really coming down

Poem 1

This morning while checking stocks, weather, email

from a chair in the house

I looked up from my Apple

to the Magnolia tree because a flicker of red

caught my eye

There are no blooms this early in March

but from the action in the trees

I saw 2 Chickadees

& knew the fingers of Spring

were tapping.

Then a quick flick of red

teased me again

from the cedar this time

and then onto the pine

A Cardinal

the one who woke me up

made himself clear

to me

to my dog

to the whole neighbourhood

as he sang his tune out to his love

poemperdai

It may look Latin but it is the sound of a drunk person (possibly) saying she shall write a poem each day. I will only write them here on the post. (I am she.) The poem will be purely spontaneous, but every attempt at creativity is of course my goal. Not sure what limits to put on this exercise, regarding length or style, like try a sonnet on a Sunday (...hmmm Sonnet Sundays sounds good!) or a Sestina on a Thursday (that was random), but I want this to be organic so that I don't (won't) lose interest. Who is out there anyway? Who in cyberspace will monitor/witness this? I really don't care. It came to me in the car on the way home from Walmart (a store I once declared I would never shop at) with a new bird feeder & some seed/feed. Indeed. I had a poem in my head but it is gone now, but I came up with the idea of this blog becoming something more than a collection of art or random images. Okay, going to start this now.

Clement Cycles, c.1897 Prints by PAL (Jean de Paleologue) at AllPosters.com

Clement Cycles, c.1897 Prints by PAL (Jean de Paleologue) at AllPosters.com