Tag Archives: poetry

Meditation on Moving On


At Keystone Café, the radio plays

and words of a song from the sixties pierce my coffee-bred thoughts:

Always something there to remind me…

Trying to forget, I know this world is but a dream

a temporary mirror of the other

that place where you and I reside in eternity

mere cells within the One Great Plan

where time has no meaning

and words don’t exist

and love is a given

Yet here, amongst dog rose and lupin

she, open and pink

and he, closed and blue

we became like them – rooted in sand

surrounded by stones and their stories

drinking summer grey mists

on salt water taffy mornings

but rose petals fade and lupins shrivel

their seedpods of black

hanging like coffins

Right now

in this moment

eagle perches for the view

and fish dance

and gulls dive for the feast

and cry

this is mine

All the while

the ferry inhales and exhales passengers

like a heart-lung machine

a blood bank of journeys

a breaker of waves that crosses the synaptic sea

and, locked into terminal, transmits

holders of keys to neurons

In bursts of energy

flowing down rivers of roads

streams of pulsing potential

these elements of the greater intelligence

try to carry its message

this for the arms that yearn to hold

that for the aching walk-alone legs

and yesterday’s broken dream becomes

one Sunday transformed

A poem is born in words that don’t rhyme

as the radio plays another song:

Can’t you hear the pounding of my heartbeat,

You’re the one I love…

Holding the mirror close, all I see is my own breath

and waves that drill the shore in a tumbling roll

while the ocean remains constant

and eagle takes flight

 

Submitted to:

onesingleimpression.blogspot.com

poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/poetrypantry

sundayscribblings.blogspot.com

 

 

 

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Morning at Keystone Harbor


Mast-high pilons root deep in the harbour sand

and slapped by bickering waves

abrupt and cold, as if salt-crusted sea cow’s tongues

washed the creosote, lapping the rough black skin

cringed in retreat at the horrid tar taste

and swelling again hunched their wet shoulders

A stadium wave pummels the shore

incessant and rough

stretched and rolled beyond limits

potential velocity breached and broken in foam

while terns and kittiwakes play on invisible currents

spearing the air with their descending cries

high wire acts on daredevil wings

flickering from kohl to silver

shimmering white then back to black

frontside to backside, fishschool patterns

flocking and swirling their silhouette like smoke

dissolving against the cyan blue sky

Two terns in the harbour mercilessly tease

a solitary grey-winged king of the pilon

the glaucous gull, the beggar bird

Detached and rooted he cries

tasting the aromas of

fresh baked bread and buttered crab legs

Across from the harbor

a broad windowed café gazes at the sea

surrounded by flowering weeds and dancing climber roses

red against white beside weathered ash benches

There, a writer sits in her windproof jacket,

intense and frowning

lost in the force and dimension of imagine

her broken stories mended by a smooth wooden pen

while, gathering the morning sun,

the oil of rose wafts subconsciously

into her work

Beyond her a mocking ghost fence

groans in the breeze and rattles in the wind

and traverses the meadow grass beside the coast road

a wooden signboard, wearing time-peeled paint,

hangs upon rust-bleeding screws

Chipped and blistered

it tells its own half-dead

but still kicking story

in black on white with three simple words

Private, it says.

No Trespassing

gulls painting may be purchased from:  http://www.carolthompson.com/seabirds/harbor-gulls/index.htm

Entered in: http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/

http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2012/04/thursday-poets-rally-week-65-april-5.html

23 Comments

April 1, 2012 · 5:03 pm

This Is Who I Am


To be a writer

is like being two atoms that dance with one

Hydrogen playing with Oxygen

moving with scintillating, procreating fluidity

a disciplined yet unchained pattern

until the quadrille

slows down

and stands

with hardly a breath

transforming into crystals,

each one a unique expression

of water being frost

rock being mountain

or wind being ripples on river’s skin

like human being body, emotion and thought

like me, turning molecules of mind into words

dancing the rounds and rhythms,

pulling sounds and meanings like taffy;

stretching, tempting, and loving the sweetness

of post-rain petrichor, poetry and story-being-born.

Discipline is all it takes;

it’s only a matter of focused attention.

All the while my faucet drips

a metronome playing Chopin’s Funeral March.

It echoes against the cold hard tub: Dum Dum da Dum,

Dum da Dum da Dum da Dum…

A suitable march for somber scenes

or penned phrases that smirk.

Do you remember Mommy’s funeral?

When we weren’t supposed to laugh?

Suddenly, simple things such as a lady’s hat

black and wide

a saucer-shaped ride for snow,

turned resignation and sorrow into nonsense,

amplified our sighs into unstoppable giggles,

and hoots escaped from our throats

bouncing off gravestones

and falling like stars of grief-relief.

We stood there, two children hugging themselves

trying to appear with socially-acceptable sadness

behavior more suited to the tragic event.

We failed.

Laughter, glorious laughter

like a toad released in a classroom of nuns

shocked the mourners and freed us.

Mourners shifted in confusion

at our emancipation.

Surely we weren’t glad that Mommy died?

No more bed pans

No more sheets and laundry

Not one more morning of waking up wondering

if she’s dead

or still dying…

Is that faucet still dripping?

It is.

Handel’s Water Suite No 2

now skipping like tigger in my tub

bouncy, boisterous and… happy.

In the yellow pages under Plumbers, I find Scotty.

I call and ask him for a quote.

He knows my rented cottage

I forgot that this is an island,

a community of small and intimate

where no sparrow falls without everyone knowing

just as no bath leaks

nor pipes crack

nor drain becomes clogged

without Scottie fixing it

I need more than a washer, he says,

to stop this rhythmic dripping that disturbs my work.

Receiving his quote, I discover that words come cheap

but plumbing doesn’t.

His repair will cost me a whole chapter

including the edits.

Handel’s happy notes begin to grow on me.

Staying in the moment, I hear another pattern

an attitude – a practice of choice – an epiphany.

A drip or a sound need not be my nemesis

instead it is a setting; fire and fuel for my work.

I listen to the rhythms, inhale them, accept them into my being

Words commune and bond with water

dancing the dance of intention

while I, in glorious birth,

exist again and again and again

bonder of sights, sounds, heart and soul

in crystal-forming discipline

becoming what I already am

and so

I write

~

Submitted to Poetry Palace’s Thursday Rally:

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/2012/01/agreement-for-poets-rally-week-60.html

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Gratitude


Taking time for gratitude

In this spot I stop

and play

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Orange


 

Mighty hue of Attitude

stands entitled

in your face

claims it’s place

child of passion-red

bled into yellow

mid-day sun

falling

 Last chance to dance

it plays on rain-soaked branches

autumn

on it’s back

leaves laid to rest

on black

but

like a snore

you can’t ignore

in the dark of night

it goes down

loud and proud

shouting

ORANGE

 

 

 Entered into One Single Impression

 http://onesingleimpression.blogspot.com/

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Love-Hate Relationship


I share it with my aged dog

and with the skunk who flavors the night

outside our bedroom window,

with the gardeners who sit on the lawn

eating knapsack lunches of red thermos soups

and coffee with enchiladas and chicken wings,

and with my neighbor who cries after dark

only a screen and her loneliness between us,

and with thick-skinned shrubs by the door,

and with my writer’s desk – the patio table

that serves in all weathers except those below frost,

with the tissue that catches my sneezing results,

with roofs, gutters and condo paths

and black-paved neighborhood drives,

and with drains that carry the showered flour

of green and yellow wind-bourn dust,

I share the fare of reproduction

unplanned and promised tomorrows

from insect-assisted procreation,

wiping it off my laptop keys

washing it from swollen eyes

and coughing in irritation

yet…

all the time

loving what it brings – trees,

leaves, grass, bark and blossoms,

spring green and summer gold

and autumn, crazy and colored,

taking only the winter to rest, until

up the nose it goes again

this love-hate relationship with

Pollen

 

Pollen photos courtesy of Google images

Shared on Imperfect Prose

 http://canvaschild.blogspot.com/search?q=imperfect+prose

And: Theme Thursday:

 http://themethursday.blogspot.com/

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Zen Riddle


On the tree-bordered path

an old man and a boy

with long hazel sticks

walked side by side

rain hats and jackets

zipped to the top

pockets buttoned

keeping their maps dry

They shared old stories

and young ambitions

 

The wind rustled up

a twister of  leaves

full branches overhead

added their rain to the sky’s

Beneath, the walkers hunched shoulders

tucked chins down

and collars up

The path grew steeper, darker

and the heavy sky

grew heavier

 

Are you sure you can

walk this, the boy asked

It’s a long path

The old man’s eyes hinted

watery sweet laughter

The path is fine, he said

walking steady

stepping strong

When I was a boy

this path was long

 

The boy wanted to know

if the route had changed

or been shortened, but

No, nobody changed it

the old man replied

You mean the path shrunk

as you grew old?

Is the path your youth?

No, said the old man, smiling

It is just a path

Submitted for One Shot Wednesday        

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Introspection


What if I were God

and you were just a part of me?

 You, the corn on the bottom of my foot

an irritation that hurt when I walked

Would I rub you out with an emery board

or clip you off, and drop you on the floor

then sweep your bits under the rug?

What if I were God

 and you, a breast that disappointed

by being too small, too flat, too thin

Would I slice you open, fill you with gel

and hoist you into a wire-rim

then strut you around – my parceled goods?

What if I were God

 and you, a beggar who walked my street

a living reminder of There-But-For-Fortune

Would I cast my eyes the opposite way

and pretend you didn’t exist

then demand the police move you on?

What if I were God

 and you, a kidnapped slave taken for sex

hidden from laws, devalued as human scum

Would I say it was up to you to fight back

that you should have known better

than to walk alone at night?

 What if I were God

and you were part of me?

 Would I love you?

 

 For Poetry Potluck Monday: http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/

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Farley’s First Poem


 

The shining leaves

mysterious windy path      

shining grass

dazzling glittering sunshine

 

 (NB.  windy as in winding, not wind blowing)  Farley is 6 years old, and he made this poem up without help – it’s all his own words, stanzas and ideas. His mummy will help him read all comments and feedback.  This photo is one of the lanes that Farley walks on nearly every day.

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Goosedown Sky


 

White feathers sail on blue

like the summer moult on Commons Pond

pillow stuffing for winter angels

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The Power of Subjective Feedback


I had no idea until you showed me,

thinking I was only poppies and a pond like glass,

that I had such brilliant character within me.

Stepping aside, you spoke frankly and without fear

or judgment, giving me only your subjective perspective.

Now, I am more

than flowers,

water

and stone.

I am Mammoth,

Medusa,

and

Jimi Hendrix

Resurrected

Transformed

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Opportunity Knocks


On the edge of this island farm, a crinkled, indigo ocean waits

below massive mountains that rise into snow-capped ridges,

like Samurai swords, slicing the blue with ice-pick white

defining the border where earth and sky meet.

Eagles, gulls and terns circle and swoop

as sunlight catches and flashes on their wings, 

their cries falling high above the fog horn’s moan

disappearing like shadows in gossamer mists;

You can’t see them, even though they are there.

You know, but knowing isn’t enough.

All you can see are tussocked rows of lavender and green 

perspective points of view on this land at your feet.

Lines merging, and lost in the brilliant fog, 

they tempt one to enter and stroke

the soft, yielding heads of mauve

knowing this is their moment

stealing the mountain’s glory

like purple Prima Donnas

 

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Enlightenment by Haiku


 

Ancient journey towards inner peace:

Study life with curiosity, humor and compassion

Share observation in seventeen words.

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Pond at Dawn on July 4th


Four ducks, in simultaneous flip

Pure white bellies upon  dark pond surface

Bottoms up in morning salute

Photo courtesy of Canon Digital Photography Forums

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Anthem


Oh say, can you see

gnarled roots, like toes curling into sand,

by the dawn’s early light,

merging soil and tree in perfect union?

 What so proudly we hailed

our man-built structures – angled roofs, supportive beams,

at the twilight’s last gleaming

blossomed bed of red and blue and one white pole bearing handsewn cloth,

whose broad stripes and bright stars

carried the vision, the passion of fathers and mothers

through the perilous fight

of sisters and brothers in the name of freedom.

O’er the ramparts we watched

as shells scattered bodies, their limbs, upon this soil,

were so gallantly streaming

blood, tears and screams, while thousands died,

And the rocket’s red glare

reflecting on silent eyes, lids frozen in stares at

the bombs, bursting in air,

wallowing waves of war over survivors’ grief, and

gave proof through the night

in the terrible glow of dues paid in ultimate sacrifice,

that our flag was still there.

With hands on hearts we stand, claiming love for this place.

Oh say, does that star

still carry the night? Throbbing beacon of light,

spangled banner yet wave

as a child beginning life, merging purpose with dreams

o’re the land of the free,

this union of cultures and stories, harbor of refugees

and home of the brave.

 

The Star Spangled Banner lyrics were written by Francis Scott Key

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Night Thief


 

My petunias opened, cerise and purple

colors vibrant and rich

full of passion

But the caterpillar, that crawls at night,

chewing buds and petals until all that was left

were ruffle-edged holes

where color used to be,

is only white.

I wonder

What did he do with the passion?

 

Photo courtesy of Google Images: fhgardencenter.com/images/hanging/petunia.jpg

 

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The Big Picture


 

layers of ages

consequence of sun and weather

earth bleeding layers of oil

consequence of us

 

photo courtesy of Jim Waldron

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Across the breakfast table…


You sit, absorbed in another thick spy intrigue murder mystery political uprising story with just enough sex in it to keep you checking the this-has-all-the-right-ingredients tick box, designating the author as a best seller, stellar tale-teller who makes lots of money writing. His books fill your shelves to prove it.  We had to get rid of some last year to just make room for more.

Meanwhile I reside here on my chair with a fifty-page volume, so slender it could be mistaken for a magazine – if only it was taller, wider and the cover more flimsy than it is now. My book is one of only two that the poet ever published before he died. I need never worry about running out of room for his books or becoming bored with the same shape, plot and characters that, reworked one hundred and one different ways, receive new names and settings in each predictable story.

There you, enmeshed with the pages of your New York Times book-of-the-week, engaged with fast-paced heros and caricatured characters – thinner than the paper that holds their names – eat cereal and read, oblivious of my thoughts or even aware that I share the table with you, along with the salt, napkins and sugar bowl. I bet my poet would have written about the bowl; how the lid always drops sweet crumbs on the table; how I carefully wipe them up, look at you and smile.

Photo courtesy of Diane Waldron

4 Thursday Poets Rally week 28

Feel free to comment and star-grade. Thank you for reading!

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Twenty Words – Poetry Workshop with Quinton Duval


 

Take a moment to listen between the missing lines

Hear your heart as the beats count down

pulsing under scars that whisper

I’m still here.

Are you really, deeply listening?

Through cracked pane of window glass

the clang, clang of train rumbles past

in competition and your mind chases iron tracks.

Scratching pens on poets’ pads,

a cough, a sigh, a noisy worry,

a tall red drum rests in the corner silent

Yet even that – the lack of drumming, distracts

Take a moment and relax.

Can you hear those ten words or better, twenty?

The ones that if you had to choose

you could not live without?

Now – Focus

Jot them down quickly

Don’t judge them, let them fall

like scattered cells of finished skin:

children, laughter, thunder, rain, mountain, feathers, silver bark, lovers, sunlight,

autumn, meadows, spring, elk, green, home, blue, horse, gold, stream

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Kuai / Break-through


 

Thunderheads rising           riding blue streams 

on grey, chasing invisible dreams and destinies

seeking indigo mountains past rivered foothills

 

All the while  an egret stands – brilliant white 

in sun – goldened light,  legs deep  in verdant 

grass meadows,  oblivious of gathering storm

 

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