superstition

its true that the universe
knows all the answers
the hard part is being still
enough to hear them

the lines of my life
will give up their secrets
I am both predestined
and Creator
the writing on the wall is
etched in the palm of my hands

ungrounded

a little bit of cork
tied to a string
is not enough
to anchor me to the ground

a scissors is all it takes
to wreak havoc
with a bouquet of helium balloons
nothing but ribbons
in the palm of my hand

it is not for the lack of holding on
that dandelion seeds fly away in the wind

solitude is a strange friend
when it is not wanted

in the Mount Carmel Chapel

my whispered words shimmer
out across the chapel floor,
swirl around the candles
like so many dust motes
weaving toward the altar,
heavy and wooden,
a gravitational centre
for the orbiting light
filtered through blood-red glass.
eventually
it trickles through the choir stalls
and lands at my feet.

over and out (for now)

National Poetry Month is officially over and I managed to complete the Poem A Day Challenge. Thanks to everyone who left comments and took the time to read them! I won’t be able to post regularly for the next few weeks (travelling!), so any faithful readers out there will have to content themselves with skimming through the archives. Here are some of my favourites for your perusal:

I wonder if the worms know
inner gypsy
turn the light off
My God
playing
a haiku
late afternoon

For new stuff check back mid-June!

Jennifer

we stood outside the bakery
in the bright grey light
the morning after grad
we just stood
too tired too numb
to feel the weight of this goodbye
or maybe we already knew
we’d carry the heaviness later
we shrugged
because there was nothing to say
a hug, a quick smile
then you left to catch your flight
and I walked home alone

never is a silly concept

in some simultaneous today
I drove a truck through the emptiness of the Yukon
slept in until 11:00
and played that piece from “The Piano” perfectly

in some parallel lifetime
I hated reading
moved every two years as an embassy employee
decided I didn’t want to get married

in some alternate world
humans have colonized outer space
can name more than 300 colours
and didn’t invent the internet

poetry is orange

wake up to a faint orange
sky with a green quality
too bright to be ignored, cheerful,
unlike this morning’s paper
most of which I want to cut
out and discard. it does not generate

what reading poetry generates,
a quirky orange
atmosphere that doesn’t cut
up the beautiful quality
of the day on paper.
newspapers are not cheerful.

poetry is not cheerful
either, but it generates
food for the soul, a paper
can’t, all black and white, no orange,
even when the writing is quality
(and if its good writing it cuts).

am I irresponsible to avoid that cut
naive to desire only cheerfulness?
maybe, but I know that the quality
of my life is generated
by all things orange
and magical, not dreary news in papers.

what I want to read on paper
is words all cut
up and mixed with orange,
ignoring punctuation and syntax cheerfully,
in an effort to generate
poetry of the first quality.

mine isn’t always quality
and most of it will not end up published on paper,
but I know that inside it generates
some part of humanity nearly cut
off and forgotten (cheerfully)
by people not caring that words have colours, like orange.

the colour orange has a quality
so cheerful on printed paper
it heals cuts it did not generate.

come home to me on the wind

a moon, almost full
the lily just half open
I am without you
a lone goose looks for her mate
come home to me on the wind

(mis)communication

she smiled, picture perfect
laughed, hitting all the right notes
but her smile spoke boredom
her laugh translated into tears
of frustration

the Christmas Eve Service in the Basel Cathedral

the men’s choir sang old carols
to red sandstone walls
where the shadow of Erasmus
nodded in time
to flickering candles
the rhythm of liturgy
eight hundred people
gave birth to hope
as the bells called
“joy to the world”
into the centuries.