careful waves find their way to the dock
my feet hover just over the surface
dipping one toe, then another
minnows are dancing country reels
over to the left
beyond them the anchored ships are calm
as though listening in church
the breeze is just cool enough
for a hint of goosebumps
a large pink starfish and I sing songs to the sun.
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
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
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!
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
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.
everywhere I have never travelled calls to me
a siren song of senses strained and searching
a cocktail of anxiety and desire
do I want a home complete with deep deep roots
sinking under the house, spreading until I hold
the library and the grocery store
the tea shop and my favourite park
so tightly bound within me I can hardly move
or would I rather claim a passport to the sky
discovering the roots of ancient pasts
in the bones of the earth
and then uncovering them again in my own soul
at home in poetry, art, architecture
bound tightly only to the beauty
everywhere I have never travelled
the title taken from somewhere I have never travelled by e.e. cummings
1
we spent four hours together after dinner that night
when I got home the clock hands were just edging toward 7
I convinced myself the battery had died
2
five minutes before the meeting I panicked, what were we going to do?
you spent half an hour calming me down
and then we walked into the meeting right on schedule
3
I started noticing
you always got the projects done on time
but hadn’t even started an hour before
you had time for everyone
the rest of us could barely keep up with ourselves
4
if I watched the clock hard enough
when you were around
I could sometimes catch the flicker
between real time and your time
March is a fine-tuned tension
downpours threaten sunshine only minutes later
winter waits for one last curtain call
spring stumbles over newly memorized lines
I must walk a tightrope
of endings tactlessly running into new beginnings
sometimes lunch was just perfect
Mom’s whole-wheat buns
fat, round, homemade shapes with a slice of gouda
and crunchy cornichons carved very thin
over the layer of sweet, unsalted butter
faspa was always the best part of family gatherings
our Mennonite heritage spelled out in rollkuchen and watermelon
platters of cheese accompanying the jars of jam
with fresh white dinner rolls still warm from the oven
birthday breakfasts meant brezel from the bakery
soft, chewy dough eaten plain or fancy
cream cheese with blackberry jam
chewed very slowly to make every bite last
this daily bread
still better than a banquet
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