Archive for the ‘poetry’ Category

Thirst…

March 20, 2009

Captive in the padded bucket seat
you peer ahead through metronomic sweeps.
Windshield wipers clear arced fans,
dry apertures, through cascading rain rills.
Your right hand swipes and smears
exhalations which fog the glass.
Water outside; water vapour inside,
yet, your mouth is parched.
On impulse, you turn the car into
a Petrocan lot, exit and forget to
turn your seeking lips toward the offering sky.
You dash inside the station, and
buy a plastic bottle, full of tap-water.

GM, March 2009

Fried eggs and rain…

November 2, 2008

Cast iron pan sizzles with fat.
Hard wet pavement fizzes with
passing traffic, fading in and out
in the background.
The yellow suns gather heat.
Their clear film gradates to opaque
whiteness, with a ruffling skirt that
puffs and subsides
in counterpoint crackling.
The toaster’s pop signals
an abrupt end to this small
observed miracle.
While traffic hisses by
we sit, contemplating our offered
feast of needed warmth which waits
to be pricked and pooled,
sopped up and savoured
this cold November morning.

GM, November 2008

Sumac in October…

October 24, 2008

Open the front door
then the screen.
The sumac burns with October fire –
flaming vermilion. Banked oranges
spark the misty rectangle.
They glow against
a faded hedging, a green and straw lawn.
Outside, it is chill.
My insides are cinders, yet
the front door is a bellows
that fans my ashen heart
into life.

GM, October, 2008

September 1st…

September 1, 2008

Lone chick-a-dee calls

on a September morning’s

feeble beginning.

Some maternal bindings

June 4, 2008

Wrap her in

admonitions, cautions,

denials.

Say to her, “You mustn’t

EVER

believe what your eyes see,

your ears hear,

your skin feel,

your mind comprehend.”

Tell her, “Black

is white; night

is day; right

is often wrong.”

Wrap her in

uncertainty, confusion,

negation of her

experiences.

Preserve her

from autonomy.

Make her live through you.

YOU ALONE.

She is your child.

 

GM, June 2008

Equus in Agrum Est…

April 7, 2008

What a sentence – “the horse is in the field.”

Does it imply a horse-inhabited landscape

of fields rolling,

pocked with wild-flowers, a crop,

as far as the eye can see?

Does it suggest a legion of soldiers

marching by with their kits,

a simple farm-boy among them

who gazes on the browsing horse

with longing for his homestead?

Does it foretell of a scene

where an unmanned horse nuzzles

fallen men, strewn in the casual,

splayed, abandon of the dead?

Does it intimate that a horse is

 a guileless companion to man,

a witness to all that takes place

in fields everywhere?

GM 2004

The changing fabric

February 13, 2008

Up, ahead

the winds have raked the sky

 with whistling, fine, teeth.

Sooty, combed,

loose weft strands undulate,

and twine distant in soft rows

toward the horizon.

Above,

the teased moisture tendrils

against blue zenith transparency,

the new pattern portends

a change

on the warp of the firmament.

GM – on a glorious sunny day, February 13, 2008, that looks about to change; a front is approaching.

a loose wft

September’s End

September 30, 2007

Southwester bends

the rooted matrons across the road,

their russet frills stream, strain,

hold fast.

A child in a red hat walks by, 

anchored

by his father’s grasp.

Traffic flows against the wind,

propelled by an  unnatural force

over tarmac the colour of

a lowering sky.

Perched on a coffee-house stool,

an old woman gazes out the window,

waits for rain.

GM, September 2007

Liquidation World?

August 9, 2007

Let us browse, slow moving

in this emporium of unsold, soiled goods,

quietly search and scan

under the neon high-noon glare for

innumerable useless objects to

deaden unrequited wants

always lurking at

the margins of an unsatisfied self,

in momentary abeyance, now,

only to flare up whenever the

need for material padding prevails.

What desire do we have for a remaindered

oil-lamp with a china penguin base,

reams of orange construction paper

left behind from last October’s sales, or

desiccated frozen meats from the freezers?

GM, November 2005. Setting rules for constructing a poem, in this case deciding that Whatever the title, the poem is constructed with lines beginning with the letters in the words of the title, in sequence. I like working within restrictions – it helps me to focus.

“I Taught Myself to Live Simply” – Anna Akhmatova

July 31, 2007

I taught myself to live simply and wisely,

to look at the sky and pray to God,

and to wander long before evening

to tire my superfluous worries.

When the burdocks rustle in the ravine

and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops

I compose happy verses

about life’s decay, decay and beauty.

I come back. The fluffy cat

licks my palm, purrs so sweetly

and the fire flares bright

on the saw-mill turret by the lake.

Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof

occasionally breaks the silence.

If you knock on my door

I may not even hear.

Written by Russian poet Anna Akhmatova (1889 – 1966)