Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Who do I call brother?

I know not your name
Nor the color of your skin
Only the weariness of your bones
slumped under the thin blanket

I know not your home
Nor the words of your religion
You are tree broken by storm
lying unwanted as stone by bench 

I know not your journey
But from your bleeding feet
do I glimpse the weight of your cross

I did not call you,
Please forgive me-

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - We have a guest host who is prompting this afternoon at 3pm EST~   We are writing about brother/ brotherhood ~  Thanks for the visit ~

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Ten Ways of Looking at Music

Photography:  K. Sparrek

I.     The gramophone is pillow
       cradling her sleep 
       whistling a music only she hears 

II.    The silence
       between the waves
       curled back string, taut - 
       the music in repose

III.   She walks with music
       of summer wind
       each step, cursive rhythm 
IV.  His words pierce her skin
      Swelling into scar
      Not even green tea
      nor music can soothe

V.   The digital music is light as air
      She walks
      with the clouds, cottoned to
VI.  The drums & piano keys
      war against each other
      His chest rises 
      with each horn's long call

VII. He was dancing as if the red ants
      are nibbling his feet
      The music must be sweet 
      as sugar 

VIII. Sleep eluded us
       So we order music
       as midnight snack &
       mambo as zombies

IX.   When the moon is new
       music draws us
       a star in our palms 
X.    She seeded music in winter-
       By spring, 
       it was hopping with orange-        
       breasted robins 

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Inspired by Wallace Stevens' Thirteen Ways of Looking at Blackbird
Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Winter's thaw

you say nectar
upon winter's thaw
but the blooming is still a long way

there are no bees nor buds 
peeking from dawn's grey mist-
but its a perfect time for tapping

maple trees for sap, each drop
into bucket to be boiled long until
sieved low & smooth

it is raw sugar, 
amber, dripping thick & golden 
perfect for morning pancakes 

this reminds me

how each of your poetic word 
lands on my tongue

wood-fired, syrup

Process notes:  Feb-March are maple trees sugar seasons for us ~  Up north, Ontario farms tapped sap from maple trees to be boiled and sold as maple syrup.  This maple sap making business was taught by First Nations and was an important social activity.  The tradition of collecting maple sap and boiling it down- it takes 40 gallons of sap to make 1 gallon of syrup- spans Eastern Canada.   But nowhere is it better understood and more embedded in in the culture than in Quebec, which produces 77% of the entire world supply, over 32,000 metric tons.

Posted for OpenLinkNight at D'verse Poets Pub - Hosted by Anthony Desmond ~  

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

The calling

Cut from Paper by Rogan Brown

the paper calls to her
as music
each layer, a minute scale
of spikes & thorns
soft & bending to
her fingers,  each delicate
strand, a white fire 
curving into
her womb, 
river, sun-
she is lost in this 
other world
at night

by day,
she folds the news paper 
its ink staining her gloves
she goes to work
measuring 7.5 hours into a cup
her fingers are fast
tip-tapping numbers 
& each time she crosses a line,
circles a key point,
the paper scratching the heel 
of her palm
is stiff & 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Hosted by Gabriella ~
Thanks for the visit ~

Saturday, March 28, 2015

Caught by dream catcher

the train is motionless in the tunnel 
we wait, we sweat, we are restless birds
caught in underbelly of winter's last grip
-finally we move at snail's pace, then faster

zipping past graffiti walls, spinning faster
until we arrive at station, we lose our grip -
our thoughts are wayward in the dark tunnel
lost in a dream, we are motionless birds

webbing wings to flap & glide as birds
do when out of the charcoal ash tunnel
our legs buck up & down, wheeling faster
than skywind until we lost gravity, our grip

with these walls recede, our grip
becomes softer as we let the wind cradle faster
our feathers white, moss-glossy as birds
do, when out of the dark winding tunnel

our eyes blink from bursting light yellowing the tunnel
we twist with twigs holding us captive, dreaming of birds-

Photography by Brooke Shaden

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Not a Sestina but close, hosted by Bjorn Rudberg~  And Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~

I have used this pattern for my rhyming end-words:  (to be read vertically)

Thursday, March 26, 2015

a light for the tarnished souls

Title & Photography by Brooke Shaden 

Wind, tinder my words
ivory blade, glinting silver
than winter's splintered ice

Sun, flint my shadows
reddening my cheeks to bloom
than spring's first plume

Sky, marshal my feet 
to carve a path sieved  
of autumn's dying leaves

Sea, lighthouse my way, with bird's
eye, I hurdle storms, ignited 
by wildfires of summer nights

Wind, tinder my words
Sun, flint my shadows
Sky, marshal my feet
Sea, lighthouse my way, with bird's

eye, I witness the

                        in me -

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight, Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg ~ I took the constanza poetry form and played with the ending ~  Thanks for the visit ~

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Night's beauty

Solar Eclipse
Photographer:  Amy Shore

Turn off the city lights
When the sun's belly sinks into the lake
Look skyward to drink the darkest of night

The moon is stitching a mantilla
Each thread emerald-grey, caught in aurora's spray
Turn off the city lights

The black velvet rose among the roses
Blooms, its single eye drowning every starlight
Look skyward to drink the darkest of night

Let the lone black bird
Spin-climb the clouds on south wind's tail
Turn off the city lights

Imagine celestial heaven baring
its purple womb, its milky strands
Look skyward to drink darkest of night

Let it descend, clear as spring
Water, rushing symphony of reverence
Turn off the city lights
Look skyward to drink darkest of night

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Hosted by Mary ~  Free verse Villanelle ~

Saturday, March 21, 2015

Rust on first day of spring

It was one wet spring
lilac wore me
bluer than I could recall, my knees

jelly-dewed.   Your words were butter
luring me as a bee 
to feast the white tulips. Invisibly  

we silk-spun to lovers
against my family's wishes.   A stone
flowered under my breastbone

and my hands jerked, twisted rubber.
Was it the drugs you were spooning 
me or your coppery lies?   Pruning 

back, I vomit the moon's supper 
burning my stomach & every breath. 
Too late, your poison, a riverbed 

steeped of your true colours covering  
my bones, tarnishing blood  
to iron, rusting my tongue, petrified wood.       

Petrified Wood by Margaret Bednar

Process Notes:  While waiting in the hospital last night, I saw and overheard the drama of this family. The night ended with the very thin daughter being treated for epileptic seizures which the parents blame on her drug addled boyfriend.   

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads ~ Stretching metaphors in a free versed constanza form ~ and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~ 

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Lessons while sitting on my grandma's lap

The Wind by Artist

I let the wind in
       A river timeless in repose

It births in me
       undefined words
             ever shifting sands 
         curving balls at the last 

       notes//tide by tide
weaving tendrils 
        erasing footprints in a heart/

           beat/I sing with the storm 
              I dance without gravity's shoes
        I unsettle flowers from their seats

I drink the sun 
     as if I am her favored child    
Swaying softly as wheat stalk              
     My spine bends 
         to wind's energy 
                resilient, survivor, ever

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Winds of March -  We have a special guest hosting for this prompt, smiles ~ Pub opens at 3pm EST ~ 

Thanks for the visit ~

Thursday, March 12, 2015

Early March morning

First Sunrise After Daylight Savings
Credit:   Michael Leek of BlogTO

A man with a dark coat waits by station exit, his eyes bright as child holding a red balloon.   His face, oiled by sun, is not stiff starched with indifference of everyday commute. The crowd stretches as elastic bands along train tracks.  I yawn, hearing the cars floating by on the expressway.  I smell coffee, stale bread and dried paint on someone's shoes.  The ads above me, blink in blurry lines. Somewhere, I plant a fist of seeds.

against blue washed sky
moon is a white bud blooming 
        in the melting snow 

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - A haibun for our new host, Bill Webb~ Thanks for the visit ~