By now, I expect Billy Collins’ agent in California has received my fan letter. In another week, the letter and accompanying poem could be in Mr. Collins’ hands. Or perhaps it will drop into the former US poet laureate’s email as a scanned attachment with a message from the agent: “Another crack-pot fan letter for you.” Continue reading
I want to be one of those shimmering
stick figures framed in my bedroom window
under glass as they meander to the point,
quivering in the glitter of sun on waves.
Their dog trots forward to the high and dry
marker buoy while the other two straggle,
appear, disappear, appear in the play of light.
They turn shoreward and I lose sight of them.
I pull on shoes still gritty from yesterday’s walk,
head for wave-shaped rocks, pick
through barnacle spotted tide pools,
around boulders covered in kelp hair,
gulping Fundy’s perfume – gull shit,
sun-roasted dulse, tidal mud –
crunch sand, crush shells.
Behind me today’s footprints
will soon wash away
in the rising tide. I scan
the shoreline for the
window and hail
of it all.
No one ripped my bodice,
no kiss lifted
my right leg acutely,
nor did I ever tango
or tangle in slick Tide
washed sheets rapturously.
But once, a guy yanked
my hair and cold-cocked
me on the headboard.
I roused, laughed. What else
could I do? Of course,
I groaned and swooned,
played the sexual buffoon.
He came. I went
and showered, closed
No knives flashed,
no violins squealed.
Rose scented bubbles
Helvetica’s Viking vengeance
pounds rage, warns
Times Roman’s time’s up,
his sagging crown
burned coffee and
three teaspoons of sugar
congealed in a chipped mug
has nothing fresh to say
but what the hell,
at least is true
Trust me, Didot ain’t it,
linked by sonorific
association to an object – also
not my type. Neither is
a slab-serif screeching
hoary huckster grabbing
space above the fold.
No! Give me
a soft touch. Open Sans
for me, baby.
A daisy scented field
where I read
between the lines,
that’s my type.
The ants came first. Her buds,
they said, asked for it.
Round and green, unopened yet –
you bet she asked for it.
Her nectar egged them on.
Don’t you forget who asked for it!
Her perfume and the bouncing skirt she wore,
she chose, and asked for it.
Look at her! Impossible to ignore
those carpels. Naturally, she asked for it.
What else could I do? Her beauty made me
helpless and asked for it.
Plucked and ruined, dropped inside a vase,
peony, bitch, you asked for it.
Do as I Do was the copper-top
battery of the family. Do as I Say
was the mop inside the bucket.
Just saying, Disney princesses
don’t wear chipped glass
slippers or work in the Magic Kingdom
dressed in ball gowns from
Frederick’s of Hollywood.
Do as I Say’s glass slipper
tinkled like a wind chime
when she dropped it in the rock
garden. Do as I Do ground
her teeth and released
the fiz of juniper and quinine laced
tonic in her mouth. When she fled
to Vancouver, 1495 kilometres from
home – because distance makes
the heart ponder – Do as I Say stayed
home the night her shoe shattered.
Warning shoes were fired
but Do as I Do never did not
do and Do as I Say couldn’t
say for sure if the shoe fit the other
foot. So she limped in one shoe.
“You’re half an aphorism,”
said Do as I Do. But the shoe
fit. Because shade thrown.
I know, right?
“Stop moving. If I see you moving
I’ll put a curse on you.” The hot
cauldron of hate sizzled over
the family campfire of love.
An anvil blue sky pancaked
Do as I Do, her jam oozing
from under it, gluing her
legs and arms to the ground.
Do as I Say gurgled a confessional
song underwater. Suzie did too but
choked. Do as I Say knew
You will love the bittersweet end
of melancholy though you’ll adjust
the recipe. “C’est la vie,” said Do as I Say.
Her shoes crooned “Dooby, dooby doo”.
She giggled. “You’re playing our song.”
In the rock garden, slivers of slipper
glass winked a semaphore of misdirection.
Jam glued the family together again.
This was created using a writing exercise called “Twenty Little Poetry Projects”. Fun has been missing from my writing lately and writing this felt playful. Its mostly nonsense but with some work it could make sense.
Blame the lack of a consonant
for the vowel’s incontinence,
her violent and windy fury
panicking in a hurry
to escape the gate of teeth,
speak louder than a squeak,
prove she is more than an airy twit,
that words mean more than shit.
A cup, a sleeve, a siren song scent, I
pick her up, outbound, spend too much – a tall
extra-hot, double-shot made sufferable
“because we care about our planet”. We
sail on, addicted, believe in her tale,
and culpable, gulp her mythology.
With paper-thin desire, I stare into
green-haloed, star-crowned, green eyes, lips, hair. She
surfs lazy brown, bony, corrugated waves
environmentally aware. We skim
the sky, a flat white winter foams below,
a strawberry frappuccino dawn blooms.
Maybe “Time and tide flow wide” but I fear
this convenient relationship is doomed.
(Posted for Bjorn’s dVerse invitation for Handbook of Forms. We were invited to write a sonnet. Here is the link. Poetry Forms – The sonnet )
I believe in big trees
Douglas firs, maples, white pine
rooted in damp earth, fertile,
abundant deep breathers,
sweepers and cleaners
I believe in one swaddling sky
the only sky above me,
universal, maternal, fragile
Misbegotten, I became a lover of you
and your children, rain and sun.
Through sky and earth I know
my body, spirit, mind live
here and only
You whittled me, made me fit,
gave me space to be,
to crucify and bury worry,
grow hope repeatedly,
a seedling, sapling, fledgling
I look forward to my resurrection
born anew as a tree,
where I exhale for you
and pray this earthly heaven continues
despite our sins and trespasses
I believe in big trees,
earth, sky – and her children