Sunday, July 27, 2014

Grappling with words


Photo credit:   M. Bednar



always
there is the pace & urge

framing is factor
where to focus, what to blur

a wisp, a thread is all I can get
as often your wings propel you

into a distance where I can't follow 
I perch still, listening

to a scratch, flint, tremor
I know lies just below the blue-sliced dawn

during summer
you are mighty heron, thrilling for hunt

during autumn
you are red maple leaf, dazzling in sundown 

during winter
you are lace-moon, quivering above my window

in spring,
you are hail storm, unleashing on my pages

grit, fury, tenacity
you tell me, I will find you

always
Say of me:   You are mine.*


* Line from Hilda Hilst, I come from Ancient Times


Posted for the Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Word List by M - Play It Again
and Poets United - Thanks for the Visit ~

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Are pancakes a hang-over cure?


Grace @ Everyday Amazing


One side burnt, the other cheek pale
It's been some time since I made pancakes
I say-
drizzled with blueberries
fluffed eggs & milk, but this one is still good -  

I set a pancake on plate for my 15 year old daughter
who came to bedroom in the pre-dawn hours
"Mom,
can you please prepare pancakes in morning?"
Her voice is a child
requesting for lullaby for her stomach

now empty
after hovering her face over
white toilet bowl
retching
hours before
my hubby calmly inducing her vomiting
My daughter kneels, wobbly & glassy eyed
"I will never drink again, she says -
This is awful."

Her first time to drink unsupervised 
in her best friend's surprise party 
I clipped my tongue, carefully
aiming my words
"Now you know why beer & wine stores
don't sell to teenagers because they don't know
their limits."  I say (you need to be 21 years here)

I chastise myself for allowing her to go to 
neighbor's impromptu party-
How could I forget
what bored teens do on Friday summer night?

"I asked for it, beer, wine
I wanted the experience
But I don't remember anything anymore 
only puking at the backyard. 
I don't even know most of the crowd."

I grab the phone to talk to neighbor's mom
scratch that, to berate her for letting the crowd go out of hand
But the phone went to voice mail, so I tidy
her mess -

Spit, vomit, toxic, fears
Her bedroom stinks of regrets
I probe further & find that nothing else
happened
"The party broke up after 1 hour of our
departure because the police came.  
I'm glad my friends took care of me 
since I blacked out", she adds  

I want to give her an armor
and cotton wings 
and certainty of owning one's voice

"This is how to hold your own (I understand
peer pressure)-
Eat first, then stick to just one type of drink,
(just in case you decide to drink)
& keep your friends nearby."  I say

She sleeps with an ice pack on her head
A shallow bowl, two paper towels, two towels 
await beside her bed for gentle nursing- 

I, who have set her (our) limits
"Boundaries are important"-
                                        gives her space&time-
       
There is a trick to turning near-perfect pancakes 
Allow batter to set & firm ever slightly, 
then test-flip the other side quickly on buttered pan-  

Too soon,  it's a wet-mangled yolk
Too late,   it's a fire-scarred wood
I pour light maple syrup on my pancake
                                       savoring summer slow & easy
                                        


Posted for OpenLinkNight of D'verse Poets Pub - Thanks for the visit ~

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Two tankas: Nemophila Harmony


in sea of blue blooms
a million eyes unfold, spring
how do I measure you? 
is it 1 sunrise to 1 sunset 
or is every breath equal to sky?

Hitachi Seaside Park is where 4.5  million blue flowers bloom once annually around April in an event referred to as the “Nemophila Harmony.”

~0~0~


baby blue fields
dazzle my eyes, I'm moonstruck
 under the lone tree
 how does my hand measure time ? 
with tear drop for each dying bloom   

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Time and Time Again Hosted by Mary

Picture credit:   here

Sunday, July 20, 2014

This poem is a selfie, nest and doughnut



I.

This poem is busy
As flock of birds scavenging for food in parking lot
As passengers alighting from subway, clutching their
iphones tightly as if their hands are born with it.
As if ears are sockets, forever plugged with noise.
This poem is a selfie.


II.

This poem is made of twigs
A week ago,  I wanted to play god when a baby robin
fell from the small nest, its wet black feathers broken.
But the woman on the phone said, let the mother robin
decide what to do with her baby.  
This poem allows nature to take its course.
This poem is a nest.  


III.

This poem is hungry
As the people lining up at Tim Horton's take out lane.
Some people are lazy, why can't they just go out of their cars
& get it quickly, someone asked.
Maybe they are looking for comfort, I say.  
Maybe every step is jagged stone.
This poem is a doughnut.


IV.

This poem is a socket for selfies.
This poem is a twiggy nest,  now empty of birds. 
This poem is comforting as a take-out doughnut.   



For Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Boomerang metaphor created by Hannah Gosselin
and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Blown away


Gravity falls away from my feet
I am lifted like dandelions

white-fluffed, spinning on storm mill
of words

nectar & pollen
gliding over city's concrete 

I hear the browning of leaves
as a baby robin falls from small nest 

becoming a ball of feathers, stilled by cold grass-
I listen to stories from my fellow passengers

where they have been & where they are going-
Their footprints seep into my verses 

Shaping, carving, polishing
this poem, a circle

I let the forest in, wild & fierce
And the forest takes me back 

where gusty wind plays a concerto
each seed pulling upward, framing into a flock of birds

sky's mirror in their eyes 
showing me how to wish & scatter

each single-rounded breath in sky 



Dramatic Stainless Steel Wire Fairies by Robin Wight


If you want to see the moving wire sculpture, check this cool link ~

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Thanks to the community for letting me believe I have wings ~  You have always been my "safe" landing for the last 3 years ~ Happy Weekend ~

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Ode to the Poets


The sum of your words does not equal
a sentence
neatly tied in bow

Its the words underneath your words
tide & undertow
that turns

my two arms
         Into hundred feather wings
my two feet
         Into wheeling stars in the sky

Where would I find myself
If not where
your pen takes you 

Your everglade, unsculptured  
Your debatable peace, a tyranny 
I keen to where

Every space is a hovering letter
Every missed punctuation 
         is serendipity
Your unfinished canvas is my second wind

And even though
between us is a river
of metaphors

I hear your voice
in a seashell
in a raindrop

every turn of a page
is a gift

To all of you
Thank you for your words



Happy Anniversary D'verse Poets Pub !!

Picture credit here

Saturday, July 12, 2014

Sorrow



I catch your amber eyes across mine
Between subway stops & grating wheels
Your braided long-grey hair is
          A hornet's nest

Everyone shies away from your shadow 
Your dusty sandals & clothes showed 
where you have been -
         Scorched by sun

The train track greases by river bend
Gentle as slow butterfly
But nothing moves you, not a flicker       
        Sorrow is a bird

Hiding in your pouch
Too long, it has not flown
Too long, it has not eaten
       Yet it sings, hardy as cactus 

Leafless, spiny & spiky
Coloring your weathered hands 
Lost as your native land.        
       I wonder what grief 

has torn your eyes to silt & mortar? 
I wonder at the sound of your voice?  
Loud as gunfire?
       Or soft pebble falling in rain?
   
All too quickly, the station stop comes
The afternoon sun wrinkles
our faces as we all spring to our feet 
       except you 

       man with dead-stone eyes.
  



Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Inspired by title Sorrow by Claribel Alegria. I have not experienced a personal loss of my own family so I thought of viewing sorrow from a third person point of view.
and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~  Happy weekend ~

Picture credit:  here

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Two snapshots



I.   Flash Fiction 55 words

     She sits, pale-flustered on red-cushioned seat of train.

     Across her, young girls laugh merrily, bright in summer shirts, shorts & back packs.

     Day painting job smears a man's pants, boots & pony-tailed hair, silver white.

     A group of jellyfish is called a bloom or swarm.

     I move towards the next exit doorway, carried by tide.


II.  For Margaret's challenge - Life on an Island


     Is a slow drift of afternoon sands
     Is opening the oven to freshly baked bread
     Is watching boats meander, unheeding wind & sky

     Is dabbing the sun's colors on your cheeks
     Is making a list and tying it to a kite
     Is a lost world, filled with treasures no one can count


Overlooking "Teach's Hole" (aka Blackbeard)
By Margaret Bednar

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads
& Poets United
Personal Notes:   The baby robins have hatched and my brother is recovering in his home after a bout with a rare disease ~  Thanks for your kind thoughts & prayers.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

At midpoint, assessing my life

I.     For Poets United

Stitched on these pages
Are letters written to myself

Their delicate threads 
Mirror the seasons quickly passing by 

In a single knot 
My hands bound the white papers 

The past falls away like brown dry leaves  
Into summer downpour

I pick up my needle & yarn &
begin a new canvas of the people around me-

a young lady stops walking on busy street
& buries her face in pink rose, poking out from wire fence-

a man with long blond hair stands on crowded subway 
& writes furiously on his notebook, one arm around the pole-

two young children eating a slice of watermelon, 
their black eyes full of contentment-

and ....
      




II.    For Poetry Jam


I write 

on water:
You do not quench my thirst. 

Even on hot summer day
Even on last leg of long journey 
  
I untie

my shoes & kneel
inhaling space & silence

Even when the day is not ripe fruit 
Nor the night resplendent in moonlight

I write

on page:
Thirst is a seed I am planting today.



Posted for Poets United - Midweek Motif - Half the year
and Poetry Jam - Thirst

Picture credit:   here

Sunday, June 29, 2014

One Sunday morning






Dawn crouches slowly
& strikes each maple leaf
bell-chimed, 
frail as silky web,
each space, silver scar
each word is sepia
knotted by black threads
My fingers slowly unravels
until light
seeps
like tangerine
peeling flame & breath
flamboyant as peacock




Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Avant-Edge- A Sunday Challenge 
& Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~