Tuesday, February 26, 2013

Folding the clothes

On the bed, newly dry socks  
- scatter like colored marbles -

Collarless shirts meditate 
- which one goes to which one -

But folded always, once and twice
- they quiet down, like sleepy children -  

Even big towels fall into predictable squares
- shorts, into smaller squares -

Pants fold and greet themselves, 
- while undergarments relax, deflated balloons -  

Office shirts wrinkle in sleep
- buttons exchange gossips across hangers - 

This is close to a zen moment
- neat piling and tidy tucking in drawers -

Almost like raked stones in Japanese garden,
- before they tumble down like storm clouds -

Posted for:  D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight - every Tuesday.

From Mayer's Experiments:  Writing household poems 

And this picture made me smile:   


Saturday, February 23, 2013

Notes before leaving

                                                                                        © Isadora Gruye

If you should leave, don't make it on Sunday
       When I'm baking chicken topped with butter-  

Not on Friday, when I'm eager to come
       home from work, drooping eyelids, aching thumbs-

Monday might be a good day, when my mind
       dwells on unfinished work, like a sour rind - 

Thinking of pay cheque by Thursday, time flies
       like a beggar, as I file & refile -    

Instead, pack your bags on Tuesday after-
       noon, when I'm drunk with paints, pens & verses- 

Hands sag like autumn leaves,  forehead sweaty - 
       Outside, neglected plants sniffle on wet

Tissues, the lone tree snaps like rubber band - 
       I won't noticed that you are gone - as planned -

Posted for:   Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Poem in 14 lines
and Poets United  

Updated:   This poem has been selected as Poem of the week - Thank you ~

Thursday, February 21, 2013

Graffiti Alley

  Rush Lane "Graffiti Alley", Toronto City

Aerosol paints streaking brick canvas
colorful squares on busted windows
bold fire balls & guns flaming
empty street
abandoned building
of broken pipe dreams & rusty fences  

See the faces,  drawn in charcoal
& greased fat,  years of toiling
in underground tunnels like rats-
“I see you---“  
from duct-taped note on pane
when no one is looking
underneath the dirty stairway or
behind the urinal walls--

“Don’t think!  Feel! “
“I do….”   Scribbling name  
& date underneath
before I leave --
before these walls are torn down 
& painted white from mayor’s order—Vandalism! --

I inhale their stories, 
grafted skin & soulful eyes-- 
like a map to another lost city-- 

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub  

Story and picture credit:  Toronto Street Art or Vandalism - here

Sunday, February 17, 2013

language of flowers

Grace @ Everyday Amazing

a seed grows in my mind
     unlike anything i have seen
          mysterious unfolding, a gem-
i take the slender brush,  

the blooms and leaves -
        the language of flowers -

petals rise, one by one, army
      of pastels & verses -
            rooting, overflowing canvas,   
across barren garden  

Posted for:  Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Form Challenge - Following the syllabic count of 8-6-8-6   1-4-1-6   8-6-8-6
and Poets United 

Saturday, February 16, 2013

in the old city

Grace @ Everyday Amazing
Old Quebec, Quebec City

the artilleries are silent now, 
black shiny sentinels, facing the river
mindless of tourists wandering about, 
like ghosts, oblivious to history-

after more than 300 years of icy winters,
narrow streets are empty of horses
& gunpowder that tore the city into 
fragments and searching for its roots-  

only tall golden towers are bustling 
with the rich and famous, as if its walls never 
forgot its gilded beginnings of French verses
& stiffly crusted English cakes--

if these chipped buildings can talk, 
what stories would we hear-
if these cannons can speak 
in deep gravelled voices,
what betrayals would we know -

across the benches, sun-warmed,  
tulips bloom  amidst foreign scents & words,  
needing no diplomacy, its bold arms
draw an invisible map- 

i slowly walk, listening to echoes 
of those who have walked before me 
but really,   
i am still trying to find my place --

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics - Hosted by Mary  

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

the words always lead me back to you

                                                          Grace @ Everyday Amazing

to say YES 
like the first day of spring,
all seasons long 

to say NO 
to leaving & giving up  
when things falter & break 

not to DWELL in the past
where mistakes rifle the door frame,
slammed in anger & pride

but to SEED this love
in the everyday care, like a gardener
or poet with his words --   

Posted for Imaginary Garden For Real Toads - to answer the question:  What is Love ?  
The title is from the last line of my poem, You
and Poets United - Committed  ~  Happy Hearts Day to you ~

Saturday, February 9, 2013

winter morning

Grace @ Everyday Amazing 

morning dawns in white 
icicles,  dangling like sharp spears from
brown-tiled roof, winter seeps colder than ever   

veiling the trees, bare 
and seedless, in muted symphony - pristine   
as morning dawns in white

sky heaves in palest pink 
and lavender clouds, slowly melting the
icicles, dangling like sharp spears from 

my window, crusted in sprinkled crystals--   
all is quiet, not a bird nor squirrel scampering the
brown-tiled roof, winter seeps colder than ever  

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Chained Rhyme: Cascade - Hosted by Hedgewitch ~  A cascade is a poem where each line of the first stanza serves in sequence as the last line of the following stanzas.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Curious as a cat

they looked like sweet ripe fruits 
peeking from bush behind the house,
capturing the fancy of a 6 year old
whose legs are forever running like wheels-

like a curious cat, she grabbed a fistful blooms,    
marveling them like prized marbles, so smooth  
& pungent,  she hesitated on whether
she would show them to her friends, or taste them first --

adventure blazed like a runaway train 
& fearing none-- 
she took a bite on the reddish fruit,  
stinging, burning tongue, blurring eyes--fire-fire-- 

she spat them out, running like mad to the kitchen--water--water--

never--never-- would she bite into a hot pepper again --   

Saturday, February 2, 2013

lighted path

Grace @ Everyday Amazing

gift me
a winding path
where no footprints nor twine 
can restrain my verses, broken
& true 

                 cast me
                 without shadows 
                 to fear unlike puppets 
                 in theatre, silver-masked, hollowed 
                 & less    

                                          steer me
                                          closer to light  
                                          where leaves breathe and the wind
                                          runs like a free bird, majestic 
                                          & healed

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Poetics of Groundhog 
and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - Poetry Form: Cinquain
I have used nature image with syllable count: 2-4-6-8-2