The winter walk

Grace@ Everyday Amazing

is raw
& snapping cold -
my beige jacket becomes
an armor, keeping my hands
& body heat tight as all closed windows

Not a breeze stirs
Nor squirrels running up trees
Only silence trumpeting frost
& draping bare boughs
pristine as first breath of spring

still a long way from here -
i see the sun's golden stain
lifting the mist of night like a veil
my walk is steady beat on salted street-
one round

is all I can do
short but invigorating
like a 50 meter sprint -
my nostrils flaming smoke
before I circle back to house
eager for that warmth of chocolate cup-


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Sketchbook//in moment by Claudia -

Happy weekend ~

Where sunflowers are red

You walk along city's harbor nipping
of cool lake & sunset dipping faint yellow

But your eyes are loveless
& your hands are battered by yesterday's rain

The city grime drapes your robe grey
& thoughts dark dusty distraught

Even the garden of red sunflowers
are dry bulbs crusted in sawdust

Each petal a weeping eye
Each crown an empty castle

When did you forget that the world
is golden as sunflowers

When did you believe that soot &
cinders are your skin instead of wine & salt

When did you decide that you are
a shadow with parched roots, toothless mouth   

You are not made of wheels nor steel knives
Your hands are not made just to scrap & toil

Stand upright & shake out webs & dead twigs
Remove those eyelids of black misery

Wake up & accept sky's gift of light & darkness
Strike your breasts red, rage your words loud

You are blessed with golden sunflowers
inside, spiral patterns of velvet beauty & seeds

glorious as your flower soul

Artist:  Lisa Graham

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Featuring Lisa Graham's Art - I am hosting this feature over the weekend ~
and Kerry's Find Your Own Creative Space

Thanks for the visit ~

Marly's face

Looking through Circumstances

Artist:   Lisa Graham

is a study of sorrow-
black sparrow eyes are somber lit

checks are red rouged to hide
skeletal shoulders slumping slowly

she hardly notices dappled morning light
nor flowers blooming fresh by her chair-

her eyebrows are stitched to worries
over the dollars she sends every 2 weeks-

her family leans on her-
husband, child, mother, siblings, nieces &

nephews, the list of needs is long
when all she wants to do is travel back home

& be a mom & wife & eldest daughter instead
of primary breadwinner

in a foreign country, working as lowly
paid migrant, where her alcoholic absentee father's eyes

are blurry, hers is firm in faith, unmeasurable
where her husband's chin is frail, hers is iron pointed -

every night, she prays that she stays healthy
enough to work & save, work & save - 

last time i saw her, I reminded her of the silly
things we did when she stayed with us briefly

& for a moment, she was young carefree
woman with flowers clipped on her hair-

if i had a paintbrush, i'd have framed this moment
to remind her

the sun is blushing yellow & vibrant
- & for me, an instruction that this is a gift -

Posted for OpenLinkNight of D'verse Poets Pub ~ Thanks for the visit ~
I will be featuring this artist this weekend at Real Toads ~  Watch out for it ~

Shared with WriteEditPublish- What's in a Face ~

under February stars

the night is a silkworm
feasting on mulberry leaves
& starry constellations

the weaving is slow yet
deliberate, my hands are a 
cocoon

i have no name yet
but i hear my blood
strongly stirring

my eyes are glass
reflecting the starlight
faint above snow wrapped city

soon, i will wear
gown of iridescent beauty: deep purple
threaded of courage & tenacity

the air sharpens as
a vision comes to me:
woman standing alone

her body leans to the sky 
serene as moon 
the galaxy awaits for her
exhalation

& i will fulfill it like
prophecy of the one who
birthed me:   shaper of dreams

"I started my life with a single absolute:  that the world was mine to shape in the image of my highest values and never to be given up to a lesser standard, no matter how long or hard the struggle."
- Ayn Rand, Atlas Shrugged

"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage."
- Anais Ain

Photography by Noell Oszvald

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Sunday's challenge theme - Individualism
and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~

Let it bleed

Let it bleed

Sculpture by Vally Nomidou

There's this woman
made of paper & cardboard

When it rains, she wrinkles
Under the sun, she is veins
pulsing of energy

She allows colors
to seep out of her 
words, skin, hair, mouth

She threads pain
with double knots
underneath her ribs

At night she sews her hands
with wires
By morning, she is fist & 
birthing

of things she
passionately believes
& endures
folding, refolding, unfolding, folding

She is content with 
distance of moon & stars,
changing sea tides, storms, thaw-
She knows what she can change
and what she can't

Her body is canvas, 
inked by earth, wind & sky.

One day I will unravel her  

light
fervor 
ardent words  

inside of me.  

And let it all bleed.

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

Also please check out my lune poems as Personal Challenge from Michael (or grapeling) here ~  

The runner

I.

Monday morning, he rises before dawn.
In faint light, he puts on his shoes & jogging outfit.  
No cellphone, no wallet, nothing to weigh
him down as he dashes out of the door into darkness.   

The early morning run is his temple.
Rain, sun, autumn or snow, it didn't matter.  
Nirvana calls.   
The wind tussles his hair to solitude. 
There's only the hiss & crunch of
his shoes hitting dirt as he picks up momentum.    

This time is his alone.
Not husband.  Not father to two girls.
Not teacher to school.  Not a sibling nor son.
Just a soul, soaring free like black birds
vanishing above trees.

II.

She wakes up to find he has not yet returned
from his morning run.   Her eyebrows furrow for a moment.
It's not like him to be late for school.  Or for any appointment.  

Same dependable man.   Same dependable teacher.
Unvarnished like silvery hair & glasses.  
Like a school clock, he is predictable for the last 20 years. 

Facing the mirror, she notices her wrinkles & grooves.
She smooths them away, like dust.  As if her hand is
a magic wand.    As if time healed
whatever was broken, lost or simply missed.  

For a split second, she sees a young girl 
hovering as blue 
butterfly
before an older woman reappears.  

She wonders what her husband saw 
this particular morning
in the silver 
reflection.


Notes:   This is based on true story of the missing 52 year old Ontario teacher who disappeared on Jan. 12, 2014 after his morning run. Until now the police don't have a clue to his disappearance as he left his wallet & clothes.   It has been suggested that "he wanted to walked away".

Posted for Poets United - Mirrors
and D'verse Poets Pub - Thanks for the visit ~ *Your critique is appreciated*

Picture credit:   here

Bitten

I can withstand

storms, sun & wind

Bare on my back

stirring old bones to creaking

But when you found me

& burrowed your teeth

& tunneled your body

deep into my guts & liver, 

I turn red brown

suckered of sap & fruits

bitten black, scarred grey

feasted like honeycomb until I

tumble down, a king

whittled penniless by marauding bandits 

Notes:   When a tree is infested by pine beetles, the dead needles on the pine trees turn bright red. These beetles cause devastation by killing the pine trees and in the coming years, they are expected to wipe out over 80% of British Columbia's pine forest.

During our summer visit to BC last year, I was impressed with the architectural marvel of the Richmond Olympic Stadium.   The  wood ceiling is made of 1 million feet of salvaged pine beetle wood from forests of BC. The bitten wood panels made the ceiling unique & beautiful.

Grace @ Everyday Amazing

Richmond Olympic Stadium, BC

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Hosted by Bjorn -  Happy Weekend ~

Myth keeper

I hide doors 
I dye garments blue
Until
candles melt
to blackness

Ashes coil
& crown
yew trees kings

Wild is your murmuring
in cold
knuckled night

For you,
I gift my silver tongue
& red purple feathers

For you,
I keep the moon 
silent
veiled behind murky clouds

Until

you flame 
once more

glorious as phoenix  


Posted for D'verse Poets Pub 
& Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Get Listed with Brendan - Moon Madness - Sadly I only saw the moon sporadically in pre-dawn as it was very cloudy.  

Picture  credit:    here

Looking out the Window

the clouds descend
thick & ominous
fogging the windows
grey & grainy

thick snow drapes the garden
silent & cold as empty playground
the forecast today is rain
and anything above 0 C is a cause
to celebrate (3 C today)

when i was a child living in the east,
my siblings & i often wondered how snow
felt like & we would douse powder all over ourselves
clapping & running around sun-drenched room,
which made my mom angry with all the mess

now i know it's sticky & stubborn
as gum on car sides & windows
it's soft as feathers on first blush
that soon becomes heavy as loneliness
can be

I skype my aging parents & see it's summer,
its always summer from their window -
tropical garden, blooming pink blooms
unchanged, just the way when I left home -

I tell my mom,
'you should see when snow melts
and spring buds peek from soil,
the garden is so beautiful'

I say it fervently
As if the world is ripening blue
purple & succulent as mangosteen


Posted for the D'verse Poets Pub ~  Have a good weekend ~

Of what is

Onion orb by Deborah Glessner

onion is an interesting story -
it is poetry and motion,
frost shut in and poor

onion is connected to the following things:
it is a parent
it is tender

onion is the first to bloom,
an excellent antidote to the adverse effect
of scorching heat of the sun and hot wind



onion is simply sweet 

~0~0~

His face trembled with fear so pale, like thin onion sliced by wasted knife. 

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Artistic Interpretation with Margaret - Orbs 
I have used the list poem technique - Googlism & 55 words for the G-man ~ Happy Friday ~  Shared with D'verse - Second part is an American Sentence - 17 syllables ~