Tag Archives: poem

Poem 66: Nothing was said

To think, starlight in the pond
travelled millions of years to reach us;
no one saw it,
or if they did, nothing was said.

To think, each leaf trembling on the tree
is unique among billions;
no one saw it,
or if they did, nothing was said.

To think, the threatening cloud growling beyond hills
was formed by eons of conniving concocting weather systems;
no one saw it,
or if they did, nothing was said.

To think, the baby born somewhere today in a slum,
unique among billions, is dead;
no one saw it,
or if they did, nothing was said.

Poem 65: Chagrin and bare it

(A nonsense poem!)

God blessed me with bad teeth,
a whole mouthful.
That the few left are good for chewing
is somewhat douthful.

Shut up and look at the camera!
Watch the birdie! Smile! Say cheese!

I shall chagrin and bare it.

I s’pose I could suck soup
up through a straw.
That way there will be no need
to gnaw at awl.

Shut up and look at the camera!
Watch the birdie! Smile! Say cheese!

I shall chagrin and bare it.

The thing about gaps in the gums –
One can’t eat steak,
but then again there ain’t
no toofs to ache.

Shut up and look at the birdie!
Watch the camera! Smile! Say cheese!

I shall chagrin and bare it.

Poem 64: The meaning of flowers

 

The path from my front door
is lined with maybe more than flowers;
each bloom bud stands somehow
for love, or joyful vows, or truth…
Since ancient times virtues
lived nestled in a blue or red,
pink or white, petal bed:
love felt but never said, for fear;
the grace of rue; the cheer
of daisies; phlox that cares, adores!

And yet my pathway walk
is lined with silent thoughts, harsher
than thistles of a marsh;
despair that wilts and lasts; bereft
of hope, since when you left;
footsteps fading, heart cleft, too late
to lock the garden gate,
too late to hide the hate that seethes
along the path, in trees,
in flowers, in seeds, from my front door.

All day I think my ears will catch
the lifting of the latch.

(The form of this month’s poems is based on the Vietnamese luc bat).

Poem 63: On a dahlia

[Many thanks to Uma for the beautiful photograph.  Uma is a wonderful writer (and photographer).

The form selected for this week is an adaptation of the Vietnamese Luc bat. It is an adaptation of the poetic form because Vietnamese is a tonal language and it cannot be imitated in English. The syllable count and the rhyming pattern have been adhered to!]

The dahlia opens slow
before it makes a show, bright red,
and then the full-faced head
bends down towards its bed and bows;
as if to say the hours
of fleeting life somehow are short.
Its beauty comes to naught
as petals fall uncaught and die.

Some say each flower shall leave
a cob, a pod of seeds, a cone,
from which will spring the bones
of new flowers, new fruit, grown; and yet,
lest ever I forget,
my death shall not beget new grain
to grow in hope, in pain,
in love, in loss, in gain, in joy.

Poem 62: Rhapsodic burst

The form chosen this month is the ghazal.

The dead twigs of winter, neglected, burst into flower.
The dull, dawdling child, subjected, bursts into flower.

See the clown with wilted roses wrapped in newspaper;
his tears of blue make buds dejected burst into flower.

Young lovers kiss; they have eloped to camp at the beach.
The one with his tent well erected bursts into flower.

Dance barefoot the jagged stony path; the pilgrims’ way.
Reveal that love, when it’s perfected, bursts into flower.

The young girl, so good, so sweet, so plain, so commonplace,
all innocent and unaffected, bursts into flower.

Grandmother tends her pint-sized patch of barren garden.
It’s watered, watched, and as expected, bursts into flower.

Bruce, despite huge carpet stains, gets rent bond back in full;
he breaks into song! oops! corrected! bursts into flower!

Poem 61: It just seems that way

Swaying grass in wind
teaches me to dance in one spot.
It makes the hillside waltz
but really not.
It just seems that way.

Rise and fall of waves
teaches me to dance in one spot.
It makes the ocean tango
but really not.
It just seems that way.

Alone, I sit glued to one spot,
cornered in this old folks’ home.
He’s long past it, so they say.
He dribbles in his chair.
He wheezes in his air.
His mind’s not very clear.
His bank account is bare.
Mostly he can’t hear.
He won’t see out the year.
His end must soon be near.
There’s a bloody waiting list as long as your arm for here.

And yet

Swaying grass in wind
teaches me to dance in one spot.
It makes the hillside waltz
but really not.
It just seems that way.

 

Poem 60: New Year

You cavort around wearing your woman’s
leather rhinestone-rivet-chain quartz-bracelet-wristwatch watch
and singing Auld Lang Syne like you mean it
like there’s nobody in the world you forgot
like friends who love everybody in a great saturnalia of giving a
tu-whit tu-whoo and your original NIKE air max women’s running shoes
(worth five hundred and forty dollars fifty-eight)
that you can’t walk in cos of those tight, ripped, distressed, slim jeans, and
the knitted cat-ears faux fox fur vegan fibres beanie.
You can take that cup o’ kindness and
shove it up ya up ya up ya
tu-whit tu-whoo along with the I’m-currently-reading tome on
the life of Nefertiti which I recall you were speed-reading two years ago.
We too have run around the slopes
and picked the daisies fine
for auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne.
But you forgot, an old acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind
those days of auld lang syne
our days of auld lang syne, my dear,
our twenty-four years of auld lang syne.

I’ll be home if you want me, with the kids, though I don’t like my chances.