Category Archives: poetry

streams

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the lamp shade
is colored with a depth
of incandescence,
the way a face
shows
a heart, flushed
and swelling
with crescendo –
a glimmering crest
crowning the moment.

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Some stream of consciousness writing this morning…I had nothing on my mind as I sat down to write. I looked up from the computer and saw the light 😉

Who doesn’t like it when something nice just appears out of nowhere?

My writing output has slowed of late, due to work, family obligations, and life in general. I always feel a little better when I can craft a thought, a vision, or a feeling in a poem. It is like my heart shakes off a bit of the coldness that can creep in. Saturdays are good mornings for that. I’m grateful. Thanks for visiting.

indulgent

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interior to the moment
where we mingled our words,
every other one articulated
disparate pretenses
though thought bound-
to increment and comply
with the next,
leading onward
in the clutches
and parlance of consummation
to a synchronous
indulgence.

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I know the words here are a bit “overzealous,” though as I’ve mentioned before here…I like the sounds that words make. So indulge my vocabulary and just listen to the sounds. Thanks for visiting.

Whether

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calling amid the
intermittent drops
that fall and soak the ground
or
seeing entangled
clouds appear
with the morning light.
not
just as a backdrop
of weather,
but a welcoming
posture
I see coming
into view
awaiting entrance,
her subtle hand
on glass.

soft shoulder

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in a moment of thankfulness,
on the arcing turn
where it may be
unstable, and precarious to be
on such an edge-
one part cusp and adamant
yet agreeable
one part adrift, roaming
yet anchored
to each other-
in this moment of his gratitude
held while leaning
into her arching turn.

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A sign I see every day driving to work that warns of the roadway perils became a poem.

The Caretaker

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I’ve planted my gardens, the seedlings are nestled in soil.
Their placement in sunshine and shade impacting the toil
of the growth and the fruit that they bear.
All I can now do is tend to the water and care
of the ground and the branches where the issue resides
and pray that fair weather and gain will intensify.
That one day these young for which I’ve aided and viewed
will grow with abandon, and with their sustenance accrued
plant their own gardens and remember the day
of planting and harvesting love in their own unique way.

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Not sure of what to call this yet. And I think it is a sonnet in the making. Right now, though, it expresses a profound sentiment in this poet’s life.

debris/hubris

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I’ve noticed how
you reach for a speck
or a fleck of dust –
a strand of hair –
and remove it;
using your thumb and
middle finger to cinch
then pull away
the stray trinket.

And just as nimbly,
You eye
with a glance,
just on the chance
that some appraisal is not
justified.

Then release -aside-
the interloping bits
that cling-
These things.

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I like to observe how people interact – with others, with their surroundings. Sometimes you can infer things by observing behaviour. Sometimes not…

In all, a simple poem with some nice elements.

ingrained

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My poems seem like a recipe
for whole grain bread.
The water and oil,
though critical,
don’t mingle – dissimilar things
have no bound surfaces- but you add salt and sugar anyway-
Having faith in the mix.
Pouring in flour and seeds
can appear chaotic, yet it is
purposeful to the blend. Some flour
is white and smooth,
some of it is wheat and coarse
– textured-
with grittiness of flax seeds,
and oats, and rye.
A small divot in the pile
is home to bread yeast, a catalyst, an ache,
that fuels the rising dough over time.

If using a machine, then you’re done.

The poem can bake and rise, and still be tasty –
but it misses an opportunity.

A need.

Something you add.

Handle the dough
Grasp
Folding the blend
Feeling the texture
between your fingers.
Press into the bowl
massage and cajole-
form and remake
this merger, new
with each tumble
and clutch.

This wielding power comes from you
to make the poem combined and mingled
and mean something that will not dwindle
with time.

And the bread will be just fine.

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Trying to jump back in the saddle of writing again. I’m not so sure that this is best, final version of this. I enjoy breadmaking for the robustness of the bread and the physical handling that makes it such an individual creation, much like poetry.

After reading the completed poem, I like the additional symbolism that this offers as well.