Reading poetry has made me want to write poetry. Writing poetry is enjoyable, but very personal, and does not come easy. This is learning. I’ve no idea how bad these are, but I do like the challenge of writing them. The value of these for me is that pleasure.
Soaking
This gift of solitude
and peace
that wet weather brings
the silent
scented breath
before tap tap tapping
and shivers
for a dead mother
remembered
crumpled warm
and deep within
this towel’s friction
a cherished damp
to glowingly revisit
every storm
Creation Myth
These stars
whisper god’s absence
while oceans away
our brilliant mistake
lost
glimmering
in fond embrace
while thoughts of colour
rough hewn from voice
flashed
then flashed again
Primordial
A replica
of the universe
before dawn
the pavement
is shimmering
ocean blue
and then a call
from the wild
no longer living
my memories
with shaking hands
drill holes in the sky
In Memoriam
In the pockets
of these six coats
brittle twig and polished stone
a glass bead
robin’s egg
and copper coins
paper with pencil
map and matches
one broken bone button
but nothing
to remind us
of what we thought you were
just these treasures
hidden from those
who knew you best
Dedication
We learned to be careful
with what gets left out
and every day
there’s less to be touched
less to shimmer
less to shake
Fictions
Hearing stones
tell stories
of longing
that we both thought
were our very own
decisions made
and then forgotten
Generations
Graffiti quotes
advertising slogans
as birds
mimic car alarms
Humber Delta
Into her green skin
our silent winter river
inhales snow
and merging with the lake
begins to whisper
tendrils of ice
threading ghostly smoke
curling
white layers
her seductive song
Waiting
I’ve been thinking
about the rain
and how
when it doesn’t arrive
there’s disappointment
and a terrible longing
unfulfilled
Piss Train
Waiting to depart
on today’s piss train
I imagined
an age
when vinaigrettes
we’re commonplace
to stave off the odour
of shit
rotting corpses
and everything else human
Become Comfort
Oblivion churns
a grey dust
on these crackling hands
and this reddening throat
while drinking
as dogs will
eyes downcast
forgetting
become comfort
scratching
to break
the lines
stretching to make
this truth exist
in magical abandon
now we the sound
sound once more
deafening and sure
caked and raw
Reflection
In the station
the streetcar
from an impossible angle
approached
and I thought
it’s possible
that this reflection
of a reflection
around the corner
and down the road
would never arrive