Hills of disappointment.

Mirages of fusion

               happiness

       good news.

It’s Good Friday
When the people
Demanded a sacrifice
Not theirs but another’s
For the sin of uttering truth
They didn’t want to hear
For not uttering the lies
They wanted to hear
Truth that comforted them, that swung into sleep
Visions in their heads
Of a Reality that doesn’t exist.

It’s Good Friday
The curtain ripped
A life died
A life demanded
Into hell it sank
What is your blood?
What is your sacrifice?

Wings of flowing air
Amaze me
As they roll with flair
In the sky
And fly
Straight
Past
Their engines roaring, their blades turning
Fast, oh so fast.
Humans did that.

   you sunk up to your knees, slipped and slid

      on the unshovelled walks.

February. In the new days, no snow,

   that counts anyway.

February. In the old days, cold so sharp

  you huddled in your fur coat, your wool coat,

    your scarf and toque and mitts.

February. In the new days, not cold,

  for a Canuck anyway.

February. In the old days, the short-long month

   between Christmas and Easter,

     an excuse to party.

February. In the new days, the month

   with Family Day.

February. The lost month

    that nobody wants and

     nobody celebrates.

“…write a poem about something you’ve been through. For instance, you may have been through a divorce, a car wreck, bankruptcy, detention, or the flu. Please make the something you’ve been through the title of your poem and go from there.”

So I did.

“Falling Down the Highway”

Tires hum on the blacktop
as lights in darkened buildings flash by
and overhead the giant sign warns
of the impending steep hill
we crest the unknown and fall
down the slope towards the cars all lined
up before the round green light
way down at the bottom where a street
crosses the highway we’re on
lights flash red one after one
like dominoes going down and Normand brakes
we accelerate down against the seatbelts
but they pull back pull back pull back pull
we kiss the backs of the seats snugly
as we stop centimetres short of the car ahead
one two…I release my breath and continue
writing in my head only it’s not over
the shock of contact stops time
my left arm reaches up to cradle my once-
damaged neck in time for another
the shock of contact stops thoughts
I stare out the windshield whole
cause of the seatbelt and see a white
car flash past on the shoulder.

And so a poetry video was born.

Rebirth in the Onyx Ice

Technorati Tags: Poetry, Video, YouTube

“Lightness”

Million dollars flutter down;
my shoulders unburden
from the debt.

Technorati Tags: Poetry

“Don’t You See?”

Don’t you see the need
in your citizens as you
raise their rates to heights
unscalable by them, their
families, their care-
givers. Don’t you see the need
in your citizens
as you drop their treatment claim
dollars to lows so
cruel they’d be better off
dead.

Don’t you see?

Technorati Tags: Poetic Asides, Poem, Poetry

And now the judging begins. Robert and Tammy, with the help of guest screeners, will whittle each day down to a Top 5 list. These will be passed on to guest judges, who will select the top poem for each day. Robert will then go through the remaining 120 poems (2nd to 5th for each day) and select 20 out of that bunch. That plus the top 30 will round out the Top 50 eBook. We won’t know who and which poems will make it into the Top 50 eBook until July 2nd. It’s going to be a loooonnnng wait, which I’ll probably promptly forget for the next couple of months as is my wont. He will make other announcements about the PAD challenge on that day too. Since about 700 of us posted a poem every day and more than 25,000 poems were posted in total, it’s going to be a difficult task for him!

Thank you to everyone who read my poetry and especially to those who commented on my poems here, on Facebook, and privately. I appreciated your kind words very much. Your encouragement kept me going!

“Hands”

Hands, those appendages at the end of our arms,
full of nerves and muscles and vessels,
they declare our sussurations outwards.

They grow from pudgy and clenched
to long and lean;
they heal by touch and stroke;
they caress the loved one’s skin and
hold with love the child within;
they whisper comfort and slap awake;
they applaud and pump and do create.

And today they wave farewell.

Farewell.

“Never Found”

Where did my blue-eyed boy go?
He’s lost in his mind,
Lost to his soul.
Who will make him whole?

Where did my blonde-haired boy go?
He’s split in two and
Three and four.
Who will make him whole?

Where did my blue-eyed boy go?
He’s needed here at home,
He’s wanted by his clan.
Who will make us whole?

I didn’t think I could do this, but gave it a whirl anyway and got caught up in the challenge. I’ve started each line with a capital letter so if the long lines wrap, you’ll know it from the beginning lowercase letters! After I posted to the poem-a-day challenge page, I saw two words in the fifth stanza that should’ve been “our” to continue the concept of “I” and “us” that I began with. Oh well, fixed it here.

“Look Upon Your Vain Hope, King of Pride”

I gaze upon the stars
At night, their rays like tears
Of joy, of wonder that explode
Into grief upon seeing Leviathan
Roam upon the earth, that creature the demons cheer,
That God created for our misery.

We, who inhabit this place of misery,
Look to the heavens, to the stars
For their cheer
To dry our tears
That the great Leviathan
Did gloat to see in us explode.

And now our anger roils, it explodes,
Cloaking our misery
That he feeds on, that fat Leviathan.
But our fury reflects off him to feed the stars,
Who shed drops and drops of fiery tears
Upon us to bring back in us a spark of cheer.

Oh, so much angst in us does need cheer
To succor, else our hearts explode
Into crimson gushers flooding the land, drowning our tears.
Oh, such misery
They do see, the stars
When they look upon the proud work of Leviathan.

He curls his tail, he purses his mouth, he squeezes his body round his happy prey, does Leviathan.
He feasts on complacent pride and cheers
To see from their mighty fortresses, the constellations’ impotent fury in his starring
Role on earth, his domain of rock formed when God the universe did explode.
He looks fondly on the banquet his happy prey creates from our misery,
He and them slaking their thirst with our tears.

From the heavens, drop by drop, claret and choler tears
Fizzle and burn the armour of the fearless Leviathan.
But he heeds nothing but what he wants: misery.
His enemy is cheer,
And he quickly explodes
It back up to the stars.

But the stars dry their tears
As God, as Ahura Mazda explodes the vain Leviathan.
And all we who suffer cheer to see the end of our misery.

“Longing”

Where is God?
I ask           I scream
I wonder    I despair
I sigh         I think
I bellow     I snivel
I mourn     I pine
I want to believe.
Oh Lord, I want to believe.

My eye falls on the good book.
I open it.
I look.

“Love Denied”

He said, it’s your fault.
She said, I’m hungry.
He said, you’re clingy.
She said, I need water.
He said, you don’t love me.
She said, pass me some bread.
He said, I’m leaving you.
She said, I’m still thirsty.

“Spring Play”

Check the tickets one more time
to make sure got the day right,
the game right. Join the throngs in
the tunnel from subway to ball
play and emerge underneath the
concrete majesty of the SkyDome.
Check the tickets one more time
to make sure got the aisle right,
the seats right. Sit back in the
empty row, chuck the jacket and
the hats on the seats next door, and
wait for the snack man to come up the
aisle bellowing. Crack goes the
bat as at last the game begins.
This is Spring. This is Blue Jays time.

“The Travelling Bee”

The rotund bee,
With its fat yellow and black
Stripes,
Buzzes its gossamer wings to power itself
Into the sweet centre of the
Cerise rose.

It snuggles and drones happily into
Gold globules of pollen, flecking its stripes and
Furry legs before bumbling off
On the wind and the power of its buzz
to the next irresistible
rose.

“Books Unmet”

Jane Austen, her Pride and Prejudice,
Sense and Sensibility, next to
Charles Dickens, with his Hard Times and his
Little Dorrit, akin to T.S.
Eliot’s The Waste Land and Hollow
Men, which looks askance at the silly
Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town
penned by Stephen Leacock that snugly
sit by Allan Bloom, his treatise The
Closing of the American Mind
hard by John Ralston Saul, his essay
Voltaire’s Bastards: The Dictatorship
of Reason in the West squeezing the
new gal Susan Musgrave with her book
Cargo of Orchids against the strong
side of smooth-sanded honey pine plank,
all of their pages straight, their covers
flat, their spines uncreased, they await me.

“The Lucky Ones”

The lucky ones are
the ones who can
work, to earn
an income, to support
their spouse, their mom, or just to take
a friend out to lunch.

The lucky ones are
the ones who are able
to work, to drive
a car, to walk, to pedal
their way to another place, to apply
their brain, their hands, and on Fridays, receive
a paycheque for the bank.

The unlucky ones are
the ones who sit
alone, empty of dreams, devoid
of ability to work, who watch
out the window the
people to the subway flocking,
feet racing in time to a hidden clock, eyes blind
to the ones within watching.

The lucky ones can work.

“Sunny Day”

Crocus blossom shines,
transports the ascending sun
to the dying leaf.

“Rebirth”

Stately ribbon of onyx ice
Cascades down to the
Sacrifice

Of dreams and strife and such a nice
Life with mari on the
Stately ribbon of onyx ice.

Rending the air, screams sard and bice,
so angry at the
Sacrifice

Demanded on this night of vice,
Shriek, fly, along the
Stately ribbon of onyx ice.

Then o’er the remains Armistice
Rises and lights the
Sacrifice

Up to see wisdom and brave choice
Face the light created on the
Stately ribbon of onyx ice
Sacrifice.

“Angry Tears”

Weep, weep
For all the hurting people.

Weep, weep
Angry tears.

Feel their pulse,
Know they’re real,
Hear their sorrow,
See their wail.

Weep, weep
For all the hurting people.

“Surface Tension”

You guide me to
your plane of
tranquillity.
Flat, black,
reflecting the
sunlit sky,
you entice me
down.

I land on your
invisible top
and slip along
your suddenly
gooey surface.

By what trick have
you caught me
here? My wings are
no match;
my legs agitate,
against your
grip. I stall, sink
down.

“Surface tension,”
you ripple in reply,
the last thing I hear.

“All I want is health”

All I want is
nothing more,
nothing less
than to move
without thinking
than to be
without blinking
than to do
without sinking.

Before I wrote it, I saw an explanation by Robert Brewer on the triolet, a kind of “round” poem, and decided to try it for this poem.

“Blue”

The sun rises in the east,
the sky lightens from black to indigo to blue.
I turn over, not wanting to face the beast.
The sun rises in the east.
My eyes open to see the rays feast
upon my walls like a flaming brush of glue.
The sun rises in the east,
the sky lightens from black to indigo to blue.

“The Rime of the Trusting Bride”

A battle wages
Words fly across
From wife to spouse
and spouse to mari.

Morning breaks and toast
and tea passes
From wife to spouse
and spouse to mari.

No apologies
said but limp words
From spouse to wife
and mari to spouse.

As if nothing had
happened betwixt
Wife and spouse
and spouse and mari.

As if betrayal
Rationalised
From man to spouse
and spouse to femme.

Was expected to be
Forgiven by
Wife to spouse
and spouse to mari.

With no repentance
With no remorse
From man to spouse
and spouse to femme.

Just expectations
of reconciliation given
By wife to spouse
and spouse to mari.

“Love”

Love is a scourge on
a human heart melted by
the touch of a chameleon.

“My Hobby is Photography”

Photography has
called me
since the day I took
my mum’s
brownie with the pin
in the
aperture on a
trip to
Ottawa when just
eleven years old.

“So We Decided to Buy Flowers”

So we decided to buy flowers
For Easter dinner.

Not lilies
The Easter flower
Perfect for this holiday
But I’m allergic.

Not tulips
The flower of spring
In pinks and yellows and reds
But they fling their pollen everywhere.

Not daffodills
The winter’s-end flower
In dazzling yellows that capture the sun
But they’re nowhere to be found.

What about those puffballs
Lavendar and white?
Or those freesias
In yellow and pink?

We pluck them out of their
White buckets
Water dripping from their stems
And carry them to the cashier
Where they’re wrapped up tight.
Money exchanges hands,
And we walk out into the sunshine.

We bought flowers.

“My Camera”

Black,
Encased in cushy plastic
That caresses my hands with its soft roughness,
With a hard clear shell guarding the screen in back
And an oh so smooth glass covering information on top,
You whir and turn your lens
At the command of my finger,
You open wide and close down
When I pass my thumb over your ridged wheel,
You zoom in
As I point you at a bold crocus and press down on your shutter,
Bringing the flower into sharp focus,
Filling the screen
With its natural gold.

“Friday”

Friday, day afore Saturday,
after Thursday
Routine broken by hot cross buns.