Category: poetry

Canned Memories

~ Candace ~ 11 Comments

Canned Memories

 

The days have grown shorter and

there is a chill hovering around the

last of the Maple leaves, as they dangle

listlessly from the branches that nourished them

Thoughts turn to all things warm – sweaters and

blankets and soup. My freezer is stocked with

containers of tomato soup made from the

fruit of our garden. Ripened by the sun, picked

and peeled, chopped and simmered with garlic and

basil and onion – ready to warm the body when

Winter makes itself at home, here.

But the soup that warms my soul with memories

is the kind that came in a red and white can, the one

made famous by Andy Warhol.  The soup my mother

served for lunch with small round crackers and a

cup of hot chocolate.

 

 

Poetics: Time for Soup!

Five Ways to Cross a Lake

~ Candace ~ 11 Comments

Five ways to Cross a Lake

 

1 sit on the edge of the old wooden dock

with your toes dangling in the water

until you feel nothing

but the ancient ice that

is slowly melting

 

2 let your eye find the red

eye of a loon as it glides past

as if pulled by a string –

hidden feet walking under

the choppy surface

 

3 cast your heart out as far as

 its tether allows and watch it sink

below the surface. Hold your breath

until it bobs back to the surface,

then slowly reel it in

 

4 put your thoughts on a leaf and let

them float away to become yellow hills

on the pebbled beach of your mind-

each one smoothed by the careless

touch of the waves

 

5 catch the wind as it pushes the water

to another time and place and then meet

it on the way back. Write it into a poem

that soars above the clouds and

touches down on some distant shore

 

 

 

 

MTB: Writing The Five Directions

The Quality of Dust

~ Candace ~ 10 Comments

The Quality of Dust

 

 

The quality of dust is not measured in abundance,

but rather in the fineness of its particles.

True dust contains no lumps or identifiable

bits. It is silken to the touch and rises easily

on wisps of air.  True dust settles silently

atop flat surfaces and collects in corners without

fanfare. It is a magical powder that appears

just before visitors arrive to keep us humble

and grounded. True dust is ever present,

waiting patiently in mid air, hovering over

our busy lives, until it finds stillness. It can not

be caught or trapped, or tricked into vanishing.

True dust is the constant in this human-made world.

 

 

 

Poetics: Quality Poems

In the Beginning

~ Candace ~ 3 Comments

In the Beginning

 

 

Sounds had no order, no form

Each note played randomly,

like early morning birdsong

 

Chaos was the melody that filled the air

Harmony, just an illusion, a vanishing act

performed by strumming magicians

 

Instruments rang out in unrhythmic time

and there was no key to unlock the secret

Until someone began to bang the drum –

 

and music was born

 

–

Poetics: Let music speak

No Frog, No Sound

~ Candace ~ Leave a comment

No Frog, No Sound

 

This poem is a shadow of

its former self, shedding syllables,

leaving a trail of letters behind

as

it

fades

Its feet leave no trace of rhythm

There are no stanzas left, no

couplets standing in the moonlight

It can no longer count to 5-7-5

All that remains is an old pond

Day 15 of PAD has us writing a shadow poem

Think No More of Me

~ Candace ~ 3 Comments

Think No More of Me

 

Forgive me for seeming timid

Or shy, or quiet, or rude

Forgive me for appearing to be polite

Well mannered, courteous, but

 I ask no forgiveness for my feelings

 

I hold them in my heart where

They are guarded from judgement

They are the music of my soul

They belong only to me

 

They’re the percussive blow of grief

The vibrato of pulsating joy

The solo of winter-like loneliness

The persistent tinkling of hope

And I share them only with you

 

 

 

Meet the Bar with Line Messaging

A Found Poem

~ Candace ~ 1 Comment

A Found Poem

 

Where have you been little poem?

Your feet are muddy and you are

 

dripping syllables . You are covered in

worn-out phrases and inky smudges.

 

There seems to be no rhyme

to this form of yours. No line of reason

 

or hint of season in your wordy count(enance).

Let me wrap you in warm metered stanzas.

 

Let me embrace you with a loving simile.

Let me be the refrain in your rhythmic scheme.

Day 11 of NaPoWriMo