Can't Put the Pen Down

just as if I was in my write mind…

Colour Me

“Men can only differentiate between 16 colours.”
he explained to me as we scanned the paint chips.
I was busy trying to decide between ‘Rusty Nail’
and ‘Bull’s Eye’.
“It’s red.”
Thank you, Dear, but I need a completely irrelevant name
to give to the lady who mixes the paints.
Back to the 16 colours – he likes 8 and so do I,
but, apparently they aren’t the same 8.
We agree to divide the house.
He will choose for the studio.
I will choose the rest.
And yet somehow the studio
will be painted “Chipotle”,
not orange.


King of the Woodpile

Tans and browns and green grey camo
the grouse knows how to blend
with wood and bark and aspen bough
feathered illusionist. Then,
with cocky self importance
he proceeds to sabotage
his monochrome advantage
of feathered camouflage
by drumming on the woodpile,
and he makes it very plain,
that all who hear had best steer clear
for he has staked his claim.


Between Two Clouds

Above hang clouds, flat bottomed and heavy,
the propellers absentmindedly snick, snicking at
their bellies.
Below, clouds breath and shift like a living thing.
I am in an airplane sandwich,
suspended in a pocket of clarity,
cloud above, cloud below with the sunset
spilling in from the side, trickling,
staining the slices of cloud
like the pink juice from a ripe tomato.
the bottom slice tears, the way
bread does when you try to spread
hard butter.
Lights appear in the darkness.
I am home.

Musings on Television

I don’t get TV at home
but sometimes, when I’m on the roam,
and sitting in some hotel room,
I turn the darn thing on.

I’ll scan the listings patiently
and flip through channels just to see
if anything might interest me
before I click along.

Far from tempting me to change
from my television-less ways,
these infrequent, boredom fuelled, forays
reinforce my first impression

that the more the choice the less the chance
I’ll find something to catch my glance
Unless, of course, by happen-stance
A classic movie’s on.

But commercials swarm and I swat ‘em
until I’m lost and have forgotten
what movie I am actually watching.
What pleasure is in that?

So by the time I get back home,
I’m glad for my TV-less home,
where there are no commercial drones
or dreaded talk show chat.



Beware child.
At some point time speeds up.
I know, the scientists will deny
but one day you will look in the mirror
and cry
“Wait, what happened here?
When did yesterday become
twenty years ago?”
and your only
consolation will be
that your grandmother,
your great grandmother, and me
at some point thought the same.
But your daughter will remain
blithely unaware until that day
dawns on her and she’ll say
“Why didn’t she warn me?”
Even though you did.


Morning Horizon

Pink clouds on blue sky,
sunrise gently traces a
lingering caress.


Patagonia in the Winter

If I lived in Patagonia in the winter
I could avoid the snow and cold and dark. A
happy camper I
as back and forth I fly
sans heavy boots and mitts and hooded parka.

If I lived in Patagonia in the winter
I wouldn’t slip and slide in ice and snow.
The most I’d slip on is a sweater
as I enjoyed the weather
‘cos their summer is our winter don’cha know.

I could live in Patagonia in the winter
Speak Spanish and never have a care.
For the rest of the year
I’d just live here.
But first I’ll have to be a millionaire.



As You Sighed

I gave the full moon prisms and watched her
paint rainbows on your shoulders in the night.
Living tattoos of silver light sifted through
pendant diamonds and spread in sparks of colour
across the bed, slowly creeping
closer as you slept, like a lover
attracted to the warmth
of your body, the gems caressed your skin
and rippled as you sighed.



Knowing What Comes Next

It’s why we watch a movie twice,
reread a book, walk the same route home.
The familiar calls,
and sometimes it hurts.
So easy to default to bad habits;
what goes into our mouths,
what comes out of our mouths.
The choices we make,
who we are,
who we love,
the illusion of control in a random,
uncontrollable world where knowing
what comes next is the biggest illusion of all.


…But Is It Poetry? (not a poem)

So, I just posted my 74th poem in this second “poem a day for a year” challenge and I thought I’d pause and talk a little about the phenomenon, lol.
I write and post these poems first thing in the morning, before I get out of bed (I have my trusty netbook by my side) and only rarely have I ever broken that ritual; like when I’m on vacation and away from home etc…
Consequently, I rarely take more than 15 to 20 minutes to write the poem, number it, save it, and post it to the blog.
I am under no illusions that every poem will be a ‘gem’. Some end up being hurried haiku, others will be humorous allusions to how hard it is to find something to write about. But it all goes down on (virtual) paper. That’s the main reason for the challenge; to circumvent the inner critic and just get something down, no judgement, no critique. I do try to keep the punctuation reasonable and the typos down to a minimum (although I can always trust Tony to let me know when I’ve tripped up, Lol).

These poems are not the end product. The end product of my last year-long challenge was my first book of poetry “Falling Awake and other poems” which I published a year or so ago. And I’ll probably publish another book based on what I subjectively consider to be the best poems from this year’s challenge.

But before that will happen, the real work will take place. Poems will be proofed, edited, screened, perhaps shortened, perhaps lengthened, perhaps sent to that purgatory where misfit poems go to languish.

Thanks for joining me on the journey.

291 poems to go.



Post Navigation


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 387 other followers