Chop, chop, chop.
The machete falls.
He trims off the top.
Chop, chop
He flattens the bottom.
A deft twist and out pops a plug.
We pour coconut water into a travel mug
Gracias.
A peso, a smile,
and he pushes the coconut laden wheelbarrow
to the next tourist,
the next peso and smile.
The sleight of mind that palms
truth up a sleeve and
replaces it with hope and horror
and so the illusionist dreams
reality out of anticipation and fear.
Reality, the illusion.
Just wanted to say ‘Merry Christmas’ to those who celebrate it
and Happy Wednesday to those who don’t,
sort of an exclamation point of good wishes
to highlight the world of joy
I would wish you all year round.
Happy, Merry, Joyous to all
🙂
Linda
I’m the stone without moss, slowly rolling uphill,
the pebble the stone kicks aside.
I’m the lake far below waiting patient and still,
watching the pebble’s long dive.
I’m the last rippled echo that runs from the pebble
and dashes itself on the shore.
I’m the hands in the water, cupping and dripping,
to the mouth where the water is poured.
And I stand up again and I gaze at the mountain
And begin my eternal ascent.
I’m the stone without moss, the circling ripple,
till eternity’s utterly spent.
In the dark of the night,
when I switch on my light,
my bedside window is an echo of white.
Like a dim extension
of my room, it blends in,
reality merging with bedroom reflection.
At a glance I don’t know
what is quilt, what is snow,
and out of my bed a poplar tree grows
as the snow sings again
its mirrored refrain,
a white counterpoint to a white counterpane.
Morning rainbows hang.
Pendant prism reflections
shiver in our breath.
Palms cupped together
hold the sunbeam’s refractions.
Hands filled with colour.
Moonlit prisms gleam.
An eerie rainbow reaches
blindly from midnight.
A glimpse of ghost light
glancing in pale reflections,
Flickers in star glow.
At my book launch on Saturday I invited members of the audience to contribute a line or phrase towards a poem, using these pictures as an inspiration:
“Escape” pen/ink & watercolour by L Studley
All the I’s Are Moving
All the I’s are moving
Wait here she said
I’ll be right back she said
So many dreams wait to rise behind our eyes
Wait here she said
My nose is not always where I thought it was
So many dreams wait to rise behind our eyes
I stand … and I wait
My nose is not always where I thought it was
But the lighthouse will show the way
I stand … and I wait
Where dreams fall
But the lighthouse will show the way
I’ll be right back she said
Where dreams fall
All the I’s are moving.
(several people contributed to this poem but only Rebekah Rempel included her name on the entry)
‘le pieton’ (the pedestrian) Oil painting by George Connell (www.extroverse.ca)
Yet the Day
A man takes a final walk on a foggy sunlit beach
looking for the rainbow
It sounds like thunder
he clutched his umbrella
looking for the rainbow
yet the day is yellow, green, and gold
he clutched his umbrella
as the sun warmed his back, there was always a chance of rain
Yet the day is yellow, green, and gold
The endless wait for cabs
as the sun warmed his back, there was always a chance of rain
God, I miss my driver’s licence.
The endless wait for cabs
I’m leaning on a point
as the sun warmed his back, there was always a chance of rain
Alone in this street
I’m leaning on a point
Glistening chrome
Alone in this street
Have you come to take me home?
Glistening chrome
looking for the rainbow
Have you come to take me home?
A man takes a final walk on a foggy sunlit beach
Contributors: Â Rebekah Rempel, Linda Studley, Margo Hannah, Anne Clayton, Charles D Quinn, and others (anon)
The official book launch isn’t until the 16th but I’m already selling the book online, locally, and have had requests to mail autographed copies… Very exciting!
The other day I received a call from CBC Radio requesting that I read one of the poems from the book so they could air it on Tuesday (November 12th). Again, very exciting.
Thanks to all the folks out there who are buying the book to give as a Christmas presents. Please remember, if you want an autographed copy of the book, you’ll need to contact me directly, as the ones you can order online won’t be autographed.
How like the masts of sailing ships
are the tops of the bare bone trees.
And how like the creak of deck boards
is their groaning in the breeze.
How like the seething ocean
is the song of trees in the wind.
And how many days must pass
before I see the sea again?
How many days must pass away
Ere I see the sea again?
How like the wind carved sand dunes
is the snow in sculpted drifts.
And how like the tang of salt spray
are the tears upon my lips.
How like the lost gull’s crying
is the yearning in my dreams.
And how many months must fade
before I go back to the sea?
How many months must fade away
Ere I go back to the sea?
How like the foam upon the wave
Is the frost on the swaths of hay
How like the fog that shrouds the shore
Is the wood smoke, low and gray.
How like the ocean’s ebbing tide
does my journey backwards flow.
And how many years must pass
before I find my way back home?
How many days and months and years
Till the sea calls me back home?
Waxing philosophic for so many years has resulted
in a waxy build up on my sensory receptors.
The soft, numbing layer insulates my sensibilities,
catching and immobilizing slings and arrows,
binding them like flies in a web,
suspending them in disbelief.
Easy to rationalise, to let things slide,
subsume them into the waxy cocoon,
give the whole thing a quick polish and
start laying down the next layer.
But lately I’ve noticed crazes in the glaze.
The comfortable, hazy wax has hardened, yellowed.
It dulls my perceptions, slows my reactions,
colours my interpretations.
It may be time to strip off a few layers of comfort.
Pare off the waxy build up and the
pendant collection of outrageous fortune,
mould it all into a ball and send it rolling.
Send the whole proverbial ball of wax rolling.
Linda Studley 