Thursday, April 24, 2014

23,24/30 A Note and Page 246

Two found poems taken from Jim Lynch's, The Highest Tide. Images to follow.

A Note
On our
sail home
we live
with the tide.

I hear faint whispers sleep              
her lips paddle
below my waist
I plow water
glance at moon jellies
thousands of flowers
pack tight the bay
silver sun galaxies
carry out to sea.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

22/30 Random Words

Day twenty two. I wrote down a list of random words and then had to use them in a poem in the order in which I wrote them. This was a nice little exercise that I started in my notebook at work during my lunch break. Some of the words in the list I use quite regularly so I made sure to try something a little different with them.

Random words: socks land face cloud ears forest sparrow trust hope telephone house submarine ocean lama stars bed gold rest lost stairs lemon window tunnel cave dog eyes fur mouth summer splash tuck shoot gun aim drum hat trundle yesterday year last aeroplane churn

Lemon Eyes
Your stripy socks are a sieve,
they are perfect for draining land.
A smile stretches your face when you spy
a cloud shaped like the ears of a bunny
and spot a forest where a sparrow flies into your trust.
I hope you can afford a telephone for your house.
A large submarine docks in an aquarium
where you submerge your skin in an ocean.
A lama observes, tilts his head and stares at the stars.

And you dream on a bed of gold.
You are full of rest. Light gets lost on the stairs
and a lemon sun leaves freckles on the window. Imagine
diamonds in a tunnel where cave dogs have red eyes,
fur grows thick in their mouths while summer creates a splash.
Tuck your shirt into your trousers, shoot your gun from your hip.
Aim. Your drum makes a good hat, trundle into yesterday.
Fly over the year. Don't make it your last paper aeroplane.
Inside your stomach the world churns and churns.

Monday, April 21, 2014


I managed to delete one of my poems! Thankfully there's backspace on my computer so I was able to salvage it. Day 20 and day 21 are in a bit of a muddle but they are both there. Phew! 

The inspiration for day twenty one comes from the site Poems in Which where the poems published all have to have: poem in which... in the title. Here's my stab at it. 

Poem in Which I Collect Images like a Kleptomaniac

I breathe poems,
reach for words like a starving man.
I swim in shimmering coral,
collect the alphabet in the cup of my hands,
reach for hot kettle images of the Sahara.

I hide behind doors
looking through an open window
where visions collide and memories
jumble like a rubik's cube.

I travel down razor collar bones on a bicycle.
Above the sky is strawberry.

And I drink dry the clouds
and lick the sun with a twirl of my tongue
the ash trees are speckled like a leopard
they converse in whispers.

20/30 Hurricane

So it's going well. Long may it last! You might have noticed that I was running a bit behind schedule on my 20th and 21st poem. Never fear I'm all caught up, though I do remember writing two poems in one day on two separate occasions.

What has April been teaching me - writing is a habit
                                                         you see results if you stick at it
                                                         it's possible to write everyday, 
                                                         writing does not have to stop when April ends

Today I wrote a poem that was triggered by what I saw on Wikipedia's homepage and that was Hurricane Kiko.  I also used words from a prompt (I didn't keep to the prompt) on 52poetry : river, water, stone, glass, steel, fish, flesh, snow, death, silk, poison, mountain, bridge, sand, hate, happiness, wine, bread, rain, time, youth, sky, milk, tree, field, sun, tea, violence, hair, death, palm, love, coffee, tobacco, wind, age, cotton, palm


Hurricane Silk

How can you protect yourself from
the wind of a hurricane if you are made of glass?
How can you survive on love when
you drink coffee from a water tap and how
can you consume tobacco from a mountain?
Wine will not prolong your death.
Your dog yaps in the palm of your hand,
it tells you the story of youth and of a tree.
Sand collects time and you remember
your mother, and how she used to
brush your cotton hair with steel
and stitch your flesh with silk.
And how she used to spread the table
with bread from fields of happiness.
She fed you fish that fell like rain,
she gave you the sun in a cup of tea.
Milk cannot come from a stone
the sky is a river and you are a bridge.
Leave violence at the door
shake it from your feet.
Hate is not a word in this house.
Poison need not come with age.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Worth is the Wrong Word

Check out a Black Cake spoken word audio chapbook by one of my favourite poets: Lisa Ciccarello Worth is the Wrong Word

19/30 The Shower Got My Arms

We wear overcoats in the shower
sing hymns with our lungs
wrestle rain
our arms and legs a pretzel 

And we cannot breathe
in mixed signals,
where codes replace codes 
and scissors plunge deep.
Eyes bob in sockets
and skin bursts into flames
where homes turn into temples 
A blank mask hides a face
A handkerchief suspends the ceiling
the tips of toes make a soft landing.