Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category


It doesn’t feel like getting hurt,
And yet, its pain is firm.

These gentle, yet persistent pangs
Of being stitched back up,
Or learning how to open doors
We once were keen to shut…

We’re gulping pungent medicines,
And watching keepsakes burn…

The hands that dressed a hundred wounds
Are turned palms-up for alms.
And monsters underneath the bed
Are curiously becalmed.

Is this the way you heal the sick:
With thorny stems and burrs?

With stripes and scars that never fade,
With blood and bitter herbs?

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Hello Stranger

This was written on the spot and is, for the most part, unedited. Not something I am prone to doing on a regular basis, but sometimes the drive for perfection is not in the moment when the heart wants to write itself out…


Hello Stranger

You know me by the sounds of my digestion,
By the muffled rumblings of my daily tirades…
And by tentative palpations,
That I make
On my middle,
And wonder if I’m tapping at
Your temples or your toes…

I know you by the absence of my waistline,
By the inexhaustible varieties
Of newly learned discomforts,
And by tenacious tappings of your own,
You make,
With all a rookie’s certainty
(And maybe curiosity?),
Upon the limits of your warmest, wettest world…
Or so much you suppose.

Can you be suspecting?
Do you know the expiration
Of your cozy situation
Comes so quickly
Day by day?

They say I’m “expecting”,
And I am, but trepidation
Mixed with certain jubilation
Makes for more than just a simple
Waiting game.

And even as the cup runs over,
And I feel your tiny fingers
Grasping mine in trust…
And I see your tiny lips that
Latch onto my breast…
(In the firm projections mothers make
Within their minds
Of not-so-far-off times)…

Even then, I cannot know you,
More than by these present means.
And so my heart is wont to treasure
Something it has never seen.

I know you by the presence of a heart-beat,
By the inexhaustible varieties
Of newly learned emotions
That your unconditional dependence
On me makes
Me feel.

You’ve become so very real.

So take these tappings,
As all the ways I know
To show you
What your little heart-beat really means to me.

You’ve completed part of me
Once left wanting, vacantly…
And when you vacate it yourself
One day sooner than it seems to be,
Pleased to meet you face to face
We’ll be,
Even as we seek to make acquaintances
Now with what we cannot see.

I do not know if I’ll be tapping
At your temples or your toes,
I’ll wonder if I’m patting at
Your backside or your button nose…
But let me love you how I know for now,
And teach me better ways someday
When you join us in the world of air and dirt and noise…

You can’t know me much now either,
But give it time
Oh bundle of
Our greatest joys.

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Greener Grass

I missed posting last week, due to a long-awaited vacation…but here is some musing from today, in poetic form.


Greener Grass

I can’t see you clearly,
There’s so much in the way.
And my gaze is too guarded,
As I stare into space.

I see steeples and strollers
And bundles of joy.
I see castles and kingdoms
And truckloads of toys.

A garden, an orchard,
A basket of pears.
And bicycles leaning,
And ponies, and bears…

And going out bravely
And seizing each day,
And coming home quickly
To banter and play.

And teary-eyed moments
Of rapture and pause,
And sunshine so golden
Each memory thaws.

And work made so easy,
It’s simpler than play.
To thrive in the glory
Of purposeful days.

And sunsets on beaches,
And card games at night,
And jammies at Grandma’s,
And Turkish Delight.

And why can’t we get there?
And where are we now?
And where is our wardrobe
Of magical powers?

I can’t go in further,
I’m stuck here with you.
And you can’t go eastward,
You’re stuck with me too.

And gray skies are glooming,
And work is so bleak.
And laziness lingers,
Each week after week.

I can’t see you clearly,
The future’s too bright.
And now seems so empty
Of purpose or right.

I can’t see you smiling
When I come in first place.
I can’t see the laugh lines
That you put on my face.

I can’t see the garden
That you planted in May,
Zucchini plants sprawling
In a prickly display.

I can’t see the sidewalks,
The paths or the roads,
Where we cycled together
When it wasn’t so cold.

I can’t see your feet,
As they learned how to dance
With mine in a sort of
Impromptu romance.

I can’t catch a glimpse
Of you watering plants,
And me rolling my eyes
When some spills on your pants.

I can’t see you bending
Over some great big book,
As I make great big messes
In my efforts to cook.

I can’t hear the laughter
Of family and friends,
As we play host and hostess
Again and again.

I can’t see you clearly,
But I know you are there.
And I don’t know what you see,
But I know we’re prepared.

So lay down here with me
In this patch of brown grass,
And watch it get greener,
Our eyes open at last.

When we can’t see the future
Through this carpet of bliss,
Then we’ll revel in grass stains
We might otherwise miss.

So let’s get near-sighted,
And savour the now,
Grass with you is the greenest,
And I’m done with the brown.


This definitely is not the best thing I’ve written, but it has its moments…and it’s finished, for today at least. Here’s hoping for some actual green grass on the ground outside soon!

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This is my first attempt to participate in [Fiction] Friday, run by Write Anything (writeanything.wordpress.com). The challenge (#196) was to write something inspired by the picture shown. So here’s a nonsense poem, which turned out to be a bit more explicit than I originally intended….
(I think the challenge was supposed to be in story/prose form, but I found out too late – oh well…) See their website for challenge details.

Frisky Bee, Fed-up Flower

Oh my, Oh me!
A bumbling bee!
Please buzz on by
Away from me.

My pollen’s clumped.
My stem is stumped.
My disposition,
Rather grumped.

My petals sag,
And dip and drag.
I can’t be bothered
With this shag…

You wish to bate
My last gamete,
With cupid’s help,
To germinate?

You’re loud and lewd,
Such attitude!
Your buzzing boasts
So crass and crude.

You think a bit
Of bumbling wit
Is all a flower
Wants from it?

I won’t be wooed,
Not in this mood…
Let fresher buds
Be shook and screwed.

And can’t you see
Oh boisterous bee:
A lightening storm
Looms longingly?

So let the rain
Drip down again
And cool the buzzing
In your veins.

Today’s not great
To pollinate,
So come again,
Some other date…

(And next time call, for goodness sake!)

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Sometimes You Will Feel Sad

Intended for children. Applicable to all of us:


Sometimes you will feel sad.

You might have tripped.
Or maybe slipped…
You may have seen
A frightful fiend.
Perhaps your most beloved chum
Is also feeling rather glum.

I cannot know why you will frown,
But sometimes you’ll be feeling down.


Sometimes you won’t know why.

You may be sad,
Or even mad,
And throw a fit,
And curse and spit,
The day is warm and sunny bright,
But nothing seems to turn out right.

I can’t guess what will make you cry,
But sometimes you just won’t know why.


Sometimes you’ll feel alone.

Your friends are there,
But you don’t care.
They just don’t get
What makes you fret.
They’ll tell you to cheer up and smile,
But you know that could take a while.

I can’t say why you’ll feel so tense,
But sometimes feelings don’t make sense.


Sometimes you’ll need to know:

You may feel glad,
Or sad, or bad…
The way you feel
Can seem so real.
But feeling things is not a crime,
And sorting out can take some time.

I cannot tell you why it’s so,
But feeling things is how you grow.


And I can tell you this is true,
‘Cuz sometimes I have felt sad too.

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So I thought I would post this now, even though I am somewhat disappointed in how it turned out. I think I will soon be sending it off to the company in question (which there is really no need to name, since the general principle applies to many companies of the sort). Likely, I’ll need to include some sort of introduction/explanation, but this is the poem itself:

Juice Boxes (or some other creative title)

A juice box does what you might think,
By holding juice for kids to drink.

The sweetest nectar sipped through straws
Elicits smiles and “Hip-Hurrahs!”

They cheer for peach. They shout for punch.
They slurp it up at every lunch.

Their love of juice is undisguised,
But do they know it’s synthesized?

“But kids won’t drink a natural brew!”
You argue, and perhaps it’s true.

Yes, I concede they may detect
A change in the ingredients…

If flavouring was altered, they
Might cease to shout: “Hip, hip, hurray!”

But, may I ask you, would they pout,
If colouring was taken out?

How could they see a juice deprived
Of favourite yellow number five?

Did you forget the nature of
The juice box we all know and love?

It’s full of flavour, no mistake,
But it’s opaque, for goodness’ sake!

And children, last I checked, do not
Have see-through stomachs…what a thought!

So why add artificial green
To something that is never seen?

And why use number forty red
When nothing could be used instead?

I thank you for considering
My well-intentioned wondering.

I hope you’ll find my humble words,
Though rhyming and at times absurd,

Are clear and simple to deduce…
And here’s to boxes filled with juice!

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My Name is Pronoun

This one is a little less serious, written last week. I will likely remove and replace/rework the third stanza, but it amuses me this way for now.

My Name is Pronoun

My name is Pronoun.
Who am I?
I’m this or that,
Or even thy.
I’m you, I’m me,
Or am I she?
Which of these things
Is what I be?
If I am his,
Then who is he?
And what if he
Turns into we?
Oh me! Oh my!
Just who am I?

And do you wonder
Where I go?
To here and there,
But where? Who knows!
For when you’re “here”,
And “there” seems near,
So “there” you go,
And veer and steer,
Then find you’re back
To what is “here”.
And “there” has somehow
You may say “No!”,
But it is so.

Can this be me:
A substitute?
When words need be
Made more acute?
Is it a must?
Or should I fuss?
Will we and they
Continue thus?
Yes, it’s alright
With them and us.
When words are what
We must discuss:
It’s better mute
Than convolute.

My name is pronoun,
Who am I?
Your guess is just
As good as mine!

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My Hands Are Cold

This is a free-verse-ish poem I recently wrote about my former struggles working as a nurse.  It’s rather contradictory of me to make this my first poetic post, since I was so insistent on truth and beauty in everything in setting up this blog. The following is perhaps truthful to my emotional experience, but I am still trying to find the beauty in the bad memories of my past work life. And poetry is good for that too, moving you towards self-revelation, etc. Anyways, enough preamble:


My Hands Are Cold

“My hands are cold,”
I warn you as I lift your sleeve,
But they are clean.
And dry and chapped,
And stiff with pain.
You shiver as I touch your skin,
But all they know is
Soon it’s time to wash again.

You look at me,
Awaiting answers anxiously,
Making me a demi-god
Of all goodwill,
Against my will.
And sitting still,
You ask for the miraculous.

Any answers I can give
Come from books
On bending shelves,
Books that you could read yourself.
The only additive,
The only “something else”
Is human at its core,
And yet you hope for more.

I wish that I was more.

My hands are cold,
But rarely shaking anymore.
I make them still,
Through force of will,
But fear has almost become rote,
And works its way day in, day out.
We’re symbiotic, arm in arm.
Trembling once external
Hides its evidence in the vessels,
Tissues, fabric of my form.
You say you wish my hands were warm.

I wish we both were free of harm.

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