Endless rows of unsorted baggage
Unclaimed
Wantonly discarded clothing
Unwashed
Haphazard slipping of magazines
Unwanted
Clanking pots shoved on shelf
Unclean
Wasted littering scraps lay
Unloved
Streaking windows to the soul
Unclear
Ignoring distressed indications
Unseeing
Seething under surface façade
Unsmooth
Cracking egg from inside
Undone
Moving outward undulations
Uncoiled
Mouthed words of frustration
Unaware
Target lying in an unmade bed
Unarmed
Awaiting warmth in her arms
Uncrossed
16 March 2009
--
Monday, March 16, 2009
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Write
in a dark room
years long past
words flowed
from the pen tip
easily
as blood dripping
from a cut lip
blotting themselves
onto my page
forming pattern
rhyme
by magic force
with no reason
ideas scattered pollen
blowing in my brain
nonsense, no sense
i was accused
as useless as the words
we were locked away
the pen left idle
the page blank
years in solitary
my solitude
now my solace
in words again
the blood flows
words for the soul
emptying
filling
filing
thoughts to pen,
to ink, to page
erasing an age of rage
6 March 2009
years long past
words flowed
from the pen tip
easily
as blood dripping
from a cut lip
blotting themselves
onto my page
forming pattern
rhyme
by magic force
with no reason
ideas scattered pollen
blowing in my brain
nonsense, no sense
i was accused
as useless as the words
we were locked away
the pen left idle
the page blank
years in solitary
my solitude
now my solace
in words again
the blood flows
words for the soul
emptying
filling
filing
thoughts to pen,
to ink, to page
erasing an age of rage
6 March 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Inevitability
collapsing into my morning routine
collapsed in tears in the shower
the water hides my pain
no one can see it there
no one can hear me there
I am hidden from questions
a few short moments
cascading silence
a moment for my fears
leaning hard into the wall
leaning hard so I can't fall
any further down
any further in love
towards the drain
towards the pain
too much unsaid yet
don't make me regret
5 March 2009
--
collapsed in tears in the shower
the water hides my pain
no one can see it there
no one can hear me there
I am hidden from questions
a few short moments
cascading silence
a moment for my fears
leaning hard into the wall
leaning hard so I can't fall
any further down
any further in love
towards the drain
towards the pain
too much unsaid yet
don't make me regret
5 March 2009
--
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Winter, Sometimes a Wonderland
Today is one of those rare winter days where the air is dry enough that walking is enjoyable.
The sky is an intense blue, clear with only a sparing wisp of cloud to the north over Fredericton. There has been so little breeze in the woods that the firs and spruce still hold the snow from Tuesday night.
In the clearing where there has been drifting, the snow has taken on the patterns of sand washed in wind and wave, gentle ripples and dimples on the sparkling surface.
Running zigzag across the drive and into the browse, is the chaotic meandering prints of the many snowshoe hare. The very same marauding denizen of the summer garden, the very same that has destroyed all hope of springtime tulip blooms, and keeps the pole beans, which have the ability to reach heights over 30 feet, moderately stunted well into summer.
The red fox was on the prowl early this morning, the delicate foot prints, carefully placed in the snow indicate that it was on the hunt for the hare or perhaps it was partridge whose print was also visible in various locales.
The poor partridge, a bird which has the inclination to hide in the lowest limbs of the evergreens during a snow, can easily become entombed in a snowfall that, if heavy enough, can not dig itself out from under, the frozen remains are there for the spring cleaning by the ravens and turkey vultures that are becoming more plentiful as the years pass. The remaining partridge are the fortunate ones who go to produce sizable broods of cute little chicks hidden in the nests against fallen logs. Who, when you stumble upon the area, are then seen dragging the 'broken wing' well away from the nest site.
Upon closer inspection of the trails in the snow, there is the sign of the red squirrel, tiny clawed paw prints, then a tunnel dug into the snowbank, which leads to some yet undiscovered maze and likely a stash of forgotten food.
The area around the bird feeder is active, chickadees and nuthatches dashing in and out, a quiet cacophony of chirps and whirs, grabbing the best sunflower seeds and flying into the snarl of the sleeping wisteria vine and returning for more. All the while ignoring the whistle of the grey jays and the screech of the blues whose when provoked by each other can become quite rowdy leaving pulled feathers for the collecting.
It's time to feed them all again and the tamer red squirrels, who will come when you call "George", are expecting a treat of bread with peanut butter. A prized treat, that if they are not quick to take it, is lost to the jays, who will inevitably follow the reds to see where it is going to be hidden and will steal it away, if given even half a chance.
6 February 2009
---
The sky is an intense blue, clear with only a sparing wisp of cloud to the north over Fredericton. There has been so little breeze in the woods that the firs and spruce still hold the snow from Tuesday night.
In the clearing where there has been drifting, the snow has taken on the patterns of sand washed in wind and wave, gentle ripples and dimples on the sparkling surface.
Running zigzag across the drive and into the browse, is the chaotic meandering prints of the many snowshoe hare. The very same marauding denizen of the summer garden, the very same that has destroyed all hope of springtime tulip blooms, and keeps the pole beans, which have the ability to reach heights over 30 feet, moderately stunted well into summer.
The red fox was on the prowl early this morning, the delicate foot prints, carefully placed in the snow indicate that it was on the hunt for the hare or perhaps it was partridge whose print was also visible in various locales.
The poor partridge, a bird which has the inclination to hide in the lowest limbs of the evergreens during a snow, can easily become entombed in a snowfall that, if heavy enough, can not dig itself out from under, the frozen remains are there for the spring cleaning by the ravens and turkey vultures that are becoming more plentiful as the years pass. The remaining partridge are the fortunate ones who go to produce sizable broods of cute little chicks hidden in the nests against fallen logs. Who, when you stumble upon the area, are then seen dragging the 'broken wing' well away from the nest site.
Upon closer inspection of the trails in the snow, there is the sign of the red squirrel, tiny clawed paw prints, then a tunnel dug into the snowbank, which leads to some yet undiscovered maze and likely a stash of forgotten food.
The area around the bird feeder is active, chickadees and nuthatches dashing in and out, a quiet cacophony of chirps and whirs, grabbing the best sunflower seeds and flying into the snarl of the sleeping wisteria vine and returning for more. All the while ignoring the whistle of the grey jays and the screech of the blues whose when provoked by each other can become quite rowdy leaving pulled feathers for the collecting.
It's time to feed them all again and the tamer red squirrels, who will come when you call "George", are expecting a treat of bread with peanut butter. A prized treat, that if they are not quick to take it, is lost to the jays, who will inevitably follow the reds to see where it is going to be hidden and will steal it away, if given even half a chance.
6 February 2009
---
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