Saturday 30 June 2012

Koan poems: Sepia sky and faded lace

the red silk embroidered robe
bereft of buttons, wide sleeves edged of gold. 
a white swan walks in salty mud-stained shore,   
her graceful neck arched to the sepia sky.    


she was simple farmer's daughter,
living on goat's milk, eggs and sweet purple yams. 
a black swan glided with bright red bill, crooning softly, 
the buttons of her dress fell into cornfield and sun.  


she keeps a jar of odd buttons, fabric squares and 
torn lace from old dresses, along with faded ribbons.     
a man in the street plays a violin by an empty cup.      
she knits a quilt, one square a day, till she is whole.        

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub:  Poetics : Button, Button 
and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Chinese Koan poetry form - In four lines

Line 1: The first part makes a statement about one's subject.
Line 2: Continue to describe the subject of the poem with a new image:
Line 3: Start a new subject. The third line of traditional Koan poetry leads the reader away from the subject of the first two lines into a completely unrelated topic.
Line 4: Relate the lines. The fourth line unites the themes of the first three lines. Think of it as a circle that comes back.

Thursday 28 June 2012

A mid-summer night's dream

she was confused 
as the moon crossed the northern solstice 
a snapped sprig,
a fish out of emerald sea 

her lover was bewitched 
by magic potion on the eyelids, 
as if the Gods played a cruel joke
or changed the rules, she didn't know   
love is a battlefield,
a sharp knife on her breast, a cut in her wrist,  
when ardent eyes turn black and empty river  

or a theatre for entertainment 
for the puppeteers and forest imps,
playing chaos and bumbling actors, but for her   

the foolish one who gave everything away
in exchange for a night of passion and 
promises, now gone on the whim of wind  

or maybe it was written in the stars
that she will get a blank tarot card,
a jester's awkward lines instead of a love letter  

maybe all is just a cloud's figment,   
a chimera in the pool of fallen leaves,   
we are all made fools of love 
in this mid-summer night's dream

Posted for Kerry's Wednesday Challenge:   Our challenge is to find a phrase or quote from Shakespeare to either inspire a poem or to use as the title of the finished piece.   
and Poetry Jam:  Mood Swings 

picture credit:   here

Monday 25 June 2012

Glass and lavender

in this land 
of maple trees, i am a
sugar cane harvested in summer 

stripped of roots and leaves, my tongue 
twisted   as   you   blow   pipe   my   ears 

give me your lips, open your thighs, 
come  to   me  like  a   thunderstorm 

pen drips of molasses, darkening spoon on white plate 
rippling the rock garden, raked into stillness by monks 

how   well   you  cleave  me,  my  wind   whisperer, 
i thought i was made of hollow bowl, seedless grey,  

but i am young again in mouth-blown Reidel glass 
   flowing ice wine, soft lavender on your palms,      

stem bent listening to the  
sea and sun 

Posted for Imaginary Garden of Real Toads and D'verse Poets Pub:   OpenLinkNight 

picture credit:  here

Saturday 23 June 2012


                                                                 @Margaret Bednar

i am windswept for words
in these long sun-baked nights

sometimes i stand, immobile as moai* 
on Easter Island, lost-angst lover

i throat sing in my bid to find you, 
pulsing click-chunk-click, galloping the field, 

until the emerald sea whispers to me  
Come and be with me  

silky mane and forelock flows
as i hurl myself over the white edge,  

your hand urges a tumult run, wild grains on hooves,   
until all i see is blaze marking on my nose     

there is no safety net when i free-fall
you are either a ball of fire or silent stone falling    

i choose with my eyes closed 
as the wind lifts my wingspan on my descent   

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Photography by Margaret Bednar
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   Logophila 

* Large stone statues made of volcanic ash in Easter Island

Monday 18 June 2012

Slow beating of the night

Clasp your moon heart to mine
in the swelling waves of shadows,
closely entwine our cold hands  
like twin seed pods with wings    

Carry me across the ocean steps
where the tide is blue and sand washes 
shore in quickening shades, elusive wind
to artist's fingers huddled over the canvas

Love, because of it, hold me close   
as if an arrow pierced your side, 
as if it is the last call of midnight train 
hurling over the bridge of mud stones

Tie your heart at night to mine, love*,
so I awake to slow beating of your
chest underneath my palms, to the breath
of summer and crust of freshly baked bread       

"So that our dream might reply
to the sky's questioning stars
with one key, one door closed to shadow."

Lines and Inspiration from Pablo Neruda:   Tie your heart at Night to mine, Love

Posted for:   Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and D'verse Poets Pub : OpenLinkNight    

picture credit:   here

Saturday 16 June 2012

Away from you

 firestorm falls, blue fingerling
yonder the lake shore, adrift
memory, wood chiseling 
 grave marker, numbed with snowdrift

i  catch, all of yesterday 
into a  farewell album,
when someday, like saturday,  
i listen, dance, high volume 

your  words  still a  seasoning:
salt, cloves, sage, peppered windstorm, 
exile heart throbs, rupturing
 blue sea, unto you, firestorm 

Posted for:   D'verse Poets Pub:   Exile - Thanks Karin for the lovely prompt ~
and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Celtic Quatrain - Thanks Kerry for the form ~
Each stanza is a quatrain of seven syllables. Lines one and threerhyme with a triple (three syllable) rhyme and two and four use a double (two syllable) rhyme.  The poem should end with the first word or the complete line that it began with.

Picture credit:   here

Friday 15 June 2012

To the young lady

summer sun fills windows
with burst of crimson and yellow blooms,
trumpeting blues and shadows of winter

golden glow envelops your body,
colt with long flowing legs, not a child
but a budding teen, newborn butterfly

your brownish eyes, still innocent,   
look at me like the clear water by creek, 
gently flowing and trusting the wind

do not hurry to grow up quickly,
I say but tarry awhile and run in fields,
chasing squirrels and red breasted robins     

cusp of leaves fall on your long hair, 
as you chat and giggle with friends, 
portrait of woman to be, full of promise 

do not fall in love with boy just yet,
I say but with the wonder of crystal raindrop
and wingspan of the eagle above   

blow dandelion seeds in afternoon sky 
as you walk home,  forever framed, 
as it is the best time to be, just my daughter

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads   
and D'verse Poet Pub:   Triversen   

picture credit:   here    

Monday 11 June 2012

The piano

midway during the concert 
the piano waited in pensive mood
ignored in the pocket coat of playmaker
when she came with arrow fingers,
red rose on soundboard  

something snapped, 
jaws of the whale opened
silvery waves rose and crashed
against the salt sprayed mouth,
breaking the emeralds
and ivory keys into shells 
falling to the foamy depths
of the blue sea
echoes of the bullhorns,
trumpets blaring castles of the moors,
thundering the night,
cries of the eagle 
circling the breasts of the moon

then in the dying notes  
melody grew softer 
warm milk,
trickle of sweetness,
breathless sigh
the piano and pianist plunged
downwards, oblivious  
until all was a 
pitter patter of rain,
a dewdrop
the man with the baton 
came back 
like a wounded mad crow,
jaws of the whale closed,   
and man walked away 
to silence   

                                                                 abstract art by Ashok

Posted for:   Imaginary Garden for Real Toads and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight  
Ashok has requested that I write about his art work, music abstract. I drew my post inspiration from  Pablo Neruda's Oda al Piano .   
Thanks for the visits and lovely words.  I appreciate them.

Sunday 10 June 2012

Stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots

 Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean Fran├žois de Le Motte

you wrote a letter
and pinned it on the board

you scribbled sweet nothings 
across pamphelt and left it 

you hid the truth under the 
flowing strokes, obscure lines 
in the journal of us

your words hammered  
until they were rubber bands, 
wounding tight around my chest

so don't look for me 
in the wooden panels of the room,
pining for the ship to anchor us    

i am outside, 
stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots,
and dancing with the wind  

                                           Copy Right © 2012 Hannah Gosselin ~ Stumbling for Forget-Me-Nots

Posted for:   The Mag 121
and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:   Photography by Hannah Gosselin  

Saturday 9 June 2012

Of green apples and old bike

sun creeps like a trickster's clock on wall

to get up now or fold under white sheets
to break the eggs with a fork or boil them in water   
to cut the blooming roses or let them fall like rosary beads 

it besets her that simple things 
seem like shaking the trees for just a leaf  
(knocking heads is probably more apt) 

to push or pull the doors
to walk to the park or skiphotch to wheat field,         
she jogs her memory of what happened last night 

torrential rain lashing her skin,
fear snapping on heels like demented dogs    
while running headlong into the city smog   

she is lost in the river tide, 
adrift in choices that roots her feet while others fly
(her son buys a second hand bicycle 
because it's dirt cheap than paying for a car)  

until a hand settles firmly on her arm

scent of pine cones and green apples
warm as honeysuckle in springbed,   
kisses cheek in gentle whisper 

it is going to be alright

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads:  A word with Laurie:   Dementia/Insanity
and D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   It's a matter of Choice

Picture credit:   here 

Friday 8 June 2012


drop by drop
fading against the midnight sun 

grey to white
melting peacock feathers into ashen dust  

red lined lips
chewing the bitter wood

licking the salted wounds on breasts 

long tapered hands
turning into knives and scissor blades

if i drink the bottle of mercury 
will your needle eyes move to the right ?

a strange thing 
i have become in your house full of mirrors       

time is irrelevant 
if it breaks the river heart into a thousand stones 

darkness is more than just a moonless night
if i am now  

an insignificant dot in your palm

"“One person's craziness is another person's reality.” 
― Tim Burton 

Posted for Poets United:   Eccentric : Congrats on the 100th prompt post ~
and D'verse Poets Pub:    Where in the world?   :   Thanks for the visit.

picture credit:   here

Monday 4 June 2012

Like Mexico

you look like Mexico, 
                              familiar old soul
sitting in the silhouette of sunset
gazelle eyes, lips inked red as your corset   
lingering notes from flamenco guitar
you play a thousand times, by the bar

each sharp crescendo, each staccato beat, 
crimson, emerald and indigo bursting heat
fireworks, heady like tequila lime and salt    
i drink like i don't care until 
                               i am full of thunder 

you smell like Mexico,
                               familiar old soul

roads under our wheels, sand everywhere
tequila lime, salt, beer on breath
summer heat blowing from the border,
Mexico gets into my head,  and suddenly

you are more than just a girl in my arms
making me wish for more than just this road trip,
when i see a shooting star
in the pale moonlight, I kiss you hard     

you taste like Mexico, 
                               familiar old soul 

my hands reach for you as I come alive

Guitar and original music composition of Herotomost of Mexican Radio * ~ Thanks Corey ~  

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - OpenLinkNight - Monday
and D'verse Poets Pub - OpenLinkNight  - Tuesday

Saturday 2 June 2012

Working for a price

at the studio

i switch the stage lights to
capture the sun falling on the model,
$ 8000 Birkin handbag on her feet   

she awaits patiently for my time,
unlike the files on my desk with a 
RUSH stamped,  

i search for numerical beauty of her back, 
consistency and safety pins on hair,
and hint of summer underneath her corset,

but it is the eyes I am aiming for,
deep, full of emotional connections,
i strip away the clothes and make up

to figure out the shape of the face, bare beauty,
a year from now, maybe another wrinkle or line,
but nothing like depression drugs or cancer 
(the file will be DECLINED) 

my fingers frame the picture i want,
the angle to capture the light behind, 
like a buyer checking an auction find, carefully

subtract the claims from the payments
check the trends, set minimum threshold, LOWest price, 
before sales negotiations begin, because there is NUMBer 

to be negotiated, nothing, not even love
is fixed and constant, forever is an ILLUSION, 
(it exists only in my poetic head) 

like my polariod camera, catching fluid moments
into fixed frames for sale, for artistic expression, 
but always a showcase to the HIGHest bidder   

because there is a price 
to pay for something that you want 

or not  

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub:   Poetics:   Workin' For It - I should have posted this in my other blog but I want to write without fearing a backlash from my (real world) friends and workmates.  Thanks for the visit ~ 

Picture post and inspiration from Photographer Paolo Roversi