ALL-CANADIAN POETRY
Presented by AURORA ANTONOVIC
--------
NETTIE BOZANICH
I am a freelance writer whose work has been published online and in print. My website, www.nettiebozanich.com , is weekly updated with new work and information about my writing. I write about the world as I see it, as I would like to see it, and about places that I will never see. It is exactly what I want to be doing with my life and that feeling elates me, motivates me, and renews me.
BECOMING
the slow squeaking
of evening scratches.
his voice is timelessness
and wisdom.
a soothing of his yeas
and graying hair.
reminders falling simply
in a surrounding of
his generous motions.
I speak, bringing glowing
to his eyes.
and know that I am his wonderful
(an elation in time and in my existence.)
endings finding themselves meaningless,
in a beginning brimmed with
aspiration and smiles.
the squeaking finds my ears again.
my mind traveling to the hard wood
of floors covered in layers.
a rest and renewal.
the past finds circling in the present
as warmth encourages a future.
--------
THE WISH
a silent wish to disappear
into the tables and chairs
and food and endlessness that
surrounds her.
she is embarrassed and awkward;
somehow forgotten as the past
moved swiftly forward and
everyone grew up.
offering herself in her meager hands,
she is met with noses upturned
in the mysticism of their art and money
and vicious positivism.
a welcoming to her reality would change
them, she thinks.
but she knows they could never
compromise their fantasies for her realities.
her pale skin and tired eyes bring a fading
to her sense of knowing. and she finds a nothing
in their something. seeing past their acts
and knowing her weakness simultaneously.
sadness is all she really understands in their
company. her stillness makes her weep
as they continue toward a life lived.
--------
AURORA ANTONOVIC
"Aurora Antonovic is a Canadian freelance writer, visual artist, former co-editor, and columnist for
the GT Times. Her poetry has recently appeared in Megaera, Thunder Sandwich, The Sidewalk's End,
Makarta, The Moriarity Papers, and Poetic Voices, the latter in which she appeared as Featured Poet
for May 2003."
SECRETS
I have a secret that rises up
in my throat at times, and clutches me,
threatening to strangle me. It whispers to me
when I am trying to concentrate on work,
haunts me when I am having an othe! rwise happy time, and
pops up at the most unexpected moments.
It holds me in its dark clenched grip and
won't go away, even when I am making love with you.
It says it will never release me, even if I say it aloud.
As I am writing this, it is laughing at me
in most sinister gales.
--------
MG
I feel like a deceiver when I
dress myself in carefully arranged clothing to
hide my gauntness, and paint my face with lying
strokes to hide the ravages of illness. I wonder who I am
fooling when I try to laugh and it
comes out sounding harsh and brittle. I
think you can hear death in my voice.
--------
SANDALWOOD
The sweet smell of sandalwood rises
Up from your beard,
More intoxicating than any incense
I've ever known,
More enveloping in its subtle, pungent lure,
Calling me to come wrap myself in your arms
And lose! myself in your scent.
--------
HAVEN
I need a home for my words,
somewhere with cedar-lined drawers
to host the softest of concepts,
Cupboards for the pronouns,
lavender sachet shelves for the metaphors and similes,
and rooms with great acoustics for all the verse
that madly rolls off your poet's tongue!
--------
THINGS I WANT TO SAVE
The way you breathe tonight,
Lying peacefully beside me;
The way you hold me,
In the crook of your arm
So protectively,
As if I am a glass figurine
Of priceless worth,
Which could easily shatter
If not handled just so.
The way we sleep,
In some sort of nocturnal ballet,
Our bodies in fluid motion,
Always touching,
Always holding,
Ever reluctant
To let go.
The way your eyes plead,
When you tell me
That I am
The only one for you,
They speak as though
They are begging
Me to understand
That my love is
Vital
To your soul.
The way you brush my hair,
And then move it aside,
In one smooth column,
To kiss the back of my neck
And whisper your sweetness against it.
The way you breathe kisses into me
And murmur
My own words of poetry
Back to me
As though they were
The most cherished gift
A soul could want,
Accompanying them
With the gentlest of caresses.
If I could
I would put all of these moments
Into a big box
And draw them out
For the times
You aren't here
And press them against the side of my face
And next to my heart
While I breathe a soft sigh
And gently cry.
--------
SOME WORDS
Some words
Ought not to be written down,
Nor spoken loudly,
But whispered shyly in the dark,
Against the warmth of your neck,
And your unshaven face,
While inhaling the familiar scent
Of your cologne,
While feeling the steady beat of your heart,
In the shelter of your arms,
And being reminded of all
That they hold.
Some words are not meant
For another's ears,
Nor others' eyes,
But are meant for you,
And you alone.
--------
OUR SECRET PLACE
Come hide with me
And I will show you how much I love you,
As we seclude ourselves
In the veiled screen reserved
Just for us two,
As my hair cascades all over us
Making a cloak that is
Dark, and shields us from prying eyes,
I will lean as close as I dare,
Whispering words of love
Against your pressing lips,
Giggling against their warmth and ardour,
Then murmuring a response as I am overcome
With all they demand from me,
In that special place
That is always waiting for us,
Behind the curtain
Of my hair.
--------
NICK BRUNO
Nick Bruno's poetry has appeared in publications such as: Adirondack Review, Stirring, Sidereality, Thunder Sandwich, Snow Monkey, Verse Libre Quarterly, The Poetry Super High Way, Electric Acorn, Poor Mojo's Almanac and Unlikely Stories. He holds a Masters in Sociology along with a T.E.S.L. degree. He recently spent several years in Europe, where he taught English as a second language. He is presently living and writing in Canada.
NOT UNLIKE A SPARROW'S DEATH
Under the hedgerows sparrows flounder
in the dirt as they partake of makeshift baths.
His daughter practices playing the blues
on the guitar; the strumming drifts
through the study window - the birds
unperturbed in their morning ritual.
His wife slices open tomatoes
sacrificing them in large aluminum bowls,
the ripened juices ripple
as pieces drop into the mix.
Some she'll use in today's salad;
the rest, perserved in mason jars
will be buried in the root-cellar.
Beyond the hedges, on the street -
hit by oncoming headlights; when
it was their son's blood that flowed
she was less forgiving,
her shrieks more telling
than all the words
she will not use.
Ire of The Storm
Now my charms are all o'erthrown
And what strength I have's mine own;.
--------
SHAKESPEARE
He pinches the bridge of his nose,
holds his forehead; squints to discern
the walkway a few blocks off
that leads to home. Closer up
he discovers the articles strewn
about are his own. He looks up.
Down on the manicured lawn
among all manner of personal effect -
an annotated reprint of "The Tempest"
sits in the middle of the melee -
in the proverbial eye - he spits
and claims the spot to be his own,
the sputum's cream colour coming
off a tongue run dry by mounting ire.
This microscopic island of life
is destined to become just another piece
bereft of his essence on the floor.
--------
THE CROSSING
Frigid mists linger like a shroud
as you make your way down
the malm to the river's barren banks.
You stand immersed in your own stench,
a scarab beetle entombed in a coprolite.
The murkiness of the waters transfixes
your stare and galvanizes your senses
until they are heightened and taut.
The oarsman rows death across
the obsidian surface. He glides
towards you despite his bulk
with lambent eyes and nostrils flared.
Misshapen heads pivot on torso,
the barge lurches onto the embankment.
You cringe and gasp as light crisscrosses
your lupine body and malamute eyes.
A gaping maw opens to sound
that grates on the silence.
Your words, are clear and erudite.
This severs the last tendrils
of their rationality until they hang
only by the knowledge that once
its inky expanse is traversed
there is no safe passage back.
--------
PATRICIA CRESSWELL
Ms. Cresswell has been published in the Canadian Women's Studies/lescahiers de la femme, and Kudzu Monthly. Her poem, "Beyond Blue" was chosen among the year's best by MiPo Poetry Board. She has completed a book called "Breaking The Silence," about spousal abuse.
FIRST SWIM
water,black,
deep as the end of the world
scent of cedar roots
ancient tangles
that hold the rock together
pines bent before the wind
old crones thin and wrinkled
I wade into the lake
submerge,
feel cold crisp life
crackle through me
strike out for the far shore
slow delicious strokes
arm raised, dig in,
flow past my body
lift,
raise,
dig in,
water sings in my ears
roll,
float,
a speckle-spark sky
umbrellas over me
the big dipper,
venus,
shine
somewhere a beaver tail
slaps a warning
into the night.
--------
THE 9:15 P.M. WEST
train rumbles by
with thunder¹s roll,
squeals steel on steel
around the bend
shakes my window
just passing it criies
on to Sudbury, Thunder Bay,
out onto the prairie
charging into the night
come, gone, out of sight
I feel the wind it pushes
will pull me into its path
if I let go
lighted windows flicker
like old time silent movies
too fast to read the lives
playing inside
I am a flash of white
track side
dreaming of escape.
--------
LARYALEE FRASER
Mother, grandmother, photographer, gardener, writer...
still struggling with unanswered questions of life.
WORDLESS
I am lost
between the pages
of yesterday and the unwritten
sentence of tomorrow.
I keep trying to scrawl
an indelible thought on the stone-grey
wall of time - one that won't
wash off in the rain.
I search for a seed-puff
of inspiration so I can blow it across
fertile fields; even if it snags
on a barbed wire fence, it may justify
my existence.
But in my recurring nightmare, the words
have all been penned, and I am
encased in a speck of dust, floating
between the lines.
--------
RAIN WORDS
From a vast blue page,
cloud sentences
slide earthward,
breaking apart as they tumble.
On syllabic toes, rain words skitter
across roads, roofs, leaves
and upturned faces,
absorbing the nuances
of every dialect,
intent on finding the voice
that will speak them
back to the sky again.
--------
DANCING WITH MIRRORS
neck-deep in vanity
we polish ourselves
into mirror images
unable to discern
our own reflections
we casually toss aside remnants
of conscience
gleefully scrutinize
each other's sins
and pretend we can avoid the moment
when life disrobes
and our nakedness
is exposed
--------
REMEMBRANCE
In sporadic drifts, memories
flutter down, like skeletal leaves
in slow motion -- fragile whispers torn
from the branches of yesterday.
Sometimes, your love-warm echoes
snuggle for a moment on my shoulder
before I tuck them gently
in a pocket of my mind.
But nights are infused
with the sodden weight of loss;
I pour my loneliness
across the threshold of dawn
and wait for your voice
to swim back to me.
--------
PETER GILCHRIST
Peter lives in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada and makes a living as a lawyer and a claims consultant for professional liability insurers. He is a parent, a paddler and a poet. Peter started writing poetry again in December of 2002, after not having written for many years. His poetry has been published in Reconnaitre Magazine, Saucy Vox Review, Literati, and Worm. Peter won an Honourable Mention at NPAC in March, 2003, and took the Gold Medal in April, 2003. He also received the NPAC Silver Medal for art in May, 2003.
FRONTIERSMAN
you are the current that carries me and confirms my whim.
your steep bank affords purchase for my passing.
where others find you firm and jagged
I meld my self to your contours.
astride your flow, I listen.
these rocks you have wound for me
like shells upon a braided strand
define my course and guide my wandering.
you are my constant; my guiding force.
your change occurs without deception.
your settled soil, with grains of gold inflected:
my platform to survey your raging waters.
I do not cross you so much as blend with you for a time.
my wearied limbs invite your cool caress.
immersion: my decision but your success.
your eddies and your shallows give me rest.
your voice lends seeing to my sight.
I lose myself in the gentle lapping at your shores.
a chorus from your boulder gardens fills my hearing.
your soft anointment of the granite
lays ribbons of every hue.
the rippled sunshine plays upon your sands
and reflects your laughter with sparkling light;
diamonds laid upon your tresses.
you are my essence
and my reward.
Note: This poem is a responding verse to "Frontier", by Arlene Longson
--------
STIRRING
rapids shed their ice
canoes slip from graveled shores
anticipation
--------
HERONS
obligations bleed notwithstandings
and hereinafters
across a wooden desk.
words tumble from clauses.
jumbled characters cartwheel,
escaping straight edges,
and base-jump the credenza,
reaching for thermals.
black meanings rise,
soften
and spread wings.
feathers,
nimbus grey,
tickle low slung clouds.
herons glide in languid curves
over canvas sheets luffed with wishing
on a cobalt bay of unwritten poetry.
--------
THE BULLRIDER
"A twisting bull can change the way you measure time.
The seconds stall mid-air. A massive head comes back,
and cracks your skull. The light explodes in shards. You mime
control, each muscle clenched against the next attack.
It comes a fraction sooner than you think it will.
Arrays of pain refract through prisms up your spine.
His head goes down, he spins, and crimson droplets spill
across your straining arm. A warm and salted wine
decants between your shattered teeth and leaks from lips
pursed tight against the fear careening madly 'round
the fenced-off ring inside your mind. Awareness slips
away and all you see is sky and rushing ground.
And then the blackness comes." He paused, his gun-grey eyes
drilled through my smile. "It's hard to run a ranch from here"
he said. He rubbed the wheelchair rails. "Your mother tries
to do the work for both of us, but every year
there's things that don't get done. It's tough. But we're okay.
Although I sometimes think I might as well be dead
for all the help I am to her." He looked away
and blinked a half-a-dozen times, then shook his head.
"You want to ride the bulls," he said, "I guess I knew
that all along." His voice was soft and sad. "Please try
to understand that every second counts and you
need eight of them to score, but only one to die."
--------
JEFFREY MACKIE
Jeffrey Mackie is a poet from Montreal. His work was
included in '100 Poets Against The War' from Salt
Publishing UK: 2003. His latest chapbook publication
is 'Graffiti Scripture'. Most recently Mackie's work has
been translated and published in Croatia.
MUSEUMS
(For Dubravka Ugresic)
The bright light shines
And it shows
That nobody's shadow
Is clear
I can see things in the light
'the unambiguous strain of capitulation on your face'
In the flea markets
They are selling the history
Of the twentieth century
Kitsch objects of ironic value
At night the museums are dark.
At night
Everything becomes a museum
I close the computer
And it becomes
A museum of my thought
When it opens
I see my words
Behind glass
My mind is a museum
Of memories
I have a few objects
A few photos
Some words written
To accompany them
I have argued with myself
What is valuable?
What can be thrown away?
--------
ONCE MADE TRUE LOVE
Is there something necessary
For unsatisfied desire
In wanting something you can't have?
Or what you can
But only for a moment.
And you don't know where its been
Or maybe you do
And you have been waitng
For a glance, a touch, a phone call
To go somewhere
You are not sure if you should go
But you will
Maybe you have been
The other woman
The other man
Maybe you are
Maybe that is half the attraction
Or the whole
Maybe you have been told
Its a matter of time
Maybe you have heard its boredom
And they can't wait to get away
To see you
Maybe.
--------
MARLENE MCCARTY
Marlene McCarty writes poetry, fiction, and creative non-fiction. Her work has been published in various, magazines, newspapers, and anthologies including, Inkblot, Lingerings, Epiphany Magazine, Winners' Circle, Wordscape, Rainy Day Corner Magazine, The Authors, and Writer Gazette. She lives in North Bay, Ontario, where she operates Write Word Writing Services from her home office.
ILLUSIONS
Dawn creeps around the edges
of my dreams, nudging
your image aside, prodding me
to reluctantly give up
the tenuous hold that keeps
me clinging to phantom smiles
and empty promises of days
that never happened, except
In the lingering moments
before daybreak
--------
REFLECTIONS
At the crossroads you stand
elegant as an unadorned satin gown
white stone basking in sunshine
tall spire majestic against purple sky
A landmark rising above the town
Your morning peal lures me here
to sit on sun-kissed steps
reflecting on
a day long ago when time stood still
and a hush fell
as a reluctant bride-to-be
entered your doors to pledge undying love
while a mother wept
At dawn her unanswered dying plea
hovered in the stillness
and I set my jaw in granite
unyielding as your stony walls
while she begged forgiveness
for the part she played
in my long-ago fall
into the silent sorrow
of a loveless bond
--------
CINNAMON
Cinnamon dominates today, overriding
but not completely obscuring yesterday's
lingering aromas; cloves, allspice, nutmeg,
and a jumble of others.
My nose and memory search to define, separate
and catalogue each sundry whiff.
She bustles about the hot, steamy kitchen,
eyes straying intermittently to the cuckoo on the wall,
measuring the seconds before his footsteps
clatter on the wooden steps.
Another peek into the black bowels of her oven,
the buns rising high and fragrant, crisscrossed
with love and a deft hand.
A wisp of damp hair escapes her house cap;
smudgy reminders of a thousand meals
dot the faded blue of her apron.
Never still, eyes forever flitting,
hands, forever smoothing,
straightening, and making ready.
I sit in the corner and watch,
unaware that this cinnamon day will
resurface again almost fifty years later,
unblemished by the passage of time.
--------
OF TRASH AND TREASURES
On long tables and old doors balanced on
piles of bricks,
we lay out thirty years of together and
watch from behind sheer curtains
as cars slow down,
and chunky women in curlers and spandex
squabble over knickknacks and plates,
faded clothing, old books and dreams
You go outside to take their money
while I stand here, tears clouding
my vision of you, shame-faced and solemn,
haggling over the price of our best china pieces
chipped now, their gold edges
tarnished and stained,
worthless as our
wedding vows.
--------
Four Poems by
RICH ROACH
I am a poet, musician, composer, educator, husband and father from Niagara Falls, Canada. By day I help elementary teachers and students integrate the arts into the curriculum, believing that sparking the creative process is the key to education. I promote poetry and its many benefits. My poetry is a reflection of who I am, and my passion for life's myriad details, all the nooks and crannies, those subtle interstices wherein our humanity lies.
THE DOOR
I am triumphant faith half-sleeping,
the peal of cemetery bells
slightly out of tune
flaming over snow.
I am walking in the hills age 17
with eyes closed,
trusting the mind's thousand eyes
ancient and half-forgotten.
I am a moonbeam
weaving miraculously
through a tangle
of clouds.
I am as I stand,
heaven on earth,
the door no other key would fit.
--------
UN-DONNE
The City rang with noisy bells
that spoke his famous name,
while stately mansions pressed against
each mud-and-timber frame,
broad, jutting second storeys blocked
all sunlight from his eyes,
as rubbish cast from windows clogged
the laneway filled with flies.
He knew that there were brothels, thieves,
and alehouses about,
yet of each sinner's pending doom
his heart had little doubt;
the stinging wrath of God would come
to prostitutes as well -
he sat beside a cornerstone
and dreamed them all to Hell.
As clouds competed with the Thames
for gloomy looks, and rain
with zealous hope began to clean
the city streets in vain,
he walked within Paul's sacred walls
and felt the world turn grey -
but when he heard the maiden sing,
it took his breath away.
He watched her lips, and shivering,
tried not to lose control,
as fancy threatened to destroy
his hushed, immortal soul;
he'd seen a player at the Globe,
whose laughter clothed his sin -
and now his sacred vestments mocked
the motley man within.
How long he stared with stricken heart
he knew not, yet he feared
perdition's flame that seemed to pluck
with earnest at his beard;
a brood of angels groomed his hair
and on his conscience dined,
till plague-like rectitude soon swept
her image from his mind.
--------
FRAIL ROSE
If I could seize the sun, and grip its might
within my blistered hand;
if I could rip the Earth's hard crust, and lap
volcanic rock and sand;
if I could scrape a mountain from the sky
and flick it at the stars;
if I could suck the very oceans dry,
exposing putrid scars,
then I, with all the heart of heaven, cast
upon the shores of time,
would heave each weighted thought of you aside,
and put within my rhyme
the essence of that child I know resides
in you, who cannot speak
for want of voice, who cannot feel my touch
with fingers far too weak
to hold a flower, light as wind, within
their grip without a sense
of all the world's wide cares in each soft fold,
a grain of sand too dense
for such great sorrow. Yet would I, among
the streaking stars enclose
my hand upon the universe, and give
it now to you, frail rose.
--------
IN PEACOCK WAVES
I. The Wing
Oh, such a simple thing, a flash
of colour in a stoic sky,
a note sustained, a merry dash
of blue on grey. I wonder why
it strikes my heart with rage
to see it so;
and yet
inside
I know.
II. Knowledge & Despair
I know about a lot of things
undammed by accident, as though
a plug were pulled, leaving dark rings
where otherwise I wouldn't know.
Such knowledge is a cage
of fierce despair;
and yet
inside
I care.
III. Strains of Caring
I care about the winds that blow
across your grave, the little stains
pure snow makes on your headstone - oh,
I care…I care about these strains
convincing me that age
will come - that I,
like waves
on sand,
must die.
IV. Questioning Each Sparkle
Must die? Will I then flounder, flung
in peacock waves, and never see
your light within this brilliance hung
upon these boughs? This sparkling sea
of white, and leave the stage
in tears? No more!
And yet
I can't
Ignore.
V. Prophecy & Hope
I can't ignore the songs, the dreams,
the racing yachts of simple joy
that comfort me, like level streams
of prophecy, each girl and boy
turning another page
in your life's tale.
And yet
inside
I wail.
--------
ALICE E. THOMPSON
Alice Elizabeth Thompson was born in the Okanagan Valley of British Columbia and grew up on a cattle ranch. She is of British, French and Native North American descent and has been writing poetry for over 30 years.
AFTERWARDS
I thought of you one frosty morn
When the dew stood frozen at my door
And not a drop did weep
I thought of you and similes were born
Like golden treasures harboured
To be companions in my sleep
I thought how close we were
With coffee and cigarettes
How close we were, how close…and yet
Afterwards I cried
The miles are tears
Running down my cheeks
--------
SEA SHANTY
With a flash of bronzed skin
You sailed into my port
And tossing golden mane
Dropped anchor in my heart.
With your clear and steady gaze
Glinting in the morning air
You spied my darkest secrets
And vanquished my despair
With your strong and gentle hands
You guide me to waters calm
I know I'll find safe harbour
In the shelter of your arms
With the fresh taste of salt sea spray
Teasing your impish grin
You sound the depths of my soul
Seeking leave to enter in
The music of your laughter
Echoes softly on the wind
Then you sing of distant shores
As you sail away again
With this I dream of you
Each night I close my eyes
I wish you may forever have
Fair winds and clear blue skies
--------
STILL-LIFE WATERCOLOUR
We sat on a bridge
Cameras in hand
And foolishly tried
In our systematic plan
To capture time
In the space of a day
Time is immortal
And memories are forever
The wind sang ripples
On the emerald waters
And the day dappled
Our eyes with visions
Of sunlight and laughter
The beauty was imprisoned
But somewhere along the way
We ran out of film
Now with miles and years between
We sit by our fires
And count memories
Of green laughing days
From the faded photographs
Kept among our treasures
Filling the gaps in sequence
That cameras could not measure
--------
WAYWARD CHILD
I am but a wayward child
A shipwrecked sodden vessel
Building castles in the sand
For the relentless tides
To scrub them clean
And take them out to sea
I pace the windswept shores
Searching the horizon
For ships large and small
From any port of call
Waiting for my dream
Of a better life to appear
I am but a wayward child
A prodigal wanton gambler
I scavenge the streets at dawn
Searching dark windows
For a glimpse of light,
Like a beacon in a hurricane
For all the lost ships at sea,
To lead me from this plight
I promise to heal my wounded soul
And cease my restless wandering
Instead I only grow older
With each passing spring
I am but a wayward child
An errant hapless daughter
Marking time, kicking sand
And skipping stones across the water
If one should glance your way
Do not be alarmed
It just went astray
I meant for you no harm
But if you should ever return
This misguided missile to me
I would wrap you in my arms
And never let you leave
--------
NICK ZEGARAC
Nick Zegarac is a poet, freelance editor, and writer of several screenplays. Currently he is aggressively campaigning for a publishing house to share his interests in several literary projects, including two more screenplays, a collection of short stories, and a book concerning the overview of Hollywood film making. He writes editorial columns for Retort Magazine and DVD reviews for Amazon.com and his work as a poet is featured on several net based literary sites.
TWIST
Twist,
as dandelions blow
across fields of grey.
Apart we are
though never alone.
I see you still
if dreams conceal,
Know that you are
in my thoughts surreal.
Dangle,
as the willow's swoon.
Gossamer veil draped
about the beguiling moon.
Constant you guide
in memories' eye,
Simple renderings too,
My darling missed,
Now twist.
She
Solemn as the pallor of half moon light,
exposing one breast to scrutiny,
barred from logic,
he own continuity partitioned,
halved, then quartered
beyond all human recognition
no aspiration for divine unity.
Too small?
Too soft?
The curves of her hand resting light,
fleshy deposit, decidedly ruined,
too round, inappropriately mapped
disjointed and dislodged.
An hour past midnight's
vain glorious repose.
The study robbed of all artistic merit,
nothing of value produced,
decided upon.
But more confusion spun tightly,
as the brittle wrap of an egg roll.
Insecurity conniving truth from its lofty perch,
milk of time spilled uselessly,
when she might have expanded
on well bred thoughts to refuse,
or pray silently deep
into a book of Psalms.
--------
SHE AND THE SEA
She sat cross-legged on a white wicker couch,
the bewitching spray of sea salt tickling her nose,
and could almost realize his strong silhouette
against the kaleidoscope of sunset,
darting from the velvet beach head;
young and full of male pride,
turning in haughty stride to wave her goodbye,
and a "see you later, after my swim."
But that was long ago,
before she knew that he wasn't coming home.
One thunderous moan from that ancient tide,
fastening the clasp on her memory box.
For it was too painful to think of him even now,
wrapped in her luring tides,
and happily so at first,
before clawing into a sandy bottom with bloody fingers,
and airless gasps,
praying, dreaming, pleading for the chance
to glean one last flicker of light from her kitchen window.
Damn it all! She hated the sea.
--------
FLANNEL ON A RAINY AFTERNOON
From the solitude of a worn leather recliner,
he leapt in dreams across the grey outdoors,
one thickening curl encircled in his pipe,
gnarled hands thumbing the yellowed pages of a novel
he had no intention to read.
Another frosty log tossed into the dwindling hearth.
Another day, cold - best spent in bed,
or the next best thing;
crocheted across his knees,
a pair of tired leather toes peeking beneath
that hemmed drape strewn about the floor,
and flannel; soothing, soft and familiar,
as the cloistered remembrances
of one woman's touch about his waist,
Dresden tease, tender fingers upon his neck.
Some thirty years turn under grey,
riding the backward carousel of still images,
swirling, twirling, spattering along
as tickled half-frozen drops against the window.
Sliding , a streak, as though on a grand race
to their final collection rest upon the sill.
If only the dragging hours knew their secrets well,
he wouldn't mind being alone,
in flannel, on this rainy afternoon.