'I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone.' Kurt Vonnegut

Friday, August 22, 2014

Breaking news

"Walk lightly in the Spring ..." 
Saying of the Kiowa People

In the poet's garden

I felt spring’s first warm breeze on my face today
And stepped out lightly into a world turned green,
But the news from the north spoke death and decay.

Young man gunned down by bullets lead astray
And another beheaded on Youtube’s small screen:
I felt spring’s first warm breath on my neck today.

My spirit stretched skyward on this blue sun day
Last night’s rain gave the grass its new blade sheen;
Still the news from the north spoke death and decay.

There’s an ongoing war – neither foe will give way –
In more than one place, innocents dying unseen:
I felt spring’s first warm touch on bare arms today.

How does our one Earth not give in to dismay:
Flowers grow, birds nest, seasons follow routine
When the news from the north speaks death and decay?

Borders were crossed, a landslide swept a boy away
And disease claimed more victims denied medicine:
I felt spring’s first warm tears in my heart today,
Because news from the north spoke death and decay.


This poem was engendered by Susie's Bits of Inspiration on Wednesday, realized by Fireblossom's Lists and given form by a challenge I made to my Grade 9 class today to write a Villanelle.

Sunday, August 10, 2014


And she has loved with a fierce, white passion
She never speaks of, for if she were to tell
It would be like the face of unknown stars.  Gabriela Mistral

After the rain, when the sun slowly sinks
behind the blackening treetops, I see reflected
the last lingering touch of light upon clouds.

The perfect backdrop to loneliness.

I would offer my heart to the four winds,
in hopes one would carry it to you, leave it unguarded
on your windowsill, pulsing with need

or, to be practical, I should unhook my consciousness
from yours, setting my own mind free:
if I can’t be with you, let me live the life I have.

The daily existence without your seductive presence.

If I lived on ‘til eighty, would I lose count of days apart?
My loss kept secret, forgotten even in my veins
as my body inevitably recoils from youth

or would the winds returning bring the scent of love again:
between the conventions of small talk and small intimacies
and through every long, untrammelled night?

There lies the sense of you, a part of me.


The Sunday Mini-Challenge features the life and poetry of Gabriela Mistral