Commercial Poem

Come here, come here, come over here!

Here's a fresh, hot poem for sale —

one you can sink your teeth into,

one that tastes better than chocolate.

Look at it, listen to it; you have to agree

it's a very good specimen. Join the queue.

We're going to auction it off.

Who'll be the highest bidder?

Settle down! Don't push and shove!

I know you're keen, I understand.

But once the original sells,

you can bid for cheaper copies.

So don't let's make it a free-for-all.

What was that? Who yelled, 'Free verse'?

Bugger! He's started a riot.

Now they all want gifts.

Listen, mate, there's the internet

for that kind of thing. There's all those blogs.

What will you offer me

for this virgin poem, unread?

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 29, a commercial poem.

Seagull Moment

It lifts up

or is wind-caught,

the gull against the sky.

I see it from beneath —

head high, chest vertical,

wide wings flaring

white on blue

like a flag

or a cross

made of light.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge, day 28: a bird poem

Here

Sky blue burning.

Summer is here

as always, ahead of time.

Hot, hot, hot, we love it 

from inside our cooled houses,

our beaches and swimming-pools.

Evenings, we sit out

on shady verandahs,

watching the local birds.

Mornings, we're up with the sun,

watering and weeding

before that sun climbs high.

Nights, we lie under 

just one sheet, with the fan on.
Here in the Caldera, living is good.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge 2013: day 27, local. 

Free Falling, and If Books Were Free

Free Falling

I let go 

the stone

and it 

drops 

straight to 

the ground

fast.

The dandelion seed 

drifts

on its feathery white parachute,

dancing, dipping 

and tilting

this way and that,

floating down slowly.

If Books Were Free

If books were free,

I'd collect all the  stories

and read them the rest of my life.

I'd never have nothing to read.

Some would sit on my shelf,

some would be on my device.

Some I would give away.

The best I would keep to re-read.

Books are my friends and family,

books are my food and drink.

I get them for birthdays and Christmas

but I never have enough.

You can't have too many books,

but you can have too few.

If books were free and I had enough room …

I’d probably need an extra life!

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 26, free (blank) and (blank) free.

The House Remixed (twice)

The day 25 prompt from Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge is to remix a previous poem —and various ways are suggested. I took a long piece of free verse — my ekphrastic poem of day 11 — and turned it into two different short, formal pieces.  

Tanka:

I dream of a house

on a cliff above the sea,

forest at its back

and green grass all around it.

I dream it waits for me there.

3x3x8

(My own invention: 3 lines, 3 rhymes, 8 syllables per line.)

The house above the sea is old.

Its big windows gaze from the cliff

and the forest rises behind.

I wonder has the house been told

that I’m the one it waits for; if

it knows that it is mine to find?

I dreamed of it always: the gold

sunlight, the breeze a little stiff,

the sea shining … time out of mind.

I've Got Eyes in the Back of My Head

My Mum said that.

She meant we kids better not

do anything naughty

because she would see.

When I was little

I thought they were real,

those eyes, and I didn't

know how they stayed hidden.

Did the lids blend

perfectly with the skin behind

her hair, as if invisible?

How was it possible?

Why weren't they exposed?

Did she keep them closed

except when checking on us? 

It was most mysterious.

If they were really there,

under her hair,

didn't her hair spoil the view?

How did she look through?

I never solved these mysteries

but I still believe she could see us

doing what we didn't ought.

We always got caught!

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 24, response to a statement.

Also linking to dVerse Poetics, 1 March 2014, on invisibility. (Mum's extra eyes may have been invisible; our misdeeds were not!)

I Shouldn't Be Here

But I am,

in the gap between 

the back of the couch

and the wall.

This is my secret place.

Now I mustn't move.

There are voices

and I know whose.

They are saying

grown-up things. 

I don’t understand, but I know 

I’m not supposed to hear.

I’m listening

with wide-open ears

and keeping 

very quiet.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 23, 'I shouldn't be here'.

Secret Messages

We wrote them in lemon juice

on white paper.

The juice faded quickly

to invisible. We children knew —

When you received

a blank sheet of paper,

it was a secret message

from one of the gang.

To read it, you had to

iron it — yes, like laundry.

The heat made the letters appear,

turning them rusty brown.

But it all depended on

having a wooden pen

with a steel nib — as we did —

to dip in the lemon juice.

What do kids do now

when pens like that

are never seen?

Now they use computers.

Now, to make 

a secret message,

hit ‘Select All’

and turn the text white.

The person on the other end

has to know. They re-select, 

turn it back to black,

read it. Perhaps reply.

But that’s the problem

with secret messages.

Sooner or later you do have to

read them. And if you can ...

In my day you burnt the paper, 

or chewed it up in little bits 

and swallowed it. You can't do 
things like that to a computer. 

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 21, Secret messages, second attempt.

Ode to the Remora

I love the idea

of this ray-finned

sucking fish,

its oval dorsal fin

with slat-like

structures

to take firm hold

against the skin

of larger mammals.

They attach

to some poor wretch

of shark or whale,

turtle or dugong

or mantua ray.

Holding tight,

they look like

little silver ripples

on its hide.

That is,

they hitch a ride.

I guess it’s faster,

even though

they swim well

on their own

with sinuous

or curved

motion.

Many but small,

they travel together,

feeding on what

the host drops.

Some hide

in the great casket

of the host’s mouth

scavenging

leftovers.

Sometimes

the host

eats them!

It’s a life

lazy but

dangerous,

prone to

sudden

eclipse.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 22, use at least three of these words ( used four):

·       ideogram

·       remora

·       casket

·       eclipse

·       selfie

·       wretch

Many of the phrases used were found in the Wikipedia article; some quoted verbatim.
      

Also submitted for dVerse Form For All: an ode in the style of Neruda, i.e. short lines, concrete images, real-life objects. They’re supposed to celebrate the ordinary; I departed somewhat from that! 

Secret Message

Let this poem, going

on down the page,

veering not, show

everything that matters.

If it had a

spine,

a straight edge, all

links would support

lucid or veiled explanations.

Is not such a

secret message found

at the beginnings of

linear explorations, and (partly) one

long sideways excursion?

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 21, a secret message.

This one is more of a riddle, really. Who will be first to post the answer?

Always and Never

Always and Never

are sister and brother.

You can't have one

without the other.

If you always drink coffee,

you never drink tea.

If you're never imprisoned

you'll always be free.

If you always worked

you'd never get to play.

If you never went home

you'd always be away.

But to do something never

can't always be good.

And to do something always —

I'm sure I never could. 

I often like sometimes;

I sometimes like often.

Always and never

are too hard. Let's soften!

But if you leave one,

you must leave both together.

They travel in tandem,

always and never.

Should I bid them goodbye

forever and ever?

No! I often like always

and sometimes like never.

So though I won't always

say always, that's true,

I don't think I'll never 
say never, do you?

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 20, ‘Always …’

Tastes Change

My greatest love used to be chocolate.

This was true most of my life.

But now for some reason I hate it,

and I just can't understand why.

It isn't your fault, dear chocolate.

It's not you, it's me.

It was nothing you did. I just grew out

of loving you. I'm really sorry.

When I was little I hated

pumpkin, I thought it was awful.

Then one day, suddenly, I liked it.

My Mum thought that was wonderful.

Tastes change, says my doctor. Don't worry,

it doesn't mean that you're sick.

So eat, drink and be merry.

Eat veggies if you don't like steak.

And I do, especially spinach

which formerly I disliked.

Now it all gets finished

and I come back for seconds - yikes!

Some people like bread, some meat,

some think fresh fruit is good,

some adore shellfish, or spices —

never mind what kind, we love food!

November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 19, love / anti-love.

Forget What I Said Earlier

Forget what I said,

it was only a joke.

Don't snigger and point;

forget I spoke.

Don't be mean, don't be nasty,

don't be rude and don't be bad!

Put it out of your mind:

just ignore what I said.

If fairies seem scary,

I can pretend

they never existed,

and still be your friend.

So forget what I said,

forget what you thought.

I'll say what you want

and I'll act as I ought.

But deep in my heart

I know how I feel.

I know what I saw

and I know what is real.

The fairies can be

my secret. I tried,

but you just aren't ready,

so the fairies will hide.

And you'll never see them

flash in the sun

sparkling like rainbows —

not even one. 

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Cha[book Challenge: day 18, ‘Forget what I said earlier …’

Sevenling (Connecting the Elements)

Even here in bed,

I never remove the pentacle

from around my neck.

The points of the star

signify earth and air,

fire and water, and spirit. 

The circle is life: we are all bound together.


Well, it's based on a sevenling at least. Each of the first two verses is supposed to connect three things. In my first verse there are three physical objects: bed, pentacle and neck. In the second it's a bit more strained, but I see earth and air as natural opposites (1), also fire and water (2), leaving the stand-alone spirit (3).

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 17, an element poem.
Also submitted for Poets United's Verse First (7 lines to do with work and place).

Also submitted for Poet's United's Verse First (7 lines written in a place where you don't usually write).

Meeting the Goddess

First there's the walk downstairs,

each step a new colour:

violet, indigo, sky blue,

apple green, golden yellow, 

orange, and the bottom step's red.

I find myself in a tunnel

which leads to a gate.

Through this gate I see

a sunny meadow with wildflowers.

On the other side is a creek.

I walk out onto the grass.

A beautiful woman

comes to meet me, gliding. 

I raise my eyes to hers.

She is smiling at me.

In a clear voice,

but soft as a whisper,

she tells me my secret name.

I stand in the sunlight,

free and perfectly happy.

I know that this

is the half-way mark.

From here I must turn,

walk back the way I came

and complete my journey.

When I retrace my steps

I'll carry her loving smile

in memory, making me strong.

I shall be changed, and the old paths 

will lead me to new places.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 16, half way.

This poem also appears in Sherry's Poets United feature: A Chat With Rosemary Nissen-Wade ~ On Poetry and Witchcraft.

What Is That Music?

What is that music

leaking over the horizon?

Full of longing, where does it come from?

I want to understand. I want it to stay.

What is that music

murmuring on and on?

How can it be both clear and dim?

What is the message it means to convey?

What is that music?

It is a secret, but one

that others hear too — although for them

it may have something different to say.

What is that music?

What is that half-heard tune

that I can almost catch and hum ...

that makes me want to weep and pray?

What is that music?

Does it waft from the moon?

I know it haunts me for good, not harm.

I know it needs to come out and play.

What is that music?

And where has it gone —

dwindling gently, gradually dumb?

It was here, and now it has vanished away.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: day 15, What (blank)?

Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #363 (23 July 2017)

Exploring My Childhood Garden

The garden of my childhood

was green jungle.

I crawled underneath 

the berry bushes,

behind pittosporum hedge 

and massed bamboo,

and deep inside the geraniums.

The wild creatures 

I met in this jungle

were fierce ants

that fought each other:

orange-bodied and long-legged,

caterpillars with furry spikes,

and secretive spiders 

hiding in curled leaves.

The fairies, whirling points of light,

would sometimes stop

and show me their tiny faces.

Mostly they flitted about 

in and out of the plants,

quick flashes of colour.

I could tell that they liked me. 

November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge 2013 day 14: exploration

How to Be a Cat

You may be fat, you may be lean,

or even something in  between.

It doesn’t really matter what;

it’s not the waistline makes the cat.

But you must learn to move with grace

and be inscrutable of face.

You need to undulate and slink,

while not revealing what you think.

Your deepest thoughts I mean, of course.

The urgent you’ll convey with force —

like, ‘Let me out!’ and  ‘Feed me now!’

‘Purr!’ is reward; chastisement ‘Miaow!’

You have to train your human pet.

You must be firm. Don’t ever let

them really have the upper hand,

though they may think so — understand?

But there are limits, I’m afraid,

to how much headway can be made.

They’ll never learn to hunt and kill,
although you demonstrate with skill.

But you can show them where you itch

and teach them proper ways to scratch,

and how much room you need in bed,

and let them stroke you when they’re good.

Your fur and whiskers and your claws,

you will clean them — they are yours.

And you will keep both yard and house

free of lizard, bird or mouse.

So you establish boundaries,

and can create a life of ease.

And if you will do all of that,
it won’t be hard to be a cat.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Challenge, 13: Self help

Birthday Moments

1.

The most unhappy moment on my birthday

was the moment I noticed I’d lost my shawl.

The weather was neither hot nor cold

but warm, with short spurts of rain.

I took my black woollen shawl ‘just in case’.

It was the perfect weight for between seasons.

After lunch I stood to leave the café

and saw I didn’t have it — nowhere at all.

I consoled myself: ‘It was twelve years old’.

Still I went back over the terrain

I’d walked before. Of course, not a trace.

I supposed the Universe must have its reasons.

2.

I recalled being told, a year ago,

‘You should stop wearing so much black.

Get into light colours —pink, blue, green.’

This was said in the course of a healing

so I should have paid it closer attention,

but that shawl was a gift from a dear friend.

The happiest birthday moment, you know,

was kind of the same one, turned on its back.

With my old  shawl nowhere to be seen,

clearly someone had found it and decided on stealing.

I went to the cop shop and made a mention —

then I bought me a present, a pink shawl! The End.

Form: rimas dissolutas.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge, day 12: your happiest and/or saddest moment.  (I've been dealing with deeply sad and intensely happy moments for a year or more, so this time I thought I'd keep it light and shallow!)

The House

I always wanted

a little house by the seashore —

a house with a red roof,

a house built up on stilts

to make a cellar underneath,

big windows in every wall

for me to look out 

at the billowing sea

and the grass on top of the cliff.

I always wanted

a house on top of a cliff,

overlooking the sea.

And somewhere back from the edge,

behind it, there must be

acres of thick rainforest.

Maybe this house

is somewhere in North Queensland,

in a space I haven’t found.

Poor house, 

is it waiting for me?

When I built it in dreams,

did it grow up fully formed?

How long has it waited

there on the edge of the cliff

with the ocean below

and the forest behind,

The Green Grass of Home underfoot?

Poor house,

it has waited too long; it has crumbled.

I never went and found it

and now I am old.

The roof has lost its paint.

The steps to the front door

are falling away,

and the door itself is gone.

The wind blows through.

Perhaps it is not too late.

Perhaps one night, 

in the middle of a dream, 

I may rise;

I may follow a path

through wilderness,

guided by clouds.

With love, the old waiting house

restored, will welcome me in.

Image by contemporary American photographer Robert Dawson.

In view of the recent poetry plagiarism scandals in Australia, let me point out that the reference to ‘The Green Grass of Home’ is an intentional allusion to the nostalgic song (although in that case, the word ‘green’ is repeated).

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge, day 11: ekphrastic poetry

Today

I had bread-and-butter pudding

hot from the oven.

I had icecream

and blueberry sauce. 

It was my birthday.

I didn't want chocolate mousse.

I didn't want jam tarts.

I didn't want almond truffles.

I didn't want lemon meringue.

I could have whatever I liked.

And I knew what I wanted,

knew what I'd like.

My Mum used to make

bread-and-butter pudding.

That was when I was little.

I had bread-and-butter pudding

today, for my birthday,

with vanilla icecream 

and blueberry sauce.

Today was the day I turned 74.

Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge, day 10: something sweet

The Other Girl

The other girl

looks tired.

Poor thing, 

she is trying so hard

to be good.

She is distant.

I'm watching her

through a pane of glass.

I see her mouth move

but hear no words.

With my mind

I cut her image in two.

It reassembles

and continues  

to mouth shapes.

The other girl,

who lives in my mirror,

looks like me —

my face, my features,

but not my spirit.

She is robot-girl,

coping with duty.

Me, I am light and airy,

free to remove myself

farther and farther.

I wouldn't want

to be her,

even though I made her.

She's a doll, a shell.

She saves me. 

I leave the work

to her. I leave, 

I feel no pain. 

And she does not feel pain.

She does not feel.

(Another piece not suitable in a collection for children!

Based on a story someone told me; not autobiographical. 
The person concerned did recover from this episode.)

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge, day 9: The other (blank)

The Tiger On My Bed

The tiger on my bed

never sleeps.

His bright, dark eyes

are always watching me, 

and watching the room.

His white whiskers

are thin and frayed,

his stripes have faded, and

his pink nose is rough,

the surface worn away.

When he first arrived

I used to hug him tight.

I took him everywhere.

Now he rests on my pillow

and guards the room all day.

At night 

he lies on a chair.

I have a real cat now

who sleeps with me 

on the bed. 

She purrs loudly.

He says nothing

though his glass eyes stare.

I won't throw him away though,
my old tiger.

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge, day 8: Inanimate object.

(Have fallen behind a few days, busy teaching Reiki; have to do some fast catching up now!)

Being Poor Is Too Expensive

Being poor is not enough

being poor is not enough…continued

and continued and continued;

you get into the way of it.

Frugal becomes the norm.

Being poor is temporary

being poor is waiting

and the waiting goes on a long time.

What are we waiting for?

We are waiting not to be poor.

Being poor is becoming trendy
being poor is an interesting experience

for a while — then it just becomes dreary

and you’d like things like luxury

and self-indulgence. You get sick of poor.

Being poor is that it deprives people of their dreams

being poor is the tragic song that has no particular music
being poor is like a maze

and maybe one never gets out

but keeps on running and running

endlessly, up to countless dead ends.

Being poor isn't

being poor is a frame of mind

being poor is the ultimate opportunity handed a person.

Oh how that craps me off!

Try it, muthafuckers, and then

give me your New Age BS.


Oops! I don't think this one goes in a book for children!

Poetic Asides November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge: Hardship

Also inspired by a dVerse prompt for a poem based on Googlisms:  
every line, including title, that begins with 'being poor' is from Google.