I ... entered the poem of life, whose purpose is ... simply to witness the beauties of the world, to discover the many forms that love can take. (Barabara Blackman in 'Glass After Glass')

These poems are works in progress and may be updated without notice. Nevertheless copyright applies to all writings here and all photos (which are either my own or used with permission). Thank you for your comments. I read and appreciate them all, and reply here to specific points that seem to need it — or as I have the leisure. Otherwise I reciprocate by reading and commenting on your blog posts as much as possible.

31 July 2015

Night of the Blue Moon

I use my laser-tipped shaft
– a long crystal laser –
wand and athame both.

I cast a simple circle,
no elaborate ritual tonight.
I’m a plain and basic witch.

I welcome the elements,
creating sacred space
in my small back yard.

Even in moonlight
the trumpet creepers
glow bright orange.

The trees bend in
above me; the rose bush
has tight new leaves.

It has been a strange day.
Now I reach night, and accept
that some friendships grow old.

This, though, is constant: me
and the full moon together
in a garden, year after year.

I let the day go, in its pain.
With raised arms, I accept
into myself the moon’s white light.

I draw it down, and use it
to bless the plants and my cat
and the listening nature spirits.

I ask that the world will know
love, peace and truth. I ask
to be strong. And wise.

Linked to Poets United's Midweek Motif: Acceptance

Sky Haiga

One magpie: haiku, July 2015

one magpie
the gurgle of a stream
over stones

no traffic
along the winding road
trees close in


winter sun
the hills across the way
hazy grey


gurgling rain –  
waxing crescent
six days old


waxing moon
rain gurgling
all night


roses –
dark shadows
on the wall


mountainous clouds –
bare trees


Linking to the Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'

29 July 2015

Now I can speak: Tanka, July 2015

now I can speak
of him and our life
with no tears
as I found out today
in the doing


on cold nights
I read love stories
very late
until warm sleep
embraces me


they rev cars

chatter, drink from cans

not sleepy

this warm afternoon

young men out of school


28 July 2015

Now Falling

through soft rain
comes the slight sound
you almost dismiss,
the one you tell yourself
is imagined, but you know
it is the tolling of that bell,
it is your death announcing itself
although only faintly yet and far off.

An etheree for the latest Play It Again at 'imaginary garden with real toads.
Also linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #263

27 July 2015

This Poem Is a Cup, a Woman, a Late Hour

This poem is a warm cup of cocoa.
This poem is a woman resting.
This poem is a late hour alone.

The cup has been drunk
as she leans against her pillow.
She has almost drained it now.
Its warmth comforts her.
This poem is a warm cup of cocoa.

She decided to come to bed early.
She has propped the pillow
to support her back, so
she can pretend there's no pain.
This poem is a woman resting.

Her eyelids droop. She ought to
close them, she had such good intentions.
But the poem has overtaken her.
She has no-one to tell her, 'Go to sleep.'
This poem is a late hour alone.

This poem is a warm cup of bedtime cocoa.
This poem is a woman resting on her pillow.
This poem is night, is reflection, is a late hour alone.

 At 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are asked to revisit an earlier challenge. I chose Hannah Gosselin's Boomerang Metaphors.  
Thispost is alos linke dto Poets United's Poetry Pantry #262

15 July 2015

Coming to Rest

I was in Venice with you, and
Kathmandu with you, and Cusco
with you — beloved cities.

They are gone now, irrecoverable,
not what they were (places of singing,
shining) seventeen years ago.

Is Venice still sinking? Kathmandu
is rubble. The people are old, we knew
in Cusco. And you are dead, my dear.

I’m glad to remember those cities, our cities;
and glad to be here, home, remembering
you, my journey’s companion.

At dVerse Poetics we are asked to write 12 lines including three words that mean a lot to us (mine are 'Venice', 'Kathmandu', 'Cusco') and three words describing people or things we're grateful for (mine are 'remember', 'home', 'you').

Coffee with a Friend

I was a bit early.
He was a little late.
(He got slightly lost
on the way.)

I stood on the corner
where I’d told him to turn,
leaning out over the rail
of the café’s al fresco section.

I wanted to be highly visible.
(He said later I looked like a beacon.)
A toot from a white sports car.
Yes! I waved like mad.

I hugged him too warmly.
(Old lady’s privilege.)
Slightly taken aback, he
responded with kind grace.

Once we started talking
we could hardly stop.
Poetry and physics;
our marriages and kids.

We couldn’t keep the grins
off our faces.  We lingered
until the last minute
of closing time.

I gave him directions
to the best local crystal shop,
which was closing
and selling off stock.

Now he’s posting
polished fossils
and amethyst obelisks
all over facebook.

It was fun. He always
felt like a friend.
It’s so not true what they say, 
that fb friends aren't real.

11 July 2015

Life Purpose

‘Come to the workshop I’m hosting!’ my friend invites.
‘The presenter is so insightful, yet gentle. Wouldn’t it be
wonderful to know your purpose? Just think of the ways
that knowledge could transform your life!’  I smile
and say I can’t go. Not exactly true. I won’t go. And yes
the money would have stopped me anyway, but it isn’t that.

At 75, I have mellowed into my purpose. It’s been
a very fine life — of highs and lows, joy and pain
‘and the whole damn thing’. I wouldn’t swap much.
Confusion and struggle may be necessary, I think.
Sometimes our purpose presents us with hurdles.
We gain power and direction as we run and jump.

For the life that remains to me now, my purpose
is to read poems and love them; to write some
that others may love; to exchange thoughts
with my friends, and spend time together;
to visit with family; take good care of my cat;
stay healthy if I can; give help as needed or asked.

To breathe in deep delight, along with the life 
I breathe in; to cherish equally ocean and leaf;
to pay my bills and clean my home; to laugh; to dance;
to know myself blessed. My purpose is Love, and to be
an instrument of the Universe when I am called upon:
guided and used, a vehicle for Life’s purpose.

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #260

6 July 2015

Ripping It Up

Hypnotised by his own music
dances to the beat
JIG jig  / JIG jig / JIG jig / THUMP!

and the guitar whines
and the guitar shrieks
and the guitar becomes

a deadly mosquito
to stab, to pierce.

I am all over the floor

There is nowhere
left to go
and no need.

Day Two of facebook poetry chain. Linked to Gillena's Monday WRites and to The Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

5 July 2015

Versification Unsublime

Pain defeats poetry;
I resort to mere verse.
My back in spasm
demands full attention.

Doggerel or worse
is my best. The orgasm
of lyrical beauty eludes me,
as does invention.

Yet, may this exercise in rhyme
(called bref doublé)
rate some mention

if only as a weird phantasm
in the annals of poetic divers-

A 55-word piece for 'imaginary garden with real toads'. Also my Day One offering in the facebook poetry chain for which I was just nominated. And, finally, linking to Gillena's 'Sunday Lime'.

3 July 2015

Purring: Erotic haiku and tanka, May —June 2015

he strides
firm buttocks and thighs
tightly outlined


he strokes
the cat on his knee
I yearn


his fingers flex
massaging her fur ...


too old now
for limbs no longer lithe
to exit with ease
a bath whose embrace has cooled,
I love my hand-held shower nozzle


Linked to the latest Tuesday Platform at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.

Red wine: tanka, June 2015

red wine
the full moon rises
bright white
I raise my glass
through the pane


at the young beauty
to nurture instead
the old companion


High whine. Roar.
Revving his bike
yet again
in the driveway,
he spins his wheels.


In the Tarot class
we do serious readings
and laugh together.
I boss them: ‘Stop chattering!’
and they reward me with cake.


Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #259

Midwinter: haiku May — June 2015

her face
with peace


he beams at her
in the wedding photo
she draws back shyly


my old black cat
gets skittish