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.

2 April 2011

Slow rain: tanka and things, March 2011

autumn starts hot
close the blinds and curtains
turn on the fans
inside our cocoon all day
can’t watch the garden shrivel


cooler nights
we sleep longer
wake startled
cats hungry, sun high
our heads thick with dreams


5pm cool
I go out walking
wave at others
all we fat women
out walking at dusk


We don’t go
to the funeral
this morning.
She’s dead and won’t care.
We had a bad night.


When I think there might be
a ghost in the house
I become modest,
undressing discreetly
and shutting doors.


Snowy mountains
of cumulus cloud
float in the sky
above the earth mountains
like copies.

(These two also posted as 'small stones' in my Stones for the River blog.)


Wet Saturday.
We lie in bed long,
the morning paper
strewn on the covers
and a sprawling cat.


there are crystals
hidden in the mountain
sometimes they appear
among stones in the road
or glinting from the creek


I hear all the white noise
I was deaf to
from fridge and computer
with my new hearing aids


Cinqku Sequence

Slow rain
dribbles loud
on roof and path.
I open the curtains
and watch.

The drops
fall in stages —
roof to vines, pause, roll off,
hit ground.

I loll
warm and dry,
coffee in bed,
reading old newspapers,
with him.

Old age
brings pleasures
unknown when young:
weekdays can be Sundays,


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