there she stood
unkempt and crude
her family lines
a sickly brood
her sweats all stained
with God knows what
brown and smudged
across her butt
but in the light
of twilight time
hot damn, my Lord
she looked so fine
through the years
and many a stain
she stole my heart
my love she’d Gain
I was once wild…
Roaming across
vast open plains.
At times hungry, waiting
for my harem’s return.
Sunbaked beneath
Endless captive skies,
I ruled my domain
with absolute authority.
My young apprentice
watching me through light,
distorted in the heat
rising from her scorched skin.
Motionless amongst
the tall grasses
bend to her will in the
slight Saharan breeze.
Not hidden…
For I am aware
of his full intention,
transfer through succession
The next generation,
patient, in youthful impatience,
waiting for the sun to
rise on a new King.
To you, that cages my freedom,
we are not different!
Protecting one’s pride to
precariously hold onto power.
Our moment is fleeting,
the sun rising and setting
on a conclusion as inevitable
as the rhythms of home.
Kingdoms rise and fall, but
Mother’s hands remain steady,
continually reshaping, and
redefining balance.
It is a fool’s errand
to push against her nature,
for her ever-shifting moods
recognize it’s part of nature too.
Once, we were all wild…
The following is written in response to Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest. The challenge asks that we channel our inner Shakespeare and write a terrible sonnet about everybody’s favourite one-pot food, soup.
The sorcerer’s mirepoix, the witches roux,
with bone and water forge a mystic blend,
add salt and spice, merely a pinch or two,
elements together, combine, transcend.
Cast iron cauldron yields to fiery kiss,
stir and simmer, cooking slowly in time,
bubbling, boiling, with wisps of steaming bliss,
filling the fragrant air with spells sublime.
Chick’n noodle, chowder, gazpacho on ice,
mullugatawny, bisque and gumbo too,
potatoes, pasta, or a spot of rice,
some so thick they’re more akin to stew.
What is soup? You’ll find you have to conclude,
soup is the liquid version of solid food.1
Citation: Definition of soup taken from the Terrible Poetry Contest blog post for this contest at Chel Owen’s blog, A Wife, My Verse, and Every Little Thing.
Continue reading
darkness falls
inside my head
shades the world
in thoughts of dread
light obscures
then fades away
with no escape
my nerve ends fray
the things I put
into my vein
suppressing demons
masking pain
could only yield
a brief respite
return the beast
the endless night
at the edge
of ever more
to find release
to quell the roar
please don’t mourn
my final deed
from the darkness
for which I’m freed
Sitting in my classroom
youthful and future bright.
It did not matter.
I did not cure cancer,
I did not achieve carbon neutrality,
I did not feed the hungry,
but I might have.
I carried within me,
a chance to change the world.
In a blinding instant, I lay bleeding
helpless beneath my desk.
Why was there no outcry for me?
Did I not matter?
The woman has one monstrous bite,
Her acrimonious air recondite.
Once caught in her noise,
You’d best keep your poise,
Or it’s good morning, good day, ‘n goodnight.
The following is in response to Chel Owen’s Terrible Poetry Contest where we were asked to take the first line of a famous poem and then rewrite the rest as [the poet] see(s) fit. Bonus points if [you] use the original meter and rhyming scheme. My poem is a (terrible) golfer take on Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” except on the golf course in the morning. Hope you enjoy.
Whose woods these are I think I know
Their place is on the golf course though
He Rory‘s up a Tiger tail
In anger bent and gave a throw
My little cart may think it Strange
To watch him stomp around insane
Swearing, cursing and Spiething nails
Please end this round and end the Payne
My caddy’s head begins to shake
As if to say it’s a mistake
Rolled up cuff, the language Fowler
As he wades right into the lake…
At the next tee, I’m Jacked to see
If I can hit the green in three
And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree
And now my woods wrapped ’round a tree
In light of this weekends senseless massacre in Buffalo, New York, it still baffles me that in this day and age people can’t wrap their heads around the idea that we are all human beings, the same species down to our DNA. As a Canadian from the Greater Toronto Area, I have spent a fair amount of time in Buffalo. For several years my son played baseball for a traveling team based in Depew and we would cross the border two to three times a week. My heart goes out to the friends and families of those slain. As a city mourns I sincerely hope the slow and seemingly tenuous process of racial healing in the United States and around the world can continue in light of this heinous act.
A killer lurks
in the shadows.
Silently shedding
white hot anger.
A snake slithering
into the spotlight.
Spitting venomous
black hate.
Trailing by two in the bottom of nine,
A single, then double, stroked down the line,
On second and third they jostle about,
While eight and nine both swing and strike out.
Ace steps to the plate, set on a mission,
Wielding his bat with reckless precision,
Direct from the mound comes a red-stitched pearl,
Did he throw straight heat or spin up the curl?
Nary a twitch as it whizzes on by,
“Strike!” shouts the Umpire,
“Hey blue, check your eye!”
Not even close, ’bout a foot off the edge,
The Babe couldn’t hit that with a six-foot sledge.
Next comes a bender, left hung out to dry,
The crack of the bat, it’s a monstrous fly,
If it stays fair it’ll sail off in the night,
Instead, it drifts foul, a long and loud strike!
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