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September 1st and 2nd

September 1st

The obligatory backpacks bought,
The sectioned notebooks and the cornucopia of Sharpies,
Heralding the dull march back to classrooms, schedules.
In its forlorn wake a trail of
Unhurried pancake breakfasts
And lying perfectly still on a sun-scorched dock,
Until perhaps trailing a finger,
But only one.

September 2nd

Boats pulled out for the season
Children rushing to school
And like a switch was flipped overnight
The water in the bay now darker
Deeper

christmas lights

Minor Defects Will Not Affect Wear

How can you care not
For this earthly life?
Even with its vagaries,
Its ragtag beginnings,
Unspeakable endings.

Remember how
The latte at the corner café that late afternoon
Arrived as the autumn light dappled your newspaper just so,
Intertwined hearts atop the foam,
Courtesy of the beaming waitress who announced
She was getting married.

You sometimes reach the bus just in time.
Blood tests come back perfectly normal.
Simple mini lights transform a sad house.
A fresh fall of snow perfects a neglected yard.

Awaken to the astonishing delights of the
Here and now.
The two legged terrier with the tailor-made chassis,
The tired little girl in the shopping cart who smiles back,
A favourite Phil Collins song on the car radio
In the pouring rain.

There are blessings.
They must be heeded.
It doesn’t get better.
It just may be enough.

little girl

Forget Everything.

Today’s prompt from my writer’s group “Forget everything” prompted this… assisted – ably – by three cups of coffee.

 

The Deceptively Simple

Forget everything you’ll never know about
Quantum physics
And oil futures.
What constitutes prime.
Leave string theory
For the committed.

Focus on the knowables
One at a time. Small bites.
Start with the deceptively simple.
This:
How to Talk to a Small Child at a Party.

Just like you would anyone else.
No special voices. They hate that.
No crouching down like you’re best friends.
Share casual observations.
Recommend the artichoke dip.

Do it right.
Before long
She’ll end up beside you on the couch
Asking your name
And your opinion of the latest Star Wars.

Dock at Dusk resized for website

Labor Day.

Funny word for the end.
Summer’s being given the bum’s rush.
All its lushness and abandon.
Broken rules
And splendor.
No more nonsense now.
Time to be adults again.
It’s what autumn does.
Leaving us
The poorer for it.
Safeguarding the child in us
Until May honors us
Once more.

 

P_Chandler Your The Key That Got Lost 840x400

Hitting the ground running.

This piece by Denise Duhamel from Queen for a Day  is precisely why I love the form of poetry.

It hits the street running. Makes us rethink everything we think. Wakes us up. Makes us see differently. In the best possible ways. Xo t

The Ugly Stepsister

You don’t know what it was like.
My mother marries this bum who takes off on us,
after only a few months, leaving his little Cinderella
behind. Oh yes, Cindy will try to tell you
that her father died. She’s like that, she’s a martyr.
But between you and me, he took up
with a dame close to Cindy’s age.
My mother never got a cent out of him
for child support. So that explains
why sometimes the old lady was gruff.
My sisters and I didn’t mind Cindy at first,
but her relentless cheeriness soon took its toll.
She dragged the dirty clothes to one of Chelsea’s
many laundromats. She was fond of talking
to mice and rats on the way. She loved doing dishes
and scrubbing walls, taking phone messages,
and cleaning toilet bowls. You know,
the kind of woman that makes the rest
of us look bad. My sisters and I
weren’t paranoid, but we couldn’t help
but see this manic love for housework
as part of Cindy’s sinister plan. Our dates
would come to pick us up and Cindy’d pop out
of the kitchen offering warm chocolate chip cookies.
Critics often point to the fact that my sisters and I
were dark and she was blonde, implying
jealousy on our part. But let me
set the record straight. We have the empty bottles
of Clairol’s Nice’n Easy to prove
Cindy was a fake. She was what her shrink called
a master manipulator. She loved people
to feel bad for her-her favorite phrase was a faint,
“I don’t mind. That’s OK.” We should have known
she’d marry Jeff Charming, the guy from our high school
who went on to trade bonds. Cindy finagled her way
into a private Christmas party on Wall Street,
charging a little black dress at Barney’s,
which she would have returned the next day
if Jeff hadn’t fallen head over heels.
She claimed he took her on a horse-and-buggy ride
through Central Park, that it was the most romantic
evening of her life, even though she was home
before midnight-a bit early, if you ask me, for Manhattan.
It turned out that Jeff was seeing someone else
and had to cover his tracks. But Cindy didn’t
let little things like another woman’s happiness
get in her way. She filled her glass slipper
with champagne she had lifted
from the Wall Street extravaganza. She toasted
to Mr. Charming’s coming around, which he did
soon enough. At the wedding, some of Cindy’s friends
looked at my sisters and me with pity. The bride insisted
that our bridesmaids’ dresses should be pumpkin,
which is a hard enough color for anyone to carry off.
But let me assure you, we’re all very happy
now that Cindy’s moved uptown. We’ve
started a mail order business-cosmetics
and perfumes. Just between you and me,
there’s quite a few bucks to be made
on women’s self-doubts. And though
we don’t like to gloat, we hear Cindy Charming
isn’t doing her aerobics anymore. It’s rumored
that she yells at the maid, then locks herself in her room,
pressing hot match tips into her palm.

westie at easter

Easter Morning Once

Here’s an Easter poem.

It’s never been my favourite holiday. All that forced gaiety (I speak of Catholics) about the “rising,” and the massive baskets of gargantuan, alien-like palm leaves lining the church vestibule.

Those unsettling paintings of a bearded man bathed in light emerging, floating, eerily, from some cave-like structure. I was supposed to find comfort in the images but frankly I found them foreboding.

And three masses for us to sing through as the student choir, from the airless darkened loft above.

I know. I should cheer up. But all these memories resurface, unbidden, (I won’t say resurrected) each year at Eastertime.

The chocolate made up for a lot though.

 

Easter Morning Once.

 A new dress, even if it had been my sister’s.

Fresh perms and white cotton gloves.

My boring knee socks and yearning to wear stockings like my older sisters.

My wee brother at my side in his clip on bowtie and tartan vest

And little pressed trousers.

We four positioned, solemnly, on the stone church steps before Mass

In the harsh sunlight of the still chilly April morning

For the obligatory snapshot,

Our secret smiles as we huddled together,

Counting the days until summer, warmth

And freedom.