micro poetry – Tricia McCallum

Glory Days

September 8, 2024 2 Comments

Just the slightest droop
in the leaf of the phlox.
Its tender blossom holding up,
but not for long.
A sudden chill reduces the dahlias petal by petal
to ragged pink flags.

And there, see, the delicate African daisies
suddenly resigned, curling sleepily into themselves,
exhausted debutantes after the ball, when yesterday
they held the ballroom captive.

The valiant cosmos, once reaching to the sky,
Their sturdy stems succumbing to the driving wind,
These last holdouts,
These Olympians of the garden
Roundly defeated.

Listen. Lean in.
A clock is ticking
somewhere.
It ticks not for the garden.
But for us.

~~ Tricia McCallum

Pinnacles

August 11, 2024 No Comments

What is it in me

What is it in me
that needs to tell you this?

Never More.

It will never be more summer than this.
This moment.
Every petal and bough, every bloom at its most beautiful
in hue, texture, depth of colour.
Nature at her most potent.

She shows off.
Tomorrow begins the sad inevitable decline,
Her gradual descent toward less.
But today,
Oh, today,
Drink it in,
Every last sip.
Such glory cannot possibly last.

A little pixel dust… my nickname for my micro poems…

Screen Tests

I’d run home after the movies
To act out each scene,
Word for word,
With accents and flourishes,

Mom watching in her housedress
At the little yellow kitchen table,
Smoking.

In. Coming.

My druthers would be you
Coming through the door
Soaking wet,
In that fabulous old trench
We bought for a steal,
Brimming over with stories
For tea.

Interloper

And just when I think you’re
Listening
I turn and see you
Enraptured
By the girl in the next booth.

Tricia's Poetry reading on June 17 at the Whitevale Arts and Culture Centre

Poetry Reading and Sharing event with poet Tricia McCallum

When? Saturday, June 17 at 7:30 pm
Where? the WACC, 475 Whitevale Rd

Why is it different?
Tricia McCallum, our resident poet, will not only share some of her poems, but she is inviting you to share a poem that has a special meaning for you.

Before this June rendez-vous, you have the opportunity to think ahead about which poem you will choose … It may be the poem that first springs to mind whenever you hear the word poetry, or a poem that comforts you each and every time you reflect on it.
Tricia plans to share a variety of her poems. And as anyone who reads Tricia’s work knows, she shares with us regularly online, what she writes about is … everything.
If you wish to participate in this poetry sharing event, email her at writer@triciamccallum.com

Why did I not grab every moment
and make it sing,
look into people’s faces and find stories there
to take me into my old age.
We don’t take the time,
Do we?
Blithely we pass unexplored roads,
agonizing instead
about the trappings of our lives,
the matched sets of things.
(For Keeps – excerpt)

Download the event flyer.

September

September 3, 2017 No Comments

September #1

Obligatory backpacks bought,

duo-tangs and the cornucopia of Sharpies,

heralding the dull march back to classrooms, schedules.

In this forlorn wake a trail of

unhurried pancake breakfasts,

scrabble games that last for hours

and lying perfectly still on the sun-scorched dock,

until perhaps trailing a finger,

but only one.

September #2

Boats pulled out for the season

children rushing to school

and like a switch was flipped overnight

the water in the bay now darker

somehow

deeper

Undercover

Late August
slyly

slowly

the light becomes a

miser.

Compulsory

The school uniform, penance.
The wool knee socks even in summer.
The black serge tunics
shiny, slick, crisp, from too many hot irons.

Warmer

The geese now heading south
emit unearthly,
unsettling sounds overhead, clearly the desperate pleas

of those who seek release.

A Careless Lover

September 23, 2016 1 Comment

A Careless Lover

Summer takes its sweet time
slowly strips your defenses,
has its way with you
then abandons you
alone
on the dock
in the purple September dusk
ravished
shivering
wanting more.

September 1st and 2nd

September 4, 2016 2 Comments

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

Five Lines or Less: My #micropoetry

August 25, 2014 No Comments

mi·cro ˈmīkrō/noun

noun: micro; plural noun: micros

a combining form with the meanings “extremely small” ( microcosm; micro dining area), “very small in comparison with others of its kind” ( microcassette; microfilm), “too small to be seen by the unaided eye” ( microfossil; microorganism), “dealing with extremely minute organisms, organic structures, or quantities of a substance” ( microdissection; microscope), “localized, restricted in scope or area” ( microburst; microhabitat),

I have been responding enthusiastically to a writer friend’s recent challenge to me: to write micro-poetry every day for a week and post it.

Rules:
1. Create a world in five lines or less.
2. Sparse or no punctuation.
3. Title not compulsory. (But I love titles so…)

Ever forward-thinking I now envision Section One of my Book Three (why not dream big?) with the working title:

Five Lines or Less: Poetry. Quickly.

How could I have missed this poetry form? They are so much fun to do, and great cortical exercise. Like jumping jacks from the neck up. The only kind I could ever do anyway.

I welcome your reactions. Post your comments, do.

Here are the first few entries.

Undercover

Late August
and slyly
the light becomes
suddenly
a miser

September First

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

Almost Flying

The two nuns, arms linked
their billowing voluminous habits blowing them
up the steep hill toward the gates of the convent
like black forbidding
sails.

Cosseted

We’d meander slowly
past the convent at night,
hoping for the slightest gap in the curtains
a peek into their cloistered
alien lives

Checkout

hotel rooms up and down the coasts
identical save for the key card
quiet as tombs
we slip in and out touching nothing
we make our lives up as we go

Mork

How can the unstoppable
stop
the brilliance diminish to nothing
the tributes already receding
alongside you.

His Mornings

Even the way his hair’s combed
is proof.
See how he missed a button
on his little shirt?
And the sleep still in his eyes.

Paused

His book propped opened with
spectacles on the side table,
his reading light still shining
on the place he left
off.

Strip Mall

Orphaned and standing in the rain
but it’s not as bad as it sounds
I can hear Bonnie Raitt’s voice from a car in the parking lot
And a little boy in a shopping cart just smiled at me
No reason. Just smiled.

Compulsory

The school uniform, penance
the wool knee socks even in summer
the black serge tunics
shiny, slick, crisp, from too many
hot irons.