Tag: Past Poems of the Week

Recently I read a poem that moved me very much, penned by Grace Guevera, a Canadian poet who lives in Mississauga, Ontario, and who blogs at Everyday Amazing. I wished to feature it by itself, and you will see why when you read it.

My body stretching like a tear

along the paper*

Static
that second night
of mourning
My hands caught air
of your fragrance,
bamboo, eucalyptus,
aloe vera

My mom dragged her feet
in slow circles
while my brother silently grieved –
he’s a wounded sparrow –

Outside the window,
the bird’s nest, a music of hungry
cries & squeals
the busy cars honking
thirsty for summer rain

The wind turned,
dripping of sun’s tears-
the sky, blue-matted
blanket, times
another season
knitted new
canvas, bright orange

My eldest placed his new born
child into my arms
He, feather-light
Weighs our universe

They brought him and autumn
rushed in, tossed its cape of starlings,
tattered the frost-spackled field.…

 Our Home

“I’m a radical environmentalist; I think the sooner we asphyxiate in our own filth, the better. The world will do better without us. Maybe some fuzzy animals will go with us, but there’ll be plenty of other animals, and they’ll be back. Anthony Bourdain”

The moon is a peach in the sky.
The stars are sparkling grape tomatoes.
The cicadas are singing now.
They’ve emerged from their underground homes.
Watching the garden grow
in the dark of the universe.
I hear the nightly owl fluttering overhead.
With all the beauty around me
I mourn.
The orca’s skull can be seen beneath her blubber
as she carries her dead calf on her emaciated body.
The calf kept sinking as the mother
tried to push her towards the surface of the water.
So much beauty in this earth
and it is rotting beneath our feet.
The earth is an overripe peach
long past its maturity.
One day maybe we will be gone
and all that remains will be the skeletons of cities
poking through the overgrowth
with whales and deer and wolves
living in our place
roaming free and safe.

The Wake

Tahlequah carries her dead baby gently –
either by the fin or on her nose,
refusing to let go of the calf who died
within a half hour of her birth.
The mother kept using her nose to push the baby to the surface –
She is hungry.
The bones of her skull can be seen through her depleted blubber.
Salmon farms are starving a race of beings out of existence,
Tahlequah carries her dead baby,
day after day.
Her pod is helping her carry her baby
mourning the loss of her baby with her.
They communicate with each other
in a complicated language only they can understand.
They mourn in their unique rituals,
forming circles around the mother –
Like a human wake.
Like mothers holding close the mother
whose baby has died,
crooning and holding the mother close.
We are starving this race,
We are depleting this race,
We are lessening their birth rate.
We are killing a race
more human than we are ourselves
who think only of ourselves,
not caring who we kill
in our killing of this planet.
Tahlequah carries her baby gently.
The mother continues to mourn.

1000 Miles Later

Seventeen days 1,000 miles later
Tahlequah has dropped her dead calf.
Perhaps …

It is time to listen to the men again, my friends. Today we have poems written by Robin Kimber, our Old Egg, who blogs at Robin’s Nest, Julian Clarke, of Pen to Poetry, Guernsey, and Frank Tassone, of American Haijin. I was so happy to gather them together and offer them to you today to celebrate our love of poetry. Enjoy!

A Long Summer

It was a long summer
While sun smirked down on us
Like an errant uncle
Outstaying his welcome

We needed a shaman
To sing a song for us
We needed the dark clouds
To pour rain down on us

Oh sincere singer sing
Spirit the days to change
Muddy our paths for us
Flood the roads, we don’t care

We’ve lost our dignity
We’ve forgotten our pride
We lose much more each day
The raven shakes his head

It was a long summer
Clouds darken the night skies
We listen to the rain
Watching from the window

Now just who do we praise?
We had cursed and ranted
Thunder booms, lightning strikes
Someone is not happy

Sherry: I love the shaman, singing his song. As our summers grow hotter, year after year, we are all feeling this kind of heat and thirst, Robin. You have described it well.

Robin: The poem “A long summer” is quite typical of my poems about Australia, where the seasons are not always kind. When first settled, South Australia (the Australian state where I live) was the only British colony in the continent of Australia that was not settled with convicts from England being the main occupants. The colonists here decided to settle by a river, which is now the state capital of Adelaide, and spread out from there, farming first the plains to the north and hilly areas to the east and south.

At first farming was very successful, which encouraged more to come to the state and spread out much further north, and at first the harvests were fine. Then a few years of drought, and the soil now drained of nutrients, crops failed and settlers found they could not make a living anymore, went broke and abandoned the settlements. A government surveyor named Goyder visited the areas and worked out that many farms were too far north or in fact outside the 10 inch average rainfall line, which was the minimum agreed standard for cropping.

As farmers went …

Recently, I read a poem  that speaks truth so truly, I knew I needed to feature it by itself, the better for us to absorb its message. It was penned by Anna, who writes at hyperCRYPTical, and addresses some of the violence and inhumanity going on in the world today. It is hard to know these things, and yet we must. If others can live this trauma, we must bear witness, and speak up where we can to oppose it. Let’s take a look. 

I was not there
when on his quick road to hell
he detonated the bomb,
death strapped to his chest
like a medal for martyrs.

I was not there
when you offered prayers at the mosque,
did not hear the explosion,
did not sink into blackness,
did not wake to the horror,
did not see as you tried
to piece your children’s bodies together,
did not see you searching for limbs,
little body parts scattered
as if confetti of war.

I was not there;
your screams passed without hearing,
your pain without feeling,
I just didn’t know.

I was not there but have read of you,
now know of your story,
know your grief is enormous,
know you sink into sadness,
know you can’t afford surgery,
know that poverty steals you,
know you still pick glass from the soles of your feet.

I was not there but have read of you,
I am moved by your story.
I think of you, feel for you,
picture the horror in my mind.

The terrible truth is that although moved,
soon I will unconsciously filter you out.
My thoughts will become full of a new outrage,
a new disaster or petty things,
little petty things that don’t matter at all.

This is the scheme of things;
this is how we operate – to stay sane,
to not be constantly afraid… to have hope…
to deal with the next day and whatever it brings.

I wish you had this choice.

I have some meaningful poems for your enjoyment today, my friends, penned by Sanaa Rizvi, who blogs at A Dash of Sunny,  Donna Donabella, of Living From Happiness, and Colleen Redman, of  Loose Leaf Notes. Let’s not wait another minute. Enjoy!

ODE TO A PASSIONATE MUSE

The Drought

Recently, I read a poem  that speaks truth so truly, I knew I needed to feature it by itself, the better for us to absorb its message. It was penned by Anna, who writes at hyperCRYPTical, and addresses some of the violence and inhumanity going on in the world today. It is hard to know these things, and yet we must. If others can live this trauma, we must bear witness, and speak up where we can to oppose it. Let’s take a look. 

I was not there
when on his quick road to hell
he detonated the bomb,
death strapped to his chest
like a medal for martyrs.

I was not there
when you offered prayers at the mosque,
did not hear the explosion,
did not sink into blackness,
did not wake to the horror,
did not see as you tried
to piece your children’s bodies together,
did not see you searching for limbs,
little body parts scattered
as if confetti of war.

I was not there;
your screams passed without hearing,
your pain without feeling,
I just didn’t know.

I was not there but have read of you,
now know of your story,
know your grief is enormous,
know you sink into sadness,
know you can’t afford surgery,
know that poverty steals you,
know you still pick glass from the soles of your feet.

I was not there but have read of you,
I am moved by your story.
I think of you, feel for you,
picture the horror in my mind.

The terrible truth is that although moved,
soon I will unconsciously filter you out.
My thoughts will become full of a new outrage,
a new disaster or petty things,
little petty things that don’t matter at all.

This is the scheme of things;
this is how we operate – to stay sane,
to not be constantly afraid… to have hope…
to deal with the next day and whatever it brings.

I wish you had this choice.