How come I didn't write this yesterday is a mystery to me. I honestly don't know why I didn't think of it then. I didn't think of it at all until I was on the bus today, after writing another poem on a Tim Horton's paper cup-holder since I had no real paper. I guess I'm getting my inspiration back. I always get ideas on the bus. You'll see the Timmy's poem eventually... I can't decide whether to post it yet since I might incorporate it into another project. This one might end up in that project too. We'll see. And in case you're interested, there wasn't enough space on the cup-holder thing so this one was written on a receipt from the music store.
Today off the train
I met you, and then we met
an earnest old beggar man with a Gandalf beard.
He seemed like a sweet old grandfather,
if a bit dusty.
I gave him the box of cookies meant for you,
And he thanked me and said
"That's very kind.
Now I have a granola bar and some cookies."
And we went on our way.
You never got to try my cookies,
and now all we have are strawberries which are a bit squished and not very filling;
But our hunger means little on a day like this -
I'll live off the warmth of your hands
It's been so long since I posted anything. It seems like all my ideas from last month ended up unfinished. Somehow I lost momentum. But now it's officially spring and I feel like it'll be coming back. A poem that was actually from last week:
There's the chill from the sheets when first I crawl into bed,
The light dance of raindrops helpless outside my window and
The blued edges of vision as night makes worlds vulnerable;
But between the sheets there is safety,
As warmth spreads from my core to extremities
And my toes become warm.
It is there in the familiarity of the pillows
And the purring of the cat curled up alongside,
A picture of peace,
Exalting in the silkiness of his fur,
Stroked meditatively until sleep pulls me away and my hand
And his purrs fade smoothly away like waves on the sea
Into soft, slow snores.
Imagine you are a tiny insect in winter, crawling over a
vast tree-land. The bark ridges become mountains capped with snowy fungus, and
the spongy mosses hard-hearted coniferous forests. With unsurpassable
determination you scale your way over peeling cliffs of mint-white fungus;
insurmountable single-mindedness carries you through the deep, dark brush and tendrils
which tower above your hardy, exo-skeletoned body. Hidden in the shale-like
folds of fungus and the understory of gentle green, you are at least sheltered
from the wind and sun. You make your way homeward, with the self-sacrificial
determination only an ant can possess, across the wide organic landscape that,
deep inside, pulses and grows along with you.