LIGHTER

I drift in the light

of this blue afternoon

I leave my echo

in sliding glare

of reflection

as words swim

in my slippery memoir

Balancing proportions

in my tippy canoe

I stand between

the bow of love

and the stern of illusion

sunshine peels my attention

beyond the horizon

I hide in the muse

in the lens of lovely

my profile hovers

as rain sits on

the surface of a bog

clear autonomy

blurs my stare

Time hesitates

as a glow thickens

my shadow lunges

evaporating edges of my ego

I look at my hands

wet with fire and flash

in the veins of prayer

WHAT NEWFOUNDLAND SAYS 

Crisp clouds trace
Solid locked cliffs
Tumbling towards icebergs
As I walk the edge

Green layers if light
Pasting the path
Crashed by the ocean
Kissed by the puffins

Who am I
To the power here?
To nature that rocks
Screams and rolls

There is a bliss
To heal cracks
In my longing
To understand silence

There is a push
In the windy trails
Scenic laughter
And pure colour calling

Time is cool here
Wrapped in wools
Until we lay down
In the heat of the shores

I return from this trip
Tipping in love
Luminous images
Flipping in my heels

Outside I still hear Newfoundland
Across the sighs of the day
Holding vistas
Inside internal grace

The Sun

The sun tosses a wink
An open pause
I perch to see
Long thin shadows
And cracks of darkness
In the holes of my garden

Nature guides my eye
To the silver leaf maple
The tiny temples of the pine tree
Layers of green branches
Draping the light
For my inner song

I honour the angry bird
The rustle of the tree
The dirty windows
A shiny thought
Or the paint peeling
On my favourite chair

I crave the sun
In a jest of joy
I hold it as laughter
To my senses
And as it fades
My mood wrinkles

It is a twinkle
In our daily dance
around the moon
It is enthusiasm
To my bones
To my breath

WHAT IS POETRY

"Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." Leonard Cohen


Poetry is where we can be ourselves.
Poetry speaks a pure voice.
Poetry is in the details.

I love this quote about poetry by Adrienne Rich  1929- 2012

Adrienne Rich was an American poet, essayist and feminist. She was called "one of the most widely read and influential poets of the second half of the 20th century".
Her first collection of poetry, A Change of World, was selected by the senior poet W. H. Auden for the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award; she went on to write the introduction to the published volume.

She said poetry is "a living language, the core of every language, something that is still spoken, aloud or in the mind, muttered in secret, subversive, reaching around corners, crumpled in  a pocket, performed to a community, read aloud, to the dying, recited by heart, scrated or sprayed on a wall. That kind of language from the heart and the mind. From the gut and the crotch. To claim wider horizons.

A language that made what is true, truer; what is small, bigger; what is silent, heard;what is fleeting, eternal.

The Waves

Cresting
Resting
in a flow
of endless pitch
blue bands of calm
break over the horizon
forming circles
shapes that wiggle in and out
of troughs
mezmorizing
teaching us about
repitition and recovery
how water transfers
and answers
our fears
as we roll into
the energy
if we hear our own rush
in the magnificent pulse
of the ocean
and ourselves

A Cup of Tea

I jump into
a cup of hot water
licking a new leaf
as it sits
inside my belly
I feel "me"
the band of heat
serves thirst
and connects
sips around the world
saliva and flavour
a ritual
as if a belt
loosely holds liquid
a dull warmth
that stares me down
over and over
and coffee
isn't even there

My Buddy

I see purity
Pushing power
In the words
Of my grandchild
She flies with her thoughts
Her imagination
A language
Of joy
A craziness
That freezes our wonder
Cuts emotion
In cookies of love.

Shame

Stumbling 
Clinging to the misery  
Of a few words  
That cut my chest   
Tapped at my ego
and bruised my brain
I stood facing the shame
Wet with tears
Head to foot 
Clothed in white guilt 
Silent fists pounding me
Pushing back I tried  
To unwrap the ribbons of fear
That colored the space between us 

Words

Words are swords
or pillows
to rest or scream
With on your quest
they wake your mind
change a moment
Or touch a desperate day

The words you say drift
the ones you don't say
are staining my shirt
as I pull my hair
with the itch
in waiting
patiently for your voice

Speak your truth
open your mouth blindly
to those you love
or your trapped honesty
will cut
the powerful words
where peace is blanketed.

WET GARDENS

Drops of pressure
tip bended leaves
a turn of
rainfall massaging
the curls of nature
walking in the shadows
of raindrops I hear oxygen
breathing from the trees
bugs lick the stones
in the hum
of this sweet damp air
straws of pink light
press the clouds
and at the smell
of silence
lays in the grass.

Your Voice

Wiggling
Shifting in the chair
I inched closer to a thought
I had lost
I think it was your voice
Tinkling
Calling my brain
to a soft place I loved
Where birds spoke to me
And I wrote poetry in a closet
You always
Lift me on clouds of philosophy
And contemplative wings
Where I drift
Closer to my creativity
And hear my own voice.

In the Morning Light

There is a gesture

touching spring today

I worship the energy

that spills over me

watch the sunlight

walking in the trees

lathering the future

in this feeling.

Waves

I am very close
to the ocean's spell
The waves kiss the beach
pull my feet in the swell

The force of time
connects us in song
I drink the energy
Splashing in step along

It calls the birds
And shapes a beach form
The ocean tide
has a wisdom of it's own.

LINE

You drew the line close to my heart
As my hemline broke
I winked as the wrinkle lines are deeper
And I want to memorize the line in your song

Lines that define
Lines that magnify
Imaginary lines
Emergency lines

I drew a line in the sand
And started jumping toward my shadow
Outlined in the sun
And then the ocean stole the line

Quotes from Chagall and Kandinsky

CHAGALL

"The psyche should go into the paint."

"In art, as in life, everything is possible if it is leased in love."

"Colour is the pulse of a work of art."

MARC CHAGALL (1887 – 1985) was a famous Russian artist, painter and print maker of lithographs; he created moreover several glass windows. His main motifs came from Jewish life (a.o. The Fiddler’) he experienced in his youth in Vitebsk, in Russia.

KANDINSKY

There is no form, there is nothing in the world which says nothing. Often – it is true – the message does not reach our soul, either because it has no meaning in and for itself, or – as is more likely – because it has not been conveyed to the right place… …Every serious work rings inwardly, like the calm and dignified words: ‘Here I am!’

* ”Concerning the spiritual in Art”, Wassily Kandinsky, Munich, 1911 (Russian painter, co-founder of ‘Blaue Reiter’ and famous for his book ‘Spiritual in art’, his series ‘Improvisations’ and Murnau landscapes)

MY BOOK OF POETRY FOR CHILDREN

I self published book of poetry for my grandchildren in December 2011. WITH A POEM YOU"RE NOT ALONE. I was inspired by my 2 year old grandchild Ava, her brother Jack and her cousin Claire. My life has come full circle with the birth of these grandchildren and sharing life through their eyes. I am excited to present this book to the world. Thank you to my daughter Sarah, my daugher-in-law Lara and Kim for their encouragement. The full book link will be posted soon.

Sunlight

Morning light
Pushes
Tugs at my drowsiness
Creeps
And flashes towards me
Filling the room
Bouncing energy
Heating wisdom
And lifting my love
For a new day
To understand
Your light

December

The tide of Christmas
Swells around me
I wrap and twinkle
To find the blend
Of giving
Giving
Beyond my blessings
Sensitive to the pain
Lonliness
And loss
For others
Who hold themselves together
Season after season
With torn or broken
Ribbon
It is time to tie joy
Under my tree and theirs

A poem for Byrnes

Your death screamed
At reality
And poems broke out in song.

Your journey is over
But you mentored others
To read their moments out loud.

Your friends were proud
Childen were silent
And James Joyce's ghost bowed.

Trees

The fall leaves trace the light on the path as the maple tree looks down. I love trees. They honour me in their silent power. They have strength in their changes and gesture us to respect the present moment. I see the rain hug their trunks. I watch the wind duck or play in their arms. Their shadows map the way for birds in flight. Their lines layer nature's ego.  I will plant a tree with a naming ceremony at my new home and our family will measure our memories in the seasons.