Showing posts tagged Poetry

Please feed the cats that miaow and miaow 

at the moon all night.  Please feed the cats

that prowl the streets and scavenge scraps

from dumpsters.  Please feed the cats

that mewl for milk at four o’clock

each morning.  Don’t feed the cats

that slink along the blistered fence

and ambush rats.  Don’t feed those cats.


I open like a tulip in spring,

to sway in the breeze 

with the sun’s kisses

until dusk creeps in.

I close for the night, 

my cheeks on fire.

I must have been a


in my previous life.


You Say To-may-do, I Say To-mah-to

and I also say ba-nah-na, not ba-nan-a,

but you know what I mean.

I say chew-na with soya sawce

you say  too-na with soy sah-s

but I know what you mean.

The plumber didn’t know

when I called him to say

that the geyser was faulty.

"The geyser?"  He ass-kd.

(He hadn’t a clue)

"There’s no hot water."  I said

and we both laughed so hard 

but I knew what I meant.

Frozen to the bone

I stand rigid by the fire.

Flames flicker and dance.

It’s been a frosty kind of week.

Jack ran around the forest and left the ferns heavy with his frozen breath, longing for the sun, while singing

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.  

But I have promises to keep,                                                            

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.”

Oh Okaay, I’ve been reading Robert Frost, the same Robert who once told his students that

They used to sprinkle beer from a watering can on the sidewalks outside the bar room to bring in the young. The smell tempted them inside. That’s the way it should be with literature and poetry in college.”

And now ‘a frosty’ tempts me                                                                    

with colour lovely, dark and deep.                                                          

That’s the way it should be                                                                    

before I go to sleep.

The parallel world has many parts.  Never assume anything.  

Late September 

They came by boat, slipping

quietly through the pesto-green

water, the oars skimmed the surface

like a skipping stone.

They bumped the dock with a thud.

She clutched the jetty, squinting

into the afternoon sun, her wrinkles                                                            

gorged deep in her face                                                                                  

like a river.

She bit her lip.

He pulled himself up, glancing  

around the marina, his long neck

twisted right around

like an ostrich.

He dumped the trash.       

I sat in the cockpit, watching  

them drift away, their shadow


like a dream,                                                                         

but I could smell their saltiness.

In the Morning

The sea smells like cucumber,

thinly sliced

straight from the fridge,

and with the sunrise

shadows shrink —

the cove is steaming like a bath.

Again, these photographs remind me of a poem.

The Raspberry Room  — Karin Gottshall 

It was solid hedge, loops of bramble and thorny   
as it had to be with its berries thick as bumblebees.   
It drew blood just to get there, but I was queen   
of that place, at ten, though the berries shook like fists   
in the wind, daring anyone to come in.  I was trying   
so hard to love this world—real rooms too big and full   
of worry to comfortably inhabit—but believing I was born
to live in that cloistered green bower: the raspberry patch   
in the back acre of my grandparents’ orchard.  I was cross-   
stitched and beaded by its fat, dollmaker’s needles.  The effort   
of sliding under the heavy, spiked tangles that tore   
my clothes and smeared me with juice was rewarded   
with space, wholly mine, a kind of room out of   
the crush of the bushes with a canopy of raspberry   
dagger-leaves and a syrup of sun and birdsong.   
Hours would pass in the loud buzz of it, blood   
made it mine—the adventure of that red sting singing   
down my calves, the place the scratches brought me to:   
just space enough for a girl to lie down.   

This is Just to Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

William Carlos Williams