Starlight

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Starlight used to make me so sad.

The bright light of a star long dead

reaching me here with a tragic hope.

I stare at them through teary eyes

and wonder if maybe, just maybe,

we are wrong about starlight.

~

Perhaps starlight should bring me joy.

Those bright lights, so steady, so true.

Guiding sailors, farmers and guides

through time unfailing in their task.

I stare at them through wondering eyes

and think, “How far does your light travel

and maybe, just maybe, your light

isn’t a dead light after all. But reborn!”

~

Starlight, like a phoenix, rises beyond our

measure and while the light of one fades

as it dies, it take so long to reach us that

it never really dims, but is replaced by

a new light, of a star reborn. Born anew

from the faded and thread bare universe.

A patch that seamless joins old and new.

~

Starlight, more alive than dead. Not an echo

of something long since gone but more than.

An echo and a newborn cry, a dying spark

and a flash of new life – all at once. Far in time.

And we, in hindsight only, see nothing but

the endless. The faithful. The star lights eternal.

~

Death conquered, and birth affirmed. Spirals

of eternity weave through my mind and I must

look away. Dizzy and holding tight to the endless.

The starlight.

~

This is what happens when I think too much about things like time, space, light, travel and stars.  I wondered last night, staring at an impossibly bright and starry sky if perhaps their dying light overlaps a birthing light and that’s how we never lose our stars.  And faith is like that too…but that is a deep thought for another day!  Enjoy.

Good News, Bad News, No News

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The Good News: harvest is done. Except for baling. Stacking. Hauling.

Essentially harvest is done. Fields empty of crop. Bins and bags filled.

Everyone takes a collective breath. Breathe. Stand back. Done.

`

The Bad News: terror comes home. Can’t go overseas to fight, so here.

Cars as weapons. Gunshots on Parliament Hill. Lock down. LOCK DOWN!

Across the country a collective gasp. Silence. Sit back. It is here. Home.

`

No News: we carry on. One step in front of another. Another day lived.

We pray. We cry. We rant. We rally. We stand. Silent. In awe of both.

Good news. Bad news.  Collective stories, without balance, but some hope.

`

My post harvest return to @dVerse for Poetics with Mary. It is fitting, perhaps, that it is a news day here on the farm and also internationally for my country.  Balance. Faith. Hope. Horror. Disbelief. Good thing we have poetry to turn to. 

Side note: I tried a new thing, QR code poetry. Check it out on Twitter here:

(just scan with a reader and enjoy!)

[file not found]

[file not found] as I rack my brain.

What did I name it? [search: |]

the blinking cursor still  flashes.

 

[error: 404] WHAT? That can’t be

I know it’s there. [webpage moved]

I don’t think SO. Type S-L-O-W-E-R

 

[voice command unavailable] ugh!

Speak slower, type slower. [restart Y/N]

No. What I really want is to shout at YOU.

 

[errors are personal] my hubby disagrees.

He says they are just glitches. Hiccups.

[entry not understood, retry? Y/N]

 

It FEELS personal. Something simple. But no.

[waiting for network response] tap. tap. TAP.

I wonder, will they roll their eyes at us? [o-o]

 

[file not found] and then the keys slow down.

The search becomes ablzlhd123 instead.

Type slower. Mouth out the letters. S-L-O-W

 

[search results: 500] ugh. *.* that sucker. Ha!

[unable to open file, source location changed]

Don’t break the electronics. Don’t break the…

 

Okay Plug in external hard drive. [new device]

oh…no…[format new device?] NO! NO! unplug

Plug back in. [browse folders on external drive?]

 

Browsing folders. Files. Searching. Finding.

[file not found] no it is not. BUT look! At THIS!

Old photos, old poems, old treasures. Found.

 

[file not found] is sometimes okay. Just fine.

[save over previous document?] No. Leave it.

Found what I wanted? No. Found what I needed!

 

This is my form, I came up with it a while ago – you can read a couple more in it here: https://sunflowershan.wordpress.com/2013/11/12/error-cannot-post-comment/ and https://sunflowershan.wordpress.com/2013/08/20/enter-title-here/

 

Gay has us thinking about inventing a form all our own at dVerse. This is my form. It doesn’t have a true name yet, maybe [message] form would work?  It takes the messages we get during our day from electronics and other devices and incorporates them into poetry. They become more and can add depth to our musings. Stop by and read the other amazing poets who shared on this.

Flying Blind

I

Laying in bed, awoken to a sudden silence.

Darkness thick like a blanket. I can’t see.

My eyelashes brush against the pillow.

They sound loud. Grating. Brittle.

My fingers reach from under the blankets.

Groping slowly, tips flared back from palms.

A cool corded neck brushes my wrist.

The lamp, as cold and dead as a cod.

Down my hand travels. Confident now.

BANG! I forgot what I left there that fell.

Hands pull back and I push myself up.

Feet drop down through cooling air.

The floor comes too soon. OuCh!

The stillness is thick. Breath loud.

The electric hum of our life dead.

There is no silence like it, that

takes our sight on a dark night.

 

II

I stand, face to the early spring sun.

So bright I close my eyes to it.

Let my senses tell me about things.

CrEaK! That broken branch rubs

crying a death song in the wind.

TAPPPPP TAPPPPP TAPPPPP

Rustle. Thwwwwwwop. Two!

Woodpeckers start the ritual.

Clouds make the air chill,

and my eyelids flutter against

the shadows they throw down.

CrUnCh! cRuNcH! The snow

breaks under dog feet running.

Thssssssssssssssip. Thssssssssssip.

Tires on asphalt covered in melt.

I can almost feel their passing me.

 

III

I close my eyes. My fingers seek them.

Two nubs. F and J. The ‘home keys’.

I can type blind, and fast, if they I find.

A new keyboard is slower though.

Why can’t they all be the same?

Waiting for inspiration, eyes closed.

I rub the keys, worn smooth from touch.

Fingers brushing F and J. F and J. Home.

If only I could find a place that felt

that good to the touch. That made sure

my words, and world, made sense.

I can type blind with my homekeys found.

Without them I am flying blind. Making

no sense. No words that matter. A cat

chasing shadows on a keyboard left

unattended, or by a muse gone quiet.

 

IV

Close your eyes. Don’t make eye contact.

Keep still. Very still. Feel the seeds in your hand.

Listen for them. Twittering. Flying. You can HEAR.

Did you know that? Wings sound so LOUD when you

aren’t looking for them, or counting their beating flight.

I wait, still. Listening. FEELING their approach. Cautious.

The bold chickadee challenges me, but wants the seeds too.

She lands, sharp feet holding tight to my skin. I don’t flinch.

Suddenly a rush of air, hard feathers dust my skin and she’s gone.

A fly by, a feeding bomb done by a woodpecker. I stand, alone. Again.

 

Brian has us thinking about being blind, or being without sight as we compose poetry for dVerse. So often we use our sight, even in our comments, “I can see that!” but there are other senses that can also convey the story when we lose, close or bind our eyes.  I will try later to do a blind contour drawing to add here. Until then, visit the other amazing poets taking on this challenge!

 

MicroMacro World

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Her body tense, tail twitches softly.
Eyes focus. Not one blink.
Bird watching from
this side of the
window is
for the
birds.
#Micropoetry

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Little cat, what do you see?
Birds you don’t catch?
They don’t tempt you
but they do intrigue.
Birdwatcher more than
huntress. Little Po.

I am hosting at dVerse, and for the past two days we have been playing with macro photography, and with micropoetry. I had a hard time choosing from my photos and finding inspiration. Then Po decided to sit next to my computer and bird watch. The light was perfect and she was so still. So here you have a macro of our cat, Po, and micro about her.  

Manifesto: Riding my own broncs

Saddle your own broncs

 

Riding my own Broncs

I will write. My poetry. My own way. For me. Sometimes, for an audience of one, or maybe none. Sometimes for more. And to them who come to read, to share, I say, “Thank you”

I have written in the dark of the night. Through the tears. Laughing with utter joy. And those times of the greatest hurt awaken my muse to words.

I will keep alive the story telling legacy of the cowboy poets, the romantics. T.S. Eliot the cats. All those who stood at the cross roads and took the road less trod. And those who took the well worn road and made it their own. And those who stood at the cross roads, grabbed a machete, a pack of matches or a strawberry roan bronc and blazed a new trail.

I will respect the muse, and I will also lure, bait, promise and chase her down when the words are shying away. I will ride my own broncs, and ask only that those who also ride to come along on the wide roads, and the narrow mountain trails. We need to write, it is to our spirits the breath of life. I need to write, the words speak to my soul as my eyes see poetry everywhere. My hands feel it. My heart beats for it. I dream it, and will never forsake it.  Like the breath of my beloved, the heartbeat of our child – it is part of me.

I will not succumb to the threats of busy-ness, boredom, harsh critics, lazy readers and those who won’t try to see the poetry that breathes right in front of them.

I am a poet. I will write. I am a poet. I will breathe, bleed and sweat poetry. I am a poet.

Gay has us writing our Manifesto for dVerse. This is mine. Trying to keep it within the criteria given, and yet taking it on my own ride. Come on over!

Winter, a Micro Poetry Fable

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Arctic fox didn’t like his drab coat.

Summer grey wasn’t as lush.

He waved his tail and danced.

~

Calling the sun-dogs to the skies.

Pulling the Arctic cold down. Down.

The winter stayed too long. Too long.

~

Snowy owl came flying home.

Spring her time to come north.

Wings carried warm air sweet.

Spring flies home.

~

On the weekend Bjorn had an awesome prompt for doing a fable, which I missed, but I did a micro poetry fable about it on Twitter. I am sharing it here for OLN. It could become a future Poetics prompt, so take note 🙂 

I took the photos last year of snowy owls coming north again in early spring through southern Saskatchewan.

There are some changes happening at the dVerse Pub that will make it better for our pub tenders and poets. Stop by and see what Brian had to say about it all.

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