Ubiquitous Bic

Ubiquitous Bic biclighter

(prompted at writer’s group by an old lighter)

 

It’s a bic lighter
Not alight even though
I have seen it used for the gas
I suspect somewhere there is a roll-up
Flimsy paper, sticky flakes
a stash, hash.

Lighten up people
What do you know about
some of this?
Names you talk about
without experience?
Lighten the load.

Anyway I go my road
Flame flickers yellow
Coward, frightened, burnt,
back-lit shadowland.
Never see the sun rise
No shining eyes.

Let it go to landfill.
Emptied now
Like life
Where went the light?
While I flew to the flame?

 

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The Artist’s Room

It is infuriating, I can’t find the image of the picture that prompted this poem – it was a trompe l’oeil picture within a picture, and I can’t remember the name of the artist either. The artist had put himself within the picture, looking out, and most of the room lay behind him.

Feast the eye, or fool it. Trompe l’oeil.
I saw a window at the gable end of a house
A white painted house.
There was a woman leaning over the sill.
And then, and then, still
She leaned from her painted window.

Eyes see fleetingly, thoughts gather,
From fleeting feeling maybe never reaching thought.
This artist raises eyes with such apprehension,
Query, will you believe this story?
Will you believe this space stays, still,
this way I paint it, for your perception?

Disbelief and skepticism mount.
An artist’s room that never changes,
Ha! Who are you kidding?
He never dropped red madder on that floor
Never stood on a tube of burnt orange
Never threw his brush in unrestrained frustration.

The still life looks too still.
He watches me looking, watches me
Seeing the still studio he stands in
Dares ask us future watchers
Do you know how it is that I am? Still,
Here painting the room that is behind me?

I think this artist knew, as well as anyone,
at least as well as a poet,
that once you start the art, it takes your pen
your brush, your tongue, your heart and skill.
It follows its own theme, until
It comes with truth or lies, crystallized, forever still.

————

A picture of my own room. Not quite the same. But I am sitting on that sofa as I write.

IMG_7572.JPG

 

 

 

A Freezing Sun

Light from the sun is free
It falls regardless of heed or gratitude
Finding its way to wood that once it grew.
Taking a pit-stop aloft on a cloud-driven day
As though alive, knowing, feeling
For once the earth needed its shaft rejected.

Don’t think that Earth replies.
Can’t you see me turning turning?
Daily means diurnal rise.
Not that I spin here yearning for your touch,
You are too hot. Intense. Too much.
I have another side that you can’t see
Called Dark. That too is free.
Within the dark black night away from sun
I dream. Time flies.

Quiet says sun.
Shooting a sunspot glare through upper atmosphere.
I dream too. Dreaming is not just for you.
Timeturned dull Earth, grounded Earth.
Revealing thoughts of deep dark zones I can’t conceive.
Setting, solidity, crystal, flint and quartz
Not here where plasma rules.
All roils. I dream of freezing.
Ice. Frost. The many million shapes of snowflakes
Slipping sideways in my morning rise.

Ashes

A prompt: “It never reaches earth except as ashes” from Robert Frost’s A Loose Mountain.

Icarus aimed high
A modern sort of man, filled with ambition
Intent, calculating, planning,
most definitely achieving.
If they had had a Wall Street, he would have fitted right in.

But, no Wall Street,
And Hercules already had the strong market cornered
Apollo clearly understood grooming,
In its many senses.
So there with not a lot left, he dreamed of the sun.

Maybe not a financier go-getter
Maybe lying on sun-warmed grass
Idly scratching where the hay had got under his chiton
Hearing chirps and chitterings.
He dreamed about flying sky high, beyond the chattering.

A watching blue-jay startled from its pecking
A gull wheeled and yawed on a drift of wind
A goose  whonk-ed, quark-ed, beating easy elegant wings
Icarus too, flew, beyond his care.
Beyond reality. Dreams never reach the earth except as ashes.

 

Bananas

Writing 201: Day 9 prompt, form and device are – Landscape, Found Poem, Enumeratio (that seems sort of latin for ‘list’)

Found poem is using words that have been “found” – the suggestion was cutting up a newspaper or magazine. I was reminded of when the children were small and we had lots of magnetic words that stuck on the fridge. Then one week my niece came to visit and every day we had a poem on the fridge. I loved them, but can’t remember any of them!! [Claire – can you?]

However, I no longer have the word magnets anywhere, and I am temporarily not in my own house. Though there are lots of magazines I don’t feel I can cut them up.

Did my best. Took Third magazine from pile. Took third word on every third page. Used each word that I found only once. Used them all. Result!!

My magazine

My magazine

Bananas

Daniel watches firefighter Martin dispatch fresh cookies
Wilder and Klein,
best host house masters
issue pot,
its large bowl,
creme de la creme pudding,
drink can,
and pot.

Bon appetit, Right?

First Navigator Lovers
time their youth wave
Spring shopping.

Bananas.

Actually I lied – I added “bananas”. It was not in my list. Just felt like it.

And I failed miserably on “landscape”. Should have picked National Geographic instead of Bon Appetit. (Those words were on separate pages in the finding).

I was going to put a picture of a landscape, then found this seascape that is so wonderful I thought I would offer it instead. It is from images@jdnphotography.com. That surf is freezing!

slurpeewave

Poetry 201: Trust, Acrostic, Internal Rhyme

When Trust Has Value

Fear, for what it’s worth
Eventually I realise
All is not lost
Relatively speaking.
Trust seems harmless, even warm
Right. A good way to go
Under the umbrella of another
Safe and sound
Trusting, open to possibilities.

I waltz into the world
Taking niceness, talking schmaltz,
Immune to fear or falling
Slipping not on icy ground.
Alas as once poor Yorick found
Rude awakenings abound
Indeed if life were easy peasy
Simple trust is almost sleasy.
Kicks and brickbats, sticks and stones –

Trust is for the dreaded zones
Afar from warmth and love and light
Kindred spirits out of sight
Even if the way has danger
Risk seems lonesome. Every stranger
Is a monstrous ogre waiting,
Salivating. A trusty world is not a right.
Kindness give, defeat the flight.
See then I’ve earned my trust.

Fear Trust. It Is A Risk. Take Risks.

Winter

Listen to the wind
Tomorrow walk on water
Carefully. Black Ice.
 
 
I have joined the WordPress Writing 201 Poetry Challenge – they will provide prompts and challenges regarding form and use of language EACH DAY. I will be unlikely to keep up but here goes anyway. The first day’s requirements were: Water (tick) Haiku (tick) and use a simile … ah well … the whole poem is a simile innit?

This is the first assignment for Writing 201: Poetry, Writing 201: Water.