Butterfly


On the rooftops mid the yawning vents

A butterfly inside out

On the rooftops hiding seconds spent

Between boredom, delight, and drought

She has not opacity

To keep thoughts from flying to mouth

So on the rooftops hovering

And those who see, are looking down

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Municipal elections


“It is looking bluer today.”

“Yes – I think they hope this will

send property values further south

and highlight the old mill

as an eyesore.”

“I see –

I always liked the mill myself

but sandstone does seem garish

when, on this street, everything else

smells like blueberry.”

“As someone allergic to scents

I wish they didn’t flavour the paint.”

“Nothing to be done there.”

“No; and to be frank

it’s pleasant to watch the crews

hard at work.

This devaluation project

could always be worse

than a bit of vandalism, and paint.”

Dating


I met her in a soup tureen

Inventing chemoreceptors

Her glare almost gave me compound fractures

But I told her we should go for a dip

For some reason she humoured me

And then we lived happily on the sill together

Peace was the last thing on our minds

And food somewhere near second

Until she remembered herself and asked

“Shouldn’t you be more necessary to my happiness?”

But I alone was never necessary to anyone

She took her honey crumbs, and flew away

The Young Pleasure Seeker (Josephine)


I never loved you, Josephine

Like the larks that flew entwined

Like the water filling the fountain

Or the lord after the hind

I never plucked your handkerchief

Fallen among the rosebeds

Nor begged a walk, a poem, a dance

But asked Thérèse instead

O how I doted on her charms

And waited hours to hear her sing

How I spread the boat with quilts

As inducement to come sailing

But Thérèse, in all her gaiety,

For others plays me false

And I begin to doubt her beauty

When at my vows she balks

I never loved you, Josephine

And this you may be slow to forget

But though I never loved you

I may come to love you yet

At the Brink of Time


Where infinity fades fuzzy

As an impressionist’s paintbrush

And time wrestles with gravity

To pull us off into the dusk

Our longings will be nothing

Nor paralysis of choice

But birds to catch unerring

Familiar fleets to be rejoined

We will sample secret pleasures

And journey where we never spoke

Carve bowsprits from feathers

In between the brushstrokes

And I will hoard your laughter

Your warm, admiring eye

Before the canvas darkens

And at last I say goodbye

Where I am From


IMG_20171229_164109-EFFECTS

When you buried my shovel

I was left idle, unmasked and thinking

There is no glitter in my well

No gold ‘mong damp and mossy dark

Most ropes would recoil

But these linen plaits graze water

Unfrayed and still and tranquil

As the maple roof and stonework above

Anglo, Roman-Catholic stays

Build ribcages smoother than granite

And flakes of mica without replace

Ingots for those who would clamber within

Some eyes stay bright and guileless through

Trials largely of one’s own making

Rope winding, coiling back to

Where I am from

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Based on the prompt “Where I’m from”:

Writing to Freedom

Summoning Magic: A Gypsy’s Tale