Tag Archives: poetry

National Poetry Writing Month (April)

Every once in a while I sense that my prose is starting to lose its unique voice, its sparkle and depth, those nifty unexpected turns of phrase that make you sit up and go, “Ah, now that’s not bad!”. That’s usually when I realize that I haven’t been writing enough poetry. So in the spirit of getting back in touch with my wild subconscious (by far the better instinctive writer than boring old everyday me), I’ll be writing and posting A Poem a Day in honour of National Poetry Month.

You can check out the main NaPoWriMo site for links to other poets doing the same thing. To find a poetry-inspired event near you, just Google “National Poetry Month 2014”; it’s celebrated all over North America every April (and in October in the UK). And don’t forget Poem in Your Pocket Day on Thurs. April 24th.

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A girl called Transient

Once she wanted
a yellow bike, with streamers
on the handlebars, and white tires;

Once she knew
how to change the bike chain,
and patch the leaks
She had a tool kit in her basket:
allen keys, patches, glue,
compact pump, WD-40, band-aids
an old water bottle
that smelled of plastic and time;

Once she wanted
to be a dancer, not
on the stage, but wild,
pirouetting through forests
and waterfalls, charming
the birds from the trees;
A time when logic was flexible
and the laws of physics
were mere suggestions
and the only key to not falling
was forgetting to hit the ground.

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 07.25.11)

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Pieces II

Where did these scraps come from?
An old dress, torn to pieces
an old shirt, abandoned to rags
doomed to a dusty corner
relegated to cleaning up spills
cast by an ordinary life
rescued at the last moment
thrown in with other
misfits and malcontents
awakening in a factory
or some small village
sweltering the the dog days
of monsoon season
nimble fingers picking pieces
seemingly at random
sewing them together
with hand-me-down thread
ends and seconds,
bargain bin leftovers
paper pressed wet onto screens
left to dry in the sun
I can still smell it:
nothing at all like living trees
Later, sold to strangers
at overinflated prices
waiting for a poet to give them
new memories, a borrowed soul,
an illusion, perhaps
of purpose

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal)

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Forty fathoms in,
and I’m still
waiting for something
to validate my life
like Castiel praying
to an empty amulet
looking for lost gods
in dime story baubles
reflections in muddy puddles,
burned toast and brickwork

Every day I make
my New Year’s resolutions
my vow to break the silence
I breathe in mountains & oceans
throw my arms open
hoping the wind will catch me

Ever day I hear
symphonies written by ghosts
songs by unreachable strangers

Everything that touches my soul
dissolves in air and whispers
fades like dreams on waking
Sometimes cupped hands
capture just enough
for a single sip
a fleeting taste, a cruel
teaser (the main feature never
lives up to the previews)

If only I could find
the right sledgehammer
axe, blowtorch, cannon
to blow these walls down
I might find what I’m looking for
in the rubble and the ruin
a new life out of chaos

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal)

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where’s my cue
what’s my line
where the hell’s
the exit sign?

always a page missing
pieces left over
the wrong sized wrench
holes that don’t fit

if you ever need someone
don’t look in the mirror
don’t let them hear you
talking to yourself
and whatever you do
don’t ever tell them
your deepest fears

and if someone,
some stranger,
asks you out of the blue
“what do you want?”

don’t answer
just walk away

– T.H.

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This is where we go II

Ghost ships founder
off the shores of Elysium
we came here to find
the answer to something
lost in the Aether
conceptions stumble,
presumptions fall apart,
like paper in the rain, belief
in the inevitable lost
like leaves in the gutter
no longer individual
but indistinct, irresolute
handholds slipping
the long fall into uncertainty
no longer buoyed by
memories of bliss
Is it fog or billowing smoke
that hides the enemy’s sails?
Is it god, luck, or blind chance
that becalms us here on
glass still waters?
Only the albatross & the moon know,
only the wheeling gulls and the absent wind
and they’ll never tell

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 05.24.11)

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What did you expect?
That purple shoelaces
and thrift store T-shirts
would really make you
young again?

She just said to me, she said:
“Not you, you’re too young”
In a room full of greyhairs
bifocals, wheelchairs
and stiff, halting gaits,
it’s not much of a comfort

Who do you trust?
Not the words on the TV screen
or the smiling face in the magazine

When music is the last refuge
we hide inside ourselves
a tiny box within which
‘verses are born, die, are born anew

Humans (like the lady said)
(like some other things, which shall
remain nameless)
really are so much
bigger on the inside
Therein lies the beauty
and the tragedy
and the comedy
of it all.

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 05.24.11)

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Faint fingers fumble
for a coin in the dark
a handhold on a slick surface
seven splintered notes
abandoned by the side
of the road, forgotten
I think they belonged
to a piano concerto once
or maybe the chorus
of a well-loved pop song
they’ve long since lost
the story of original sin
unbound by family, they are
the ultimate in uncultured
tribeless feckless whim
free to clash and crash at will
headlong into oncoming traffic
they’ll leap blindly
into the abyss, if someone
dares them to
a voice keeps calling our names
bidding us come, stay, wait, go
we dance down dark alleys
in the midst of a snowstorm, barefoot
music without shape, singing
out of tune, and laughing

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 05.24.11)

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I saw a dog on a roof today
a girl opened a window
to let him in
The best kind of bird dog
would be one who could fly

Today the garden lady
confirmed that the Japanese
characters on M.’s shirt
really did say
what we thought they said*
(*so, you have a dark side, eh?)
One always takes a risk
trusting in the honesty of strangers

Today the rhododendrons
were bright sky blue
the cookies were sweet and crumbly
with purple icing
and all the boys and girls
were dressed for summer
short shorts and flip-flops
tattoos like alien birthmarks
twining over bared skin

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 06.10.11)

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12 Days ’til November

This is where we go

white cuts in brown skin
memories of elephants in a grove
long grass trampled flat
this is where we go
to escape the endless rain
to find silence in the spaces
between thought and action
voices numbed by hesitation
what was once a headlong rush
becomes a waiting contemplation
soft music behind pastoral scenes
designed to soothe and mollify
we lose our conscience here
cut the tether of dream & ambition
watch them float away
dust motes on the wind
all sense of self lost
in the emptiness of time
grasslands shiver under
black star-scattered skies
sleep will come at last
when all has been given away
but this one gift will keep
a while yet; breathe in and out
eyes open; we’ll suffer
one more dawn

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 05.24.11)

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