Tuesday, 29 October 2013

Homonym Hymn

Homonym Hymn

Octpowrimo is almost done.
Covered in ashen grey and dusty dun.
For what it has given, it now is owed.
To this event I shall compose an ode.

What started in leafy fire has ended in winter rime,
A dying coal of word, meter, and rhyme.
The varied parts grow more than the 31 day sum.
Fun for most, heart rending for some.
We've stepped out on a limb and broken the bough.
We've let arrow straight words twang from our bow.
The comments were 'the bomb' and a balm to read
Choosing not to break ego's already bruised reed


who am I?

Who am I?
I am Mark Jones.
Yes,  one of the Joneses.
Yes there are a  lot of us.
Yes it's a conspiracy...oops.
Now I have to KILL YOU!

That is the Jones sense of humour.
I got it from my Dad. Mom just laughs at us.
That's why I can be funny and laugh at myself.

Some Jonses are bold adventuresome hero types like Indiana
Or "smooth walkin' smooth talkin' long lean Jones"
I am not that Jones.

Some Jonses are hoity toity snobs with lots of stuff.
They are the rich upper crust but flaky.
People still want to keep up with them.
I am not that Jones.

Some Jonses have addiction problems.
Like Jughead, they can't get enough and they can't get control.
They even named a slang term for them: Jonesing.
I am not that Jones.

Some Joneses are rebel rocker punk outcasts with tattoos.
Like Steve(Sex Pistols) or Mick(the Clash) or Brian(the Stones)
Even Davy from the Monkees could sort of rock.
I am not that Jones.

Some Joneses are psycho cult leaders poisoning the koolade.
I am NOT that Jones.

Some Joneses are smooth jazzy entertainment professionals.
Like Quincy or norah or even George.
I am not that Jones.

Some Joneses are the model of physical perfection
Full of poise and charm and style.
Like Grace or Rashida, or Catherine Zeta.
I am not that Jones.

Some Jonses have gravitas, magnetic personality, intensity,
and the rich mellifluous voice to go with it.
Like James Earl, Tommy Lee, Chuck(the cartoon king)
Or even mama Partridge, Shirley.
I am not that Jones.

I am fearfully brave when I have to be.
I am satisfied with what God provides.
I have a modicum of disciple, coffee and books aside.
I like to rock and or roll.
I have some blog followers.
I busk at the farmer's market.
I am kinda cute and charming.
I have acted and even directed a play or two.
I am that Jones.  

Sunday, 27 October 2013

Melting Rime

(I thought I'd try all three forms. I cheated a little with the first one using thing ending in -tion, could be worse , I could have done -ing. It is a Mono-rhyme. The second is a duo rhyme. I think I even kept to some meter as well as rhyme. I messed up the third one. It is supposed to be a Diatelle. I had written out the rhyme scheme (a-b-b-c-b-c-c-a-c-c-b-c-b-b-a)on a blank sheet of paper. I came back later and followed it. Just as I finished it I remembered it was supposed to have an increasing/decreasing sylable count each line. FYI: the last poem is a true story about a kick-off meet for Regina participants in NaNoWriMo in Nov.)

Due to the Double Negative, Satisfaction is Mine 

When I was young I just wanted a little action.
I would do crazy things to get some reaction.
Always moving forward to keep some traction.
Growing pains are a necessary contraction.
Life collects it's dues, that's the transaction.
Failure turned to fear becomes inaction.
Pride slides away like decimal and fraction.
The surplus I lost in painful subtraction.
Words flung like arrows have no retraction.
In the mirror my soul looks like a Picasso abstraction.
A poetry group was a welcome distraction.
I took great comfort in human interaction.
I was surprised by sweet ginger attraction.
Finally found the key to unlock satisfaction.

Keen Plight

In season's change, that time between
Fantastical things can be seen.
It all comes to a head one night.
At first you see an eerie sight.
The thing you know now gives a fright.
Strange beasts all want to take a bite.
In fear you see no way to fight.
Until with steed and sword a knight
There leads angels all clad in white.
From pool to pool you walk in light.
With chills and thrills we love the scene.
It's all a part of Halloween.

Nano Rhyme, Yo 

Like wrights in a mill, words are tools I wield as I write.
I've written many a poem, but never a book.
A gathering of novice novellers? I'll take a look.
That's who my wife was going to meet.
No crowd, just a handful in the far back nook.
At least the restaurant will have food to eat.
The fuel of art is drink, bread, and meat.
Fellowship is a time honoured creative ceremonial rite.
Beside two shy high school girls we take a seat.
In the face of reticence I will not admit defeat.
Pushing and a lot of questions is what it took;
Although I'm sure they left thinking me offbeat.
The group reeled me and set the hook.
I've swallowed the bait like a trout in a brook.
A month of poems and now a book? My head may not be right.


Saturday, 26 October 2013



That is a big word.

If I write a poem about one of them,

Someone else might get jealous.

Unless I write about someone who is gone.

It's too late and I'm too tired to write a good one.

They really know how to push my buttons.

They should, they are the ones who installed them.

They make me angry. They make me crazy.

They make me feel sane again.

They are the best of times. They are the worst of times.

They are the boring in between bits.

They are my everything.

Friday, 25 October 2013







Whatever the day or season, we love.

From Easter to


I'll be 


The Zoo

(I chose a different direction. Instead of focusing on childhood and dreams. I am 'giving myself permission' to write some thoughts. I suppose it relates to childhood.  As a pastor's kid I had to be careful of what I say. I still keep mean or inappropriate thoughts to myself. I do however have rants inside my head to the mirror or worse at work. The problem? I talk with my hands and move my lips. No one has caught me or I might be locked up. This diatribe is one of my favorite. I'm saving it for when...uh if I go postal)

The Zoo

My job is crazy.

Even on a good day.

It's not just crazy,

It's bat crap crazy.

Some days are worse.

Some days the apes escape.

They join in the feces flinging fun.

I'm the only one with a broom or shovel.

Once in a while the zookeepers come out

Wearing clean white uniforms and safari hats.

'You missed a spot over here,' they say.

or 'why did you put this huge pile here?'

'What?!?' I scream 'the crap was here. I just gathered it!'

I don't say that. I just put my head down and keep shoveling.

Shoveling snow in a blizzard.

Sweeping dry manure in a tornado.

I am the surfer on the beach

Holding a little plastic sand bucket

Trying to bail out the tsunami.

Thursday, 24 October 2013

By the Numbers

(The prompt: To write a poem about numbers. You could use one of three forms with numbered syllables, the tanka(5-7-5-7-7), the tetractys(1-2-3-4-10-4-3-2-1) or etheree(1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10) I was able to do one of each.)

Music by the Numbers: a Tanka

One and two and three
four and five and six waltzing
by the numbers and
An Irish jig and polka
Three quarter time oom pa pa

Time out of Time: a tetractys

Out of 
Have a sweet
pair made poetry. Because of you, I
Have a sweet
Out of 

Countdown: an etheree 

Flesh. Two
Hearts. God. Three
strands. Four ever.
Five fingers plus five
Entwined. Six days--make Us,
Seven days--rest. Have fun. drink life.
Eight octopus arms wrapped. stuck on you.
Nine levels of hell when you are gone.
Ten 'commandments' now, 'As you wish, my love'.

Tuesday, 22 October 2013

Alas Poor Fluffy

Alas, Poor Fluffy

Alas, poor fluffy. I knew him well.
Hirsute in form and curious by nature.
He was a silly hamster, but well liked.
O, tiger's heart bound in a rodent's hide.
How he raged against our giant master's benevolence.
"Do they not know," he would angrily chitter.
"All the world's a cage and they are hairless hamsters.
All mankind's enterprise is merely a huge spinning wheel.
All agriculture is just pellets and bottles from the creator's hand..."
O, what an entertaining fool he was.
At the tail of life he answered one of hamsterdom's great questions.
To chew or not to chew?
Whether tis nobler in heart to suffer the bites and scratches of life,
Or to take paws against a waterbowl of troubles
And by gnawing end them.
What is the nature of the black snake hanging from the cage's light?
Tho at first it did not respond, 
As he had nibbled through it's outer skin,
When he licked its inner shining sinews,
The Serpent revealed it's secret.
As a repository of great power, it lights up the night and fluffy too.
What an explosive sparkling exit he made.
His sacrifice provided a wonderful cautionary tale
For wise hamstresses to tell to eager hamlets.
Sometimes our boundaries are loving protection from harm.
As fitting so noble a creature,
They buried him in the swirling porcelain sea.
With a great roar he circled the final barrier
And finally sunk into the undiscovered country beyond the bowl.    

Monday, 21 October 2013


                then they could even cut stone.

Objects of Desire

(The Prompt: write a love letter from one inanimate object to another. Challenge: use a rictameter [2-4-6-8-10-8-6-4-2 syllables].I couldn't get started. My sister just started naming things in the room. I scribbled them down and came up with 3. Also the word Titian is not as crude as it first seems. Said[Tee-shun] it means both the Painter and the red-gold(orange/ginger) color of hair he often gave his rather curvy models.) 

Objects of Desire

"Dear Rug,
Wrapped up in you,
I'm as snug as a bug.
It's been a magic carpet ride."
"You are my clock, and I am just a rug.
I've enjoyed our time together.
I love your hands, your face.
To me they're so
dear, rug."
"Red Brick
You are my mortar.
I thought I'd lost my glow.
My heart was an opaque window.
'I threw a brick through a window', I shout.
When you sent that 'I LOVE LAMP' card,
I knew we could build Love"
"You make me go
red, Brick"

The Tale of Jill-o-Lantern

Be mine, footstool."
The pumpkin sadly thought
Looking up at the strong slim legs.
The stool once again glanced down at the view.
"I long to hold your Titian curves."
Then they set her on him.
"Now I am your

Saturday, 19 October 2013

Fly in My Eye

(Based on a true event.)

Fly in My Eye

My oh my.
I had a fly
Fly in my eye
"A fly in my eye!
My oh my,"
Said I.
"Why oh why?
Did a fly
Fly in my eye?"
Said I.
Closer it grew and grew;
My eyes grew askew.
I took a breath, and blew.
Now it is gone—phew!
Bye bye, fly.

Friday, 18 October 2013

This Poem...sucks!?!

Love is...

...um like...

...awesome 'n stuff, ya know!?!

{God, no! Gosh, idiot}

To what shall I compare thee?

Shall I compare thee to...

...a warm fuzzy feeling.
That makes it hard

to live without.
You know like when your like Xbox like totally breaks 
Or whatever.
Or you forget to pay your cell bill...um...uh...
{Ok, no! crumple crumple---toss}

All roses are red 
Vilets are a blue colour
Haikus are hard

{wait isn't violet a color like purple not blue? Crap!!!
Wait, she likes oranges!}

Oranges are orange.
You are...are..
{...strange? Dang, not even a near rhyme. Stupid ryming.}

Love is...
It's indescribable!

Love is.
It's just, you know, love, Dude. It's cool.

Game of Life

(the prompt was about games and child hood. I decided to put any words that are game titles in capitals)

'I may have to grow old, but I don't have to grow up.'

The good book says, "When I was a child, I spoke as a child, thought as a child, reasoned as a child. Now that [I am grown] I have put away childish things"

Really? Not our society. 'Childish Things' is big business.
That would be a good name for an OPERATION that sells them.
Some MASTERMIND repackages them in BREAKOUT movies.
I understand how hard it is to LEGO of childhood.

We can't let games have a MONOPOLY on out time, right?
We have to leave the TRIVIAL PURSUITs of life to work.

Maybe we can use some of our skills from games to help us:
TETRIS?--grocery bagger. CENTIPEDE?-Pest control expert.
RISK?-insurance agent(RISK assessment department, of course).
OPERATION?-how many doctors used to play this?
DEFENDER?-Lawyer(public defender) or the Dept. of Defense.

The real problem comes in facing the PITFALLs of real life.
I'm SORRY, I don't want to be all DOOM and gloom here,
But in this world we will have TROUBLE.

BARBIE is on 'the surreal housewives of MATELL'.
G.I. JOE has post traumatic stress disorder.
PAC MAN and HUNGRY HIPPPO have eating disorders.
HOPSCOTCH always did look like a sobriety test.
Maybe we skip the scotch and stop playing beer PONG.

'Win at any cost, but play by the rules', we were taught.
Seems the new rules are CHEAT but don't get caught.
CAPTURE THE FLAG is a hostile take over.
TAG is pass the buck, shift the blame, sling mud at your opponent.
It BOGGLEs the mind.

Don't get me wrong, I don't think we should put games away.
I'm encouraged by the popularity of games today.
Let's press the reset button and return to innocence and family.
Dig out your dusty rule book and read it again.
It is a guideline to success, fairness, and playing well with others.
Trade childishness for child-likeness.

To really paraphrase Jesus, "Never refuse a child your time and attention. This is a key to the kingdom of Heaven (or spiritual enlightenment if you will): it's not too late to change your ways. Approach life with child like faith, humility and wide-eyed wonder, and you will begin to see wonderful things and go to amazing places."  

Wednesday, 16 October 2013

The Light goes Out

(The prompt mentioned 'the last word'. It made me think of last words. My cousin Max passed away this month. At the funeral, my heart ached to hold my wife and never let go. The challenge of a Villanelle mentioned the famous example of Dylan's  "The Dying of the light". This is what come out.)

"With a flash the light goes out"
For the cowboy shot it in my western book.
Yeehaw! it makes me want to shout.

Oh baby! It makes me want to shout.
She lassoed me with one sweet sultry look.
Now I'd do anything to stop her pout.

I knew I wanted her without a shred of doubt.
She hangs her bathrobe on the bedroom door hook.
With a flash the light goes out.

Hallelujah! It makes me want to shout.
As the candle of time warms our little nook.
I must suck it's marrow while the moment is about.

For I know there's one desperado I can not rout.
It is death, that pale silent crook.
Curse you! It makes me want to shout.
With a sigh the light goes out.

Tuesday, 15 October 2013

Canadian Gothic, Eh!?!

(http://metronews.ca/news/saskatoon/823559/couple-wants-to-form-creative-village-in-rural-saskatchewan/# This news story caught my eye. I live in Regina, two hours away.)

Canadian Gothic, eh!?! that's what the picture looked like.

She is holding a pitchfork. He's holding a video camera.

Behind them is a renovated church structure.

They are opening their 15 acres with church and studio.

 They are starting an artist's commune...uh retreat centre.

Is it just a Saskatchewan/Canada thing?

When did traditional good old ethnic Orthodox churches

Become neo-hippy weird new unorthodox galleries?

In a way I suppose that cathedral's have always been galleries.

Architecture, fine woodwork, iconography, and stained glass.

Was that the creative pop culture 'web' of community those days?

Oh, I'm just stirring up the nest. I do approve.

Priming the pump(hope they have running water) of creativity

From the well of the past is the kind of circle of life I like.

Someday perhaps I'll see you there?

I would probably go up to work and end up playing.

A little camping, hiking, birdwatching, 

And a lot of cuddling with my wife, 

that's where alot of my inspiration comes from.

If no one is 'worshipping' there, art is the next best thing.

The Lord is a creator. He spoke in parables and metaphors.

When asked a tough question, He stooped down,

And drew or wrote in the sand until he knew what to say.

I wish I had a Tardis, so I could peek over His shoulder and see.

Maybe in a place like that, He would show me.

Monday, 14 October 2013

Silent Stars

I need it
Can't do silences
Except for the awkward ones
Someone make
Say no words
Say it with your eyes
Speak volumes with kiss and wave
I stand behind glass
Bus door shuts
Rocking chair
A roaring silence
A leaf floats down on cricket
Chirrps shatter still tears
Cried a salt
See the star
Shining silently
Sign of a Saviour sends seers
Silent as a sheep
Sovereign Son

Sunday, 13 October 2013

Two Letter Tale

(The prompt: to take random words starting with the same letter and make a poem. Just to make it difficult, an idea popped into my head. Instead of simply an A-Z poem, double each letter.) 

Antique Art
Brushed Before
Cameras Came
Deftly Depicts
Early Evening's
Fall Faire:
Gallant Gentlemen
Hope Heartily
Impressing Isn't
Just Jousting.
Knights Know
Lovely Little
Medieval Maids
Now Need
Opulent Odes.
Powerful Princes
Quickly Quash
Roadway Rogues
Stealing Silver.
The Troubadour
Unreservedly Unleashes
Velvet Vocals
Worshipfully whipping
Xenomania's Xylophone.
Yeomen Yelling 
Zesty Zingers.

Saturday, 12 October 2013

Shadow Land

Shadow Land

We live in a shadow land

Ruled by the Shadow King.

His biggest lie:

'I don't exist, and neither does the Lord of Light'

His minions are hidden,

but so are angels,

And so is the war around us.

Shadow scale curtains cover the eyes,

Blinding the proud to the truth.

Part of the truth we never admit

Occurs in the shadowed recesses

behind bolted heart doors closed tight.

The Light of the World is knocking.

His coming foreshadowed the long shadow of the cross across time.

Now, don't think I'm 'holier-than -thou'.

The shadows under my eyes

have seen all that I have looked at.

Some day that movie will be replayed.

All my secret glances will be repayed.

A shadow is simply darkness without the light.

I will walk in the light as He is in the light.

The shadows melt away like a drop of Joy in dishwater.

I look forward to the eternal uncloudy day.

Sound Off

I sit in my silent room.

No noise except for the whisper of wings on the window.

Flit flit flutter fly, go away butterfly.

I sit on my still kitchen stool.

The absence of sound is so sonorous.

Like a nervous or starving stomach,

the percolating coffee pot gurgles and pops a puff of steam.

The tick-tock clock metronomes my minutes.

I need noise to work!

I sit in Starbuck's sighing sipping some espresso.

My pen pauses poised over the pale passive paper.

I close my eyes. Open my ears. Open my heart.

Shoop tinkle jangle the door opens.

A gaggle of giggling girls.

A trio of teasing teen team members.

A wild wailing waif and it's musically murmuring mother.

Loud laughter here. Determined debate there.

Tink tink tink stir the coffee. Sssssslurp.

Cha-ching! 'Here's your change, sir.'

The whirring whine of grinding beans.

The whoosh hiss fffsst of steaming milk.

The staccato sibilance of beverage orders bellowed.

Caramel Macchiato. Salted Caramel Mocha

Cappuccino. Frappuccino.

Cafe Latte.

Repeated with a Latin beat playing on the radio.

This is my kind of symphonic cacophony.

As warm and thick as foamed milk,

The poems slip and plop onto the page.

'Speech is silver and silence is golden', they may say,

But the sounds of life are pearls and diamonds to me.    

Thursday, 10 October 2013

The Yellow Fork

The prompt was to reply to a poem. My wife also used Robert Frost's poem, 'the road not taken'. We have two very different perspectives. I started with an idea that took over. I had four different little poems. I realized I was sort of using the poet's voice. If he'd lived another 50 years, what would he tweet? (This is only my interpretation)

The Road not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The Yellow Fork

1:45 AM one frosty eve.
Ah, there it is again—the yellow wood.
I thought it yellow for I am in the late summer of life.
No, I recognize the now famous yellow fork.
Although it's become something of a tourist trap
Complete with 'Road Less Traveled' neon arrow sign.
Trust the general populace to sensationalize, skip to the end,
And turn the punchline into a bumpersticker.

10:00 AM the next morning.
Shouldn't post when tired or hungry.
My point: there is nothing wrong with either path.
The traveled is 'just as fair'. It was 'worn...really about the same'.
Both paths 'equally lay' in leaves untrampled.
It is the choice that 'made all the difference,' not the path.
Forward momentum and autonomy of choice was the point.

5:00 in the afternoon.
Even though it was less traveled,
I met some other travelers.
She led me to the green bower.
There was life, and growth, and fruit.
Then the road went through the black forest.
There was pain, sickness, loss, and rage.
Some angels dragged me to the blue glen.
The healing pools brought health and life abundant.

10:45 PM
Here I am camped out at the yellow fork.
I'm packed, ready, and tomorrow I leave.
I'm entering the traveled path.
I'm going up around the bend.
Who knows what Jabberwockies await?
I've slayed dragons in my time.
Now the path is clear to enter.
One need never abandon hope who dare.
Every day is 'another day' kept.
What about you, dear reader?
It's never too late to revisit some paths.
Did you want to be a rock star?
Did you want to be an accountant?
Did you want to be a rock star's accountant?
Did you want to go back and get your degree?
You could even be a professor. Well, of a community college anyway.
I can promise you one thing you will find around the bend:
Me on the sidelines with a cup of water, cheering you on.

Wednesday, 9 October 2013

I met a fair maid

(I'm cheating today. This is a poem I wrote a while a go. I put it to music. I often sing it while I busk at the farmer's market. It's a bard's Song of Solomon.)

I met a fair maid, a daughter of the chief.
Her eyes beckoned me, her smile my heart's thief.
Wise as a wizard and out of my class.
Her neck's a strong tower, this great bonnie lass.
You are my song of songs. I want to sing you.
You are the melody keeps me in tune.
You are the dancing beat of my heart's rhythm.
Come join this sweet duet, never will part.
I'll pledge you my sword and my loyalty.
We'll live on the moors til two become three.
I'd give up my bow and the harps of the bard
To love and chase you—just don't run too hard.
I said a wrong word at the wrong time
And now I know she will never be mine.
My dragon's tongue I never did tame.
I know this heart will never be the same.
Packed up my horse, went to the next town.
With this sad song my burdens laid down.
She offered me ale and then she paid.
Again I can sing, "I met a fair maid"

Tuesday, 8 October 2013

Love: a haiku.

Love is a tower.

Ivy hugged and kissed by flower.

Hearth, home, and bower.

Monday, 7 October 2013

I Knew a Boy

I knew a boy named Matthew
Crowned with a mop of golden curls.
Just one of brats we older cousins teased.
They got tougher as they grew.
More dangerous to call them girls.
As wits grew quick tensions eased.

I knew a teen named Matt.
Sprouted up like a tall thin weed.
A tornado couldn't move that spiky hair.
This dude thought he was 'all that'.
Now that I think about it, he was indeed.
He rocked, was a DJ, and I wish it'd been me there.

I didn't really know him after that.
We moved from Sask. out to B.C.
I lost contact and just lived life.
Years later I Facebook friended Matt.
Still didn't know him but I could see
He was happy and we both had a wife.

I knew a man named Max.
He posted, 'anyone looking for work?'
I gave it a shot and I was hired.
He was smart, charismatic, fun and never lax.
The hardest challenges were hit head on with a smirk.
Then even he began to get tired.

I knew a man named Max Matthew Bembridge.
He was tired because he was sick.
The one thing he couldn't beat.
Today was his funeral.

Sunday, 6 October 2013

Be afraid.



Big as a moose.

Are they radioactive?

Magnifying glass

Held too close.




I'm up next.

Will I blow a line?

I'm at ease when on the stage.

Time to exit off.

Got the shakes.




"Hi, Esther."

Let's go on a trip.

Let's go see Bridal Veil falls.

"So, do you wanna?"

Gave her the




I must be.

A poem a day?

The proverbial doctor

Will take me away.

No apples.


Saturday, 5 October 2013

I am a man.



I am

I am a

I am a man

I AM a man

A man


Who doesn't feel

Who doesn't feel like writing a poem

I just realised that my first line

No, my second line

My second line was a chord

I believe it was an 'A minor' guitar chord

I use A minor to play a Bob Dylan song

I use it to play 'gotta serve somebody'

I wonder where my guitar is?

I am not going to write it

Friday, 4 October 2013

You never see it till it's too late.

The good book says,

"Let your gentleness be evident to all."

I want to wear it like a robe.

I want to wear it like a shield.

I want to be the ninja the gentleness.

I want to tread softly through life like drifting smoke.

I want flow like water around  obstacles.

I want to rest on a bed of nails and not  be pierced.

I want to deflect flaming arrows mid flight.

I want rise from peaceful shadows.

I want my pointed words whispering through the air.


I have killed you with kindness.

Thursday, 3 October 2013

My Muses

My Muses

I have a muse that set me off.
I have a muse that keeps me going.
The first was a flash in the pan.
The other is the coal in my home hearth.

I had finger painted with words in awkward rhymes,
But would not have called my self an artist.
I am just a storyteller.

I met a girl who plucked my heart strings.
They sang for the first time,
But she did not hear.

At a party for her they put up a poster board card on the wall.
I wanted to say something more than cliche.
A water color of words washed across the wall.

"She bows her head
Like gossamer wings of angels
Her hair cascades down.
Strong men softly sigh. 
Doves take flight,
And God smiles.
She is his precious child.
Like he did when he created light,
He says, "She is good".
And behold, she is good.

This opened a floodgate and I filled notebooks.
Before I could share this treasure trove,
She misunderstood a word and a gesture.
She burned the bridge I was standing on, 
And the path to it, and salted the fields around.

I now had some good sad poems.
As I shared them at our poetry circle,
I plucked the heartstrings of a sweet ginger.
I heard them and she heard me.
She is in bed beside me as I write.
She is my wife, my fan, my critic,
And my favourite poem.