Gasp

(The prompt was actually difficult. I had to focus on each step as a baby. If I analysed the mechanics of walking now, I'd probably trip. Instead of making a boring laundry list of reasons, I followed the poets mantra,"When in doubt--haiku")  

Gasp

I need not defend

Every breath or feeling released

Words are the soul's gasp

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.    

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.

Poetry is not Hidden

Poetry is not hidden.

It is everywhere.

It dances with leaves in the wind.

It flies with every wing across the sky.

It boils in thunderclouds deep and dark as the sea.

It unfurls in a ray of sun slicing through the fog.

Poetry is not hidden.

We are blind.

It sings in a babies' cry becoming a toddler's laugh.

It cries in the howl and roar of rush hour traffic.

It screams the joy of flight in a seagulls' keen.

It whispers love in a mother's lullaby.

Poetry is not hidden.

We are deaf.

It swirls sweetly in the wine of a lover's kiss.

It stings the tongue tartly when truth is spit out.

It bites bitterly with the poison apple of betrayal.

It seasons speech with grace as with salt.

Poetry is not hidden.

We are tasteless.

It rubs softly when two souls connect.

It gropes roughly while treading an unknown pathway.

It chafes the mind with an idea that won't release it's grip.

It strokes the ego when other poets reply with delight.

Poetry is not hidden.

We are numb.

It rises in the fragrant steam of grandma's butter tarts.

It permeates emotions' sinuses with the vapours of hope. 

It seeps the stench of corruption through cheap cologne.

It wafts the perfume of crushed petal on the abusers' heel.

Poetry is not hidden.

We are plugged up.

So take a soul cleansing breath,

reach out for truth,

savour life,

listen more than you speak,

open the eyes of your heart,

and Poetry will find you.

   

This Poem is for the Birds.

(Intro: Writing is sometimes about observation. After dropping my wife off, I had an hour to kill before work. I drove to a little park nearby that I occasionally park at, sit in my car and eat my bagged lunch. I noticed some birds. For the whole time, I studied and sketched them. Not being a bird watcher, I had no idea what they were. Perhaps, someone in the know may be able to identify them for me.)

This Poem is for the Birds

I.

An hour before nine on a crisp prairie autumn morning,

walking in the trim dewy grass, they came.

A flock smaller than a robin, bigger than a finch invaded the park.

Politely they hopped and pecked for breakfast in the turf.

Red and yellow golden leaves danced in the tutu of morning fog.

Thin dark beaks sewed a woodpecker's tattoo silently into the lawn.

When they stopped their energetic hunt to swallow their bounty,

some displayed dark moustached circles beside their bills.

Between neck and chest they wore a black insignia patch.

Like military rank some were bars, chevrons, and some just a smile.

Against the chill was a red or scarlet square scarf upon the nape.

Their brown or dark beige shawl sported tiger stripes.

Black tipped tan wings wore a checked twill tweed design.

Their under shirt faded from tan to white bedecked with dots.

Suddenly they took to flight flashing white under tails like deer.

II. 

The swooping prairie gulls bullied their way in 

flapping grey letterman's wings at the nerd birds.

Blunted beaks like an old boxer's nose

harshly blared a stringent call like a ship in the fog.

Proud barrel chests aggressively pushed their own for a scrap.

Bandy flat footed legs gave them an old salt's drunken rolling gait.

Yet, when they flew it was arrow straight and no nonsense.    

Energy - A Cinquain

One poem a day for a month. That was definitely a challenge. Once a week seems more manageable.

The prompt on Playing With Words is to write a Cinquain this week.

Energy

Labour
Worn to the bone
Drag home, melt in water
Rise with the steam; again I have
Power

The reluctant haiku

 Today is lazy.

I won't write some poetry.

Oh wait, I just did.