Look at the clouds in the sky above
Puffy, vaporous, fluffy stuff,
Ephemeral, illusionary, ever-changing
A moving mass, reshaping before our eyes.
Billowing blotches spreading like
ink on blotting paper, soaking in,
imbibing a recall of inward reflections
that perspective can change sides,
change viewpoints in time and space
near and far, old and new,
up and down, side to side,
rocking to and fro,
for the spell of clouds lies
in their illusions,
on which we dwell.
A squirrel got into the homestead,
it picked a lock with a dry thorn.
The smell of dank fur clung.
We carried small talk above our heads.
Nothing put away but still dangles.
Denim droops, snagging
the arms of rumpled shadows,
fusty jeans gander and loll.
Calico and cotton are rescued
the soggy separated
from the mildewed.
Soon front steps will be scoured,
tails and collars made to flap
while medium-sized back-yard critters
flounce and fluff.
If a blotting wind returns,
the squirrel will bail with a flick of its tail,
we will wash bathtubs,
fully clothed with yesterday's suds.
Photographs fixed in fixative curse memories to fade,
As they are too true and static, starkly black and white.
Recalling a snap-shot, not how you want your memories made.
Each scene fixed in time, ever fading thereafter, in the light.
We want our memories to age gracefully, not fade,
Embellished by fuzz that blurs the lines to soft and warm,
With wishful thinking blotting out the bad bits made,
Enhancing the good bits, to pride of place in the reform.
The ghosts hanging on the wall, now growing pale,
Are not ghosts at all, for ghosts are living apparitions.
That change, as our memories change their every detail.
We want our memories to grow, not to have fixed positions.
In fading photographs of loved ones and scenes we find,
Unwanted forgotten memories, not what we had in mind.
Come..
fly with me
beyond,beyond
imagination
Capture..
emotion's
aurora
from the firmanent
Watch..
images descend
. as crystallised
inspiration
Bathe..
in a tide
of surreal
tranquility
through a personal lens
perspective's gaze
alters
as blotting paper
absorbs impressions
learned & unlearned
from mainstream
or the back lanes
or perhaps stand still
&yet
driven by this creative itch,
each day
this word tapestry
must stitch.
Back then,
backyards were big enough
to nurture a growing soul
and provide a space
for the earth to play out
its seasons in full rehearsal.
There were wide tracks
of grass, trees to climb,
old sheds to rummage
with their interiors full of tools
and bric-a-brac
webbed in history.
There was food - ripe tomatoes
and corn from a vegetable patch,
grapes swelling
under a cool canopy of vines,
soft skins bursting
their dark sweetness
inside expectant mouths,
almonds, apricots and the luscious
dribble of a warm peach
down sticky cheeks.
Some had roaming chickens
with their bounty of eggs.
Backyards were blotting paper
for a child's hurt, a hiding place
to get away, a theater
for projecting the phantasies
of a sheriff or a princess
high in a golden tower.
And in summer, a sprinkler
casting a gauntlet of cold spray
for tiny feet to challenge.
Then it all ends
when backyards become
too small and more exotic places
call a restless soul to leave
its Eden and break the spell
of its beginning.
In the beginning quasars burst forth, primal stars born
Ionised light suffused, a cosmic primeval dawn
Later man came along, looked west, awestruck by the sun
One morn an eclipse came to pass, blotting out his sun
Man huddled together, fear of the unknown was born
They surmised god was in the sky, controlling the dawn
Intelligence was naive, as sense was yet to dawn
Eons passed, man grew quite clever, unlocking the sun
Now splits atoms in labs, with AI primed to be born
We had no choice but to be born, wake up one dawn, feel god and the sun
Today, all is landscaped by mist.
North, South, East, and West
all are one floating sea.
The hedgerows are reefs,
a familiar tree-line
seems like a gray cliff face.
My own face
feels as if swept over
by a tidal spume.
Now a kitchen radio is turned on,
a truck blasts its air-horn, a child shouts,
and as if the sun were only now roused
to scatter ocean dreams
with a newly rinsed
and blotting wind.
Aimlessly wander veiled memories of yore
Each passing cloud subtly brings to fore
Recalling regrets, where laments agonize,
Thinking of you, searching forsaken skies,
Muting spent emotions of anguished eyes.
O how we rejoiced in blissful sunny days
When dawns arose on glinted arc ablaze
As golden beams pierced shrouded haze
Defying onslaught of darkened malaise
Intent on blotting zealous romantic phase.
Recalling ardent dreams with you I stroll
Where gleam of your smile brightens soul
As allure of amorous past feelings cajole
Emanating from desires heartbeats extol
In language of passion yesteryears scroll.
Every cloud etches effigy of love gone awry
Yet, thunder of stygian vibes fiercely I defy,
For return of clear skies in your longing I vie
Denouncing certitude hosting forlorn sigh,
Remorseful of ego that callously bid goodbye.
March 8, 2023
Placed 1st: Each Passing Cloud Poetry Contest
Sponsor: JCB Brul
A POETS PROGRESS
Through a personal lens I think,then write
Perspective's gaze alters,from night to night,
As blotting paper,absorbs impressions
Of poetry's learned and unlearned lessons;
my anthology,my journey's log book
From mainstream or the back lanes I took,
An emphasis upon a favoured form.
Those endeavours which I,on reflection mourn;
I change,I alter or perhaps stand still
In retrospective of a fogotten will,
And yet,driven by this creative itch,
Each day,I,this word tapestry must stitch.
As I wend my way around curving roads
up high into the mountains
I finally arrive at the Eight Gables Inn.
I wonder what it is that drives me here!
Perhaps I have developed wings
and flew across the Atlantic towards
The Great Smoky Mountains
on my adventurous ride
to the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Tired I hope the Inn
will live up to its reputation.
The sun is setting as I view
the purple orange skies darken,
whilst here and there lights
in desolate cottages twinkle in the dark.
I hasten to my private bath
and slowly sink in the warm water,
overpowered by the smell of soapy foams.
Pleased with my silky skin
I put on a plush bathrobe
luxuriously enjoying the feel
of the soft fabric against my spores,
and with a graceful dive find myself
on top of a feather-top bed.
This is the life of luxury...
Until I feel the taste of blotting paper
that cover my whole mouth.
I open my eyes and know
it was all a dream, alas.
My love when you leave
When you walk away
It's my moon vanishing
It's my sun disappearing
I do not eat
And your delicious food sleeps under the covers
I drink hard at night, very late
Like a blotting paper
You are my moon and my sun
At night, I have no sleep
Since your beautiful body is not there
Mine stayed very cold
In the absence of your warmth
Too far from happiness.
When you leave
I do not sing
I am late
Slow is my stepping
It's death
My thoughts are on you, on you
Everything annoys me under the roof
It's my sun that's not there
It's my moon that slips away
And it's the exodus of my hope
Under the non-starry vault in the evening.
Love, you see
That I love you with passion
You are my treasure, my good
You're the one who gives me the way
To live with the greatest respect
In an atmosphere of love and peace.
Love, when you leave
My pen is weeping
I'm scared, I'm dying
And I drink like a bibulous sleeve.
P.S. Translation of “Amour Quand Tu Pars” by
By Hébert Logerie
Copyright © December 2002, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poetry.
Winter Is Here
Winter has come! (The season for fun)
Sing with cheer to those near,
“Bring out the boots and tuques,
Parkas and scarfs, mitts and snowsuits,
And long underwear,
And other paraphernalia of gear.
Winter is here!”
Snowflakes appear, falling out of the sky,
Thicker by the minute, blotting out the light.
Slowly they fall, softly they allay,
Covering the ground in a white duvet.
Snow angels are made where children play,
And snow people smile with round about shapes.
Snowballs are flung at each other in glee
While pets bark and chase anything moving.
From atop the hill, children screams debut;
Amid flailing arms in air of frosty blue,
“Get out of the way, we’re coming through!”
As the hill’s bottom comes into view.
Mama that black dot
You so lovingly put
On my forehead as a child
Will it protect me mama?
From all the evil eyes!
Is it the first dot of life
That joins all the others
To make sense of life mama
When I see all of this strife!
As I join my thoughts and feelings
A dot I make to stare at on paper
As words pour out, blotting ink
The dots were blurred mama
Till they took hold of my feelings
Like those far away street lights
Till I look closer, suddenly
A shape comes into focus
Those tiny dots standing in a line!
And on that line my feelings stumble
Falling over each other, words tumble
My pen arranging them on a line
As I put your black dot mama
At the end of the line, a full stop!
That’s firmly ends a thought
And allows another to trudge in
Joining dots were never easy mama
Until I learnt to colour the shape within!
10.12.22
History, forgotten element of man`s life
Adage of forgiving and forgetting
Messing and proceeding on the solemn assembly
Expunging and blotting life-long terribly
but carefully committed and covered-up tracks.
If at all the inanimate had ears and eyes
We would all be at ransom for our lives
If mistakes could be made up and rounded
up to significance of our lives
humanity would erode to miniature
weeping and shrilling at thoughtless and
careless indulgence
Swoon and sulking thoughts convergence
would lead to no hope
Thanks to nimble of days
For with each that passes, history is made
A shun to excavate stone age
Quite momentous to delve in space age.
We carry small talk above our heads, ceilings drip clouds.
Nothing is put away. Coats dangle over chairs in layers.
Drugged by spate and mizzle, denim droops,
snagged over rummage
and the outstretched arms of impedimenta.
The house awakes to a soft toed patter.
Around us, cuffs pull the roof closer to damp collars,
hangers weep in wardrobes,
while the unhung sink in muddy shallows.
Before the light paddles away, calico, cotton, and shirttails
are rescued, bundled into higher heaps;
the soggy separated from the merely mildewed.
The muddled and fusty raised above an imagined tide.
Tomorrow, front steps will be scoured;
the washed-out made to flap.
Squirrels may walk the earth again,
and if a blotting wind returns, we will wave
from dry bathtubs.
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