The first poem in this trilogy was written in 1984. The next two were written twenty years later. Like ouroboros, the snake eating its own tail.
The first poem popped into my head while I was thinking about flowers. The second two were both problem poems. Most of my poems are problem poems: I sit down with a problem that I am working on and start writing about it. I do not know where the poem is going to go and I am always surprised. And it often goes somewhere that I don’t expect. Often it is a map for where I aspire to go emotionally, but usually I am not there yet when I finish the poem.
It’s not the tearing sound of fabric A small rip And now a tear That I feel
It’s the torch
I’ve been here before A job where the idealistic came As moths to the flame Self-immolation Because they had ideals
I watched and burned and rose
It’s the torch The flames that rise As the witch is burned Tilts back her head In ecstasy and knowledge Eager to learn what she can From these burning brands
In the burning we learn In pain we learn If we can remain open Ashes fall to the ground Buckets of water Wash any remains to grey mud Gone, punished Relief for the frightened An example has been set
No but what stirs at night Moon or none What rises from the mud The ashes Takes form Takes flight Laughing
Set a torch to me Why don’t you? And see what is created
I am growing My shell hurts It hurts it hurts! I cannot shed it I try and try and try I fight I seek allies and help I fight One year, two years, nearly three
I’m free My shell suddenly releases and slides off I can feel my soft body expand To my real size Bigger Joy!
Oh! They’re attacking! Why why! My brothers! My sisters! No! Your claws hurt! They are cutting me Ow ow stop why!
I run Scuttle sideways Soft and clumsy Hide In the mud
Why why? Oh, my wounds ache Stabbed By multiple claws Deepest pain In my heart At this betrayal.
I hide I sit I think
It was so hard To shed my shell Why would they attack?
Oh! Their shells hurt too! Their words They were grabbing me To try to see how I’d shed my shell They were desperate Oh they must be in such pain!
Can I forgive them? Do they know not what they do?
I hide I sit I think I heal
My shell is strong now I am bigger
I will go forth And see who is trying to shed their shell I will try to protect the newly molted.
It seems to be one of my irritable days They come rolling round in the month of May I don’t feel friendly and don’t want to play It seems to be one of my irritable days
It seems to be one of those days when I’m mad At nothing particular. I feel really bad I hate those damn tourists who always wear plaid I really intensely dislike feeling sad
I haven’t felt quite this bad since last year But I’m not one to cry. I don’t like weak tears I’m not one to let myself feel any fears I haven’t felt this bad for almost a year
It seems to be one of those days when I’m mad I think I’ll go pick a nice fight with that lad He looks too damn happy and just too damn glad When I’m punching his lights out I won’t feel so sad
It seems to be one of my irritable days Going to work on them just doesn’t pay My boss’s revenge just goes on for days Today it’s so bad that I can’t even pray
Helen Burling Ottaway, my mother, died May 15, 2000. I wrote this poem in the early 2000s. Her birthday was May 31, right near Memorial Day. Mother’s Day always falls near her death.
I am putting up a series of poems that I titled Falling angels, after a dream, where all the stars in the sky started falling. I was frightened and then realized that they were all angels. Then I was more frightened.
I think we need poetry and dreams and angels during this difficult time. Even if the angels are all falling.
I took the photograph of my mother. A friend loaned me his 35mm camera and I took one roll of pictures and gave the camera back to him. Almost all of the photographs I took were portraits.
This is for RonovanWrites Weekly Haiku Challenge #73, prompt words black and white. I was thinking of the shades in between and all of the stances on the internet: this is true, this is false, this is horrible, this is wonderful. We only seem to be able to agree about cute cat photos and videos. I keep hoping that the loss of privacy on the internet will teach us gentleness and peace and tolerance: entertain strangers for they might be angels. Peace, all, and work to end all discrimination.
white light darkening
hark angels black and white sing
black tract lightening
I took the picture at the start of a rain storm at Lake Matinenda, Ontario, Canada in August.
Discover and re-discover Mexicoβs cuisine, culture and history through the recipes, backyard stories and other interesting findings of an expatriate in Canada
Engaging in some lyrical athletics whilst painting pictures with words and pounding the pavement. I run; blog; write poetry; chase after my kids & drink coffee.
Refugees welcome - FlΓΌchtlinge willkommen I am teaching German to refugees. Ich unterrichte geflΓΌchtete Menschen in der deutschen Sprache. I am writing this blog in English and German because my friends speak English and German. Ich schreibe auf Deutsch und Englisch, weil meine Freunde Deutsch und Englisch sprechen.
KO Rural Mad As Hell Blog 
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