Pay up


You owe me
Eight thousand,
five hundred, sixty-one
back rubs.

But who’s counting?





Seasoned hair,

folds of loose skin

hanging (gravely pulled earthward),

fault lines emphasize years of smiles and sorrow.

We carry our stories here

in our faces.

They read through the language of our souls —

all we’ve seen with these tired eyes,

the melody played to the timbre of our beating heart,

the flavours and patterns splashed across our canvas,

the worn air we’ve inhaled and expelled and shared.



While the world chases youth,

we’ve become earthen pots

cracked by time

seeping the grace of I AM.


I Cannot Find My Heart


I cannot find my heart.

It is not to be located in my flat.
There is nothing in my bed but sheets.
The cluttered bathroom counter holds only oddities.
The kitchen dishes done, drying in the rack;
the freshly baked muffins wrapped and in a tin.
The remotes scattered over the lounge,
the dining room table covered in unopened mail.
Computer desk littered with keys and pens and blank books.

I trace my way back through my day —
grocery store, chemist, post office, work.

Then I walk to your place.
Ferreting the key from my canvas bag,
I shoulder-shove the door open,
the way one must when wood swells in the hot, moist summers.
Slowly I make my way through your life,
uncovering broken crockery,
discarded cutlery,
milk-rimmed glasses and wine-ringed mugs,
holey socks and biscuit crumbs.

Turning to go,
my eye catches a sigh under your couch.
I bend to take a closer look and there it is.
My heart.
Suddenly I remember that I gave it to you last night.
I pull it out and dust it off.
It looks a bit thinner, a lot tattier than it was.
Clutching it tightly to my chest,
I leave,
forgetting to lock the door behind me.


Today Walter presents Grace’s Chat With Laurie Kolp at d’Verse.
He then leaves us with this quote:

“I am cold, even though the heat of early summer is adequate. I am cold because I cannot find my heart.” ~Sebastian Barry from his novel A Long, Long Way

and asks us to draw something from these words, using this inspiration to craft a worded wonder.

I was caught by the phrase “I cannot find my heart” and started there.

Welcome Interloper


The night and the house and my heart are empty.
What I saw as freedom threatens to drown me.
I cocoon myself against the darkness and listen.

From a bar across the street, deep, smooth tones
flow like warm honey under my door — cello, sax
and clarinet spin their magic, seeping into my soul.

Cat leaps onto my lap, glint in his eye, and settles with a purr.



Victoria is hosting d’Verse today and challenges us to write a poem in sevenling form with music as the theme. Inspiration comes from paintings by a co-founder of d’Verse, Claudia Schoenfeld. Come visit to read more about Claudia, see her paintings and read some talented poets.

inevitable journey


you go

too soon
too suddenly
(like spring rain)

you go

after dancing around the world
after dancing across our hearts
(like first love)

you go

where we cannot see you
where we cannot yet follow
(like the north wind)

you go

you go

Early Summer


buzzing bees
skinned knees
ice pops
belly flops

Lying earth-to-back in the cool tickling grass,
with ants and spiders scurrying over human overpass,
gazing through the trees’ leaves,
waiting for a soft breeze.

Inhale the moment.

The sky smiles down with a dazzling blue;
long lazy days stretch before us —
this, our piece of forever.

(Wiser heads know
in four short weeks
tedious heat,
dry earth,
persistent whine,
hot breath
will breed
and restlessness
and short tempers
and tired skin.)

But for now
we are young.

and lungfuls of lilac
bubble up in glorious joy.


Grace is hosting Open Link Night at dVerse, so I thought I would (finally) post my  Summer Starter from Tuesday night which was hosted by Walter J. Wojtanik.
The poem above was inspired by Summer In The South by Paul Laurence Dunbar. (Can you find his line?  I think it is rather easy.)

While it is actually winter here in the Southern Hemisphere and we have recently come through a very hot and dry summer, one of my favourite poems comes to mind:

Late Summer 

I, dusty and bedraggled as I am,

Pestered with wasps and weed and making jam,

Blowzy and stale, my welcome long outstayed,

Proved false in every promise that I made,

At my beginning I believed, like you,

Something would come of all my green and blue.

Mortals remember, looking on the thing
I am,
that I, even I, was once a spring.

C S Lewis

恵雨  けいう   Keiu


(welcome rain)

A car, lumbering down the gravel road, throws waves of dust into the air. Borne on a hot, lazy breeze the disturbed soil tumbles like a tired swarm of locust until it loses momentum and settles back over the surface of terra firma. Everything is still. Everything waits. Nature holds her breath. Then there’s a sudden, muffled sound of a fist striking a plump feather pillow as a tiny explosion sends a miniature brown plume of dirt rising. Then there’s another and another. Heavy liquid drops of heaven are falling on the land, slowly at first and then faster and faster. Raindrops pin the dust to the ground and fill the air with the scent of newness.

Soft earth reaches out
to embrace angels’ tears and
draw them to her breast.



Over at dVerse Toni hosted Haibun Monday.  The prompt was “rain” and Toni shared some of the many different and beautiful words for “rain” in Japanese.  Check it out!  This is my small offering (late as usual).

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