The Poetry Marathon

drop hints

in unspectacular fashion.

 

get aroused without prompting

 

feel a churning immediacy

like hot magma just before

it bursts through the surface.

 

sit on a pillow

and will surrender,

acceptance of all that has been given

by the invisible giver.

 

suddenly cry,

not for anything specific

no one friend who died

no calamity in Eastern Africa.

 

take a photograph

of something that vaguely resembles

what is going on

inside.

 

reach out

to a complete stranger.

 

give a compliment.

 

wish them

what’s loitering

between

heart and belly.

 

 

 

we borrowed a little soil
to grow food around our
little house

the wind, which had blown strong
off Bellingham Bay
all winter and spring,
was still now.

neighbors walk out at low tide,
from Locust Beach,
when the cold waters recede.

fires are burning all over British Columbia
over 1 million acres of trees have
sizzled and popped.

the air is eerie from particulate
refracting light,
as if a nuclear war had
flashed across the horizons

we kept inside to avoid
breathing the noxious air.
that smelled faintly of
charred dreams.

but I went out to pick
summer blackberries,
high in a thicket above
Squalicum Park,
reaching high as I can
for the plumpest ones,
willing to be scratched
by their thorny arms.

happy to work near the
honey bees,
plying the wild pea flowers,
intertwined.