Tea
Leaves that clear the mind
and leave the rest behind.
Tea for two. First you, then me.
Poem no 16: Philip Marlowe
To most folks, I’m quite some combination;
Mallory or Marlowe – take your pick.
I worked for the DA once but then he chose to let me go.
Now I’m a full-time private dick.
Men have a tendency to look at me up and down and sigh;
Women just stare – then walk away.
I’m sometimes available for poetic dialogues
But chess? No thanks. In my book that’s a solitary play.
I take my coffee with cream in the mornings.
It’s black as tar every other time.
If you’re partial to some whisky or some brandy
Something tells me we’ll get along just fine.
I often take the measure of loneliness
on empty city streets or long dark nights;
At other times I’m chasing hoodlums
Or muscling in on petty bar-room fights.
I’m not quite sure what age I am
Anything from 38 to 42.
But if you’re looking for a tough guy with a heart of gold
Then I might be the right one for you…
I Am
Poem 12
I Am
The universe hides under my skin
But the secret leaks out
It can’t be contained
Stars in my eyes
heart of gold
smile like a rainbow
Hair like cotton
Black as pitch
Sappodilla coloured skin
sweet inside and out
Ancestors, they fuel my path
The echo
Reminding me there’s still much to do
Royalty
Loyalty
Chained but never broken
I stand because of their strength and virtue
Their Spirituality too a seed that grows within me
With every thought and memory that becomes me
I am renewed with each tick that sounds, never the same, evolution in motion
Sometimes colliding with uncertainty
I pause
I fall I cry
I scream
And when there’s no will to rise
Stories unfold
In ways too surreal to be anything other than signs from corridors of unspoken worlds.
poem 17
Capturing this moment
Eye lids rise and fall
Each moment brings
Closer to sunrise
Each hour captures
a unique display
There is no sameness.
Hour Twleve: A Moment of Triumph
Author’s Note: Yet another time and the last time I will be ignoring a prompt in this 2017 Poetry Marathon. I will be concluding this marathon with a poem about a dream I had. Enjoy reading.
I once was in a sacred cave
that had nothing in it
but a cliff
and light blue glowing water below it.
My hands stretched out,
I was determined to dive in.
Diving in was like diving into
the endless morning sky above
but maybe even better.
Because I was landing into
something more solid,
something that could caress my skin.
Even though the water changed into lava
at a last second’s notice,
it didn’t matter
because at least I had the courage to dive
into something that was potentially great.
And it was at that thought alone that changed the lava
back to the beautiful serene water below.
So when I finally land into the water,
the walls echo hallelujah,
and I am filled with glee.
Even it’s just for a moment that I feel this,
at least I can say it’s a moment of triumph.
Summer Fever (poem 18)
Rainy afternoons
summer breaks like a fever
thunder shakes the sky
table for two -#18
table for two
i shall set a lovely table
a table just for two
to dine alone with wine and candles
revel deep in quiet conversation
then somewhere between the appetizer and dessert
i hope to gaze deep into your eyes
and you in mine
no phones or outside distraction
just an old fashioned date for two
i shall set a lovely table
a table just for me and you
Hour 18:Cloud Mountain
Cloud Mountain is—
shrouded in mystery,
where thought is soundlessly
sleeping.
“Come down,out of the clouds,”
my father warned—
but I have always spent my free time,
on Cloud Mountain’s pleasant slopes;
where I can see more clearly,
my daydreams floating by.
CLIMBING (Hour 17, PM 2017)
“Despite her [Marie Bracquemond] gifts, despite her striving, despite her enthusiasm, the day came when with an obscure feeling of grief, she had to confess herself beaten.”
— Jean-Paul Bouillon, “Marie Bracquemond: The Lady with the Parasol” (Women Impressionists, p. 242).
Never met a ladder I liked –
not the trap door pull-down device
to my childhood attic, nor the sketchy plywood versions
in construction sites where my brothers hid
and snickered as we circled below, our bikes
tied outside like royal steeds.
But that never stopped me
hauling myself up, hand over hand, until
I reached the upper limits, and could rest
hands on hips, as if lord
of all I surveyed below.
Blame it on grandma who climbed
a ladder at 82 to prune her trees,
and fell, breaking her back in two places
then recovering in one sweet week, as if
such a fall only required dusting oneself off,
then retying your apron strings.
Never met a ladder that made me sad
until I saw Woman on a Stepladder –
why did you stop drawing?
—-response to Marie Bracquemond Woman on a Stepladder, 1882 (private collection; printed in Women Impressionists p. 243)
Hour Eighteen
Up on the mountain,
far beyond the foothills
where nimbus clouds hide the cliffs from sight,
meet me, darling.