Curiosity

yellow

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If I could pick some sunshine, and hold it in my hands,

If I could ride a rainbow to far-off radiant lands,

If I could sprinkle star-dust upon a restless sea,

Then I could read the riddle of why you’ve chosen me.

The Bold and the Beautiful

rudbeckia bud

 

I view you with scorn.

Pitiful, I label. Naive beyond belief.

Do you not feel it in your bones,

this Frost creeping, cadaverous

mongrel, seeking your flesh?

No one who knows what

Saskatchewan winter can accomplish

would proffer innocent bud,

sacrificial lamb to ego’s altar.

Or do you know exactly what you offer?

Scorn spars with Pity,

until a third enters the ring –

Disbelief.

Do you bloom in spite, or to spite?

Death may just be the mother of

all necessary re-invention,

the Holy Grail to this Holocaust.

I see.

I know.

Tears trace my ruptures,

draining immature ideas,

congregating on your petals

where they christen you

Bold.

 

 

What She Saw

frilly daylily

 

A daylily, ruffled and still

with folds of fresh linen (freshly

made bed) soaking up sunshine on

laundry-day line. She paused there, caught

helplessly on its anthers, struck

by the glory that withered while

she watched. ‘Why bother?’ she asked no

one in particular. Leaning

in, she traced the petticoats, breathed

deep of Arabian nights, veiled

virgins dancing on memory’s

edge. Eloquence beckoned on pale

finger with nail painted purple,

folding to hide philosopher’s

stone. Time passed. Conquerors and kings

and sleeping beauties, history

and fantasy, who she could be

in the morrow swayed and unfurled

in complex rhythms and secret

whispers. Her back straightened, rigid

barrier, and, closing her eyes,

she walked blindly back to the house.

 

When Strangers Ask

DSCN7056

 

She’s more than a morning coffee

drinker, more than her function as

office confidante, more yet than

the colour of her eyes or skin.

.

Birth stones and birth order and birth

marks are but petals to her rose,

characteristics folded deep,

convoluted lines and colours

which add or detract from beauty.

.

Shoe size and predisposition

to diabetes, scars hammered

in where wobbly knees met gravel,

violin lessons on rainy

afternoons, the desire to dance –

ruffled layers all, a goldfinch

singing from hidden willow perch.

 .

I see her there, can count petals,

classify by botanical

name – yet, in calculating sums,

have I arrived at her spirit?

.

Do I know where she goes at night

when skeletal remains escape

closeted fears, or of whom she

dreams when her conversation flags,

eyes traversing galaxies hung

somewhere behind my left shoulder?

.

Fingers cannot touch the places

she’s been, nor trace the subtle curves

where geological process

has altered her surface features.

.

I see her there, can count petals,

compare tints to a hardware store

strip, watch as they shift before

sun and shadow – and when strangers

ask if I know her, I say no.

 

Pandora’s Box

Pandora's Box daylily

 

She was sure Yesterday

was dead and gone. She had,

after all, buried it deep

in a wooden crate

under the old apple

tree (the one that split

down the trunk

during the storm of

’79). So

when it raised its hoary

head, she knew

someone had opened

Pandora’s Box.

*************

This daylily’s name? Pandora’s Box, of course. 

And She Dances

lollipop.jpg

 

Light, robed in fabric

satin-spun with sun-beams,

sways – swirls, extends

muscles and feet

.

in secretive dance

upon stage soft as

silk. Her music is

the subtle sigh of lonesome

.

 

pines, the cadence of

songbirds greeting the

dawn, the rustle of

feathers in flight;

 

she delights in this

moment, this filament of time

hung on summer breeze,

and she dances. Her

.

body melts into

nature’s melody – is

electrified by its pulse,

consumed by its rhythm,

.

choreographed by its

raw emotion. She lets go,

jubilation in every line,

and she dances.

 

 

 

Keyhole To Heaven

appleblossomkeyhole.jpg

I stand on childhood’s

tiptoes and the oxygen

in my lungs is stillborn

in its stall as I peer through

.

the keyhole to heaven;

all is angels’ wings

and perfume and

brightness and I squirm

.

to reach just a sliver higher.

I strain with broken grip

and limping spirit and

if I shift too much the

.

vision fades and the scent

eludes, wisp snatched by

wayward breeze. So I

peer through the keyhole

.

and feel the brush of angels

in flight and linger to

catch the smell of home

before I lower myself

.

to my side of the door,

waiting, ever waiting

for someone to turn

the key.

.