Life Poiesis Collection: Windchime

“Two Bees” Phone Photo, DS

Windchime

TONY HOAGLAND

She goes out to hang the windchime

in her nightie and her work boots.

It’s six-thirty in the morning

and she’s standing on the plastic ice chest

tiptoe to reach the crossbeam of the porch,

. . .

windchime in her left hand,

hammer in her right, the nail

gripped tight between her teeth

but nothing happens next because

she’s trying to figure out

how to switch #1 with #3.

. . .

She must have been standing in the kitchen,

coffee in her hand, asleep,

when she heard it—the wind blowing

through the sound the windchime

wasn’t making

because it wasn’t there.

. . .

No one, including me, especially anymore believes

till death do us part,

but I can see what I would miss in leaving—

the way her ankles go into the work boots

as she stands upon the ice chest;

the problem scrunched into her forehead;

the little kissable mouth

with the nail in it.

Life Poiesis Collection: The Fiddlers

“The Music Lesson” Henri Matisse

Poems, poems, poems have been multiplying in the folder. They are being dusted off and presented now. They are written from life either happened or imagined. Some may have a different writer.

. . .

The Fiddlers

As I rushed to get there early

As I saved three seats with scarf

Sweater and napkin

As I looked back toward the doorway

As I distractedly took photos of the

Fiddlers again and again

As I checked my phone at break

As I learned of your apology

I was not surprised

As I extricated myself before end time

And excused my intrusion leaving

And drove home fighting back tears

I said no

It is enough

I’m done now.

. . .

“No good deed goes unpunished” Clare Boothe Luce

A Quote to Ponder

For in the true nature of things, if we rightly consider, every green tree is far more glorious than if it were made of gold and silver. -Martin Luther King Jr.

More Poems

Untamed

Life Poiesis Collection: Three Senryu

“Pink Sidewalk” Phone Photo, DS

At first, I did a bit of word play. I tried on the idea of calling this blog series ‘Posies Life Collection’ like each post would be a kind of bouquet for the reader (noun, plural po·sies.

a flower, nosegay, or bouquet.
Archaic. a brief motto or the like, as one inscribed within a ring.)

Years ago, I painted a large self-portrait of a girl standing in her back yard with argyle-style grass. She wore one of my favourite childhood dresses, white, smocked, with tiny turquoise, pink, violet, diamond shapes all over. In her hand she held a posy of sweet peas; her gift to the world. Perhaps these posts are like sweet peas, small, fragrant, pale pink and aubergine, with green leaves and swirls going upward to the light.

Then I came across the word, poiesis, the blooming of a blossom. These words from my experience and from others would convey the hope of blooming, even of planting seeds of hope to bloom later in this time of post pandemic. Yes, my poems are what I have to offer the world, the poeises (meaning: production, formation) of my life collected here.

Three Senryu

Woman went walking

Talking to herself always

One clapping hand answers

. . .

Velvet violas

Via voluminous views

Wove ways wondrously

. . .

Green and gold old gains

Patina of mossed byways

By rose-covered gates

Life Poiesis Collection: Scots Grandmother

Scots Grandmother

There was a Scots grandmother

Ma was her name

She had a whole family who came

To stay in her home

As they had no other the same

Five years they stopped

To reorient their lives there

She never complained but

Interfered with our lives some

Come and get a sweetie

Before you go to bed

She said as the mother

Finished telling them

To brush their teeth

Eat your tomatoes

No allergies you have no

As my face grew redder

And swole right up

No nothing wrong with

what we sup

She knit us sweaters

Jumpers said she

In every colour

In the green mauve family

Light a fire and

Clean the grate

Was my mother

Cinderella to her

Lone living mind

Father went to work

Each day a long way

To check the coal stats

And was back to sit

By the fire where

A mouse ran up his

Pant leg amidst

The screaming three

We had a fine time there

Under the lilac trees

Ma and Mum made jam

In the building with the

Big copper pots

Stirring the berries

With a huge wooden

Spoon soon hot

The coalhouse black

With snails on the sides

Was a scary place

When we looked inside

We played ball against

The white stucco walls

Cousins thrilled to

See it all

Mother bathed us

In the scullery sink

It was not as private

As one might think

Pansies grew from

The needles fine

Puffed with cotton

On linen mind

The sewing machine there

Was marked by a beetle

In black iron wrought lilac

With gingham cloth

We had just bought

Skipping was the name

Of the game we played

At school we tobogganed

In our uniforms in navy

Lukewarm milk

Was given by the teacher

Who later gave the

Strap to many she reached for

One boy went to the

Bathroom on the floor

He was caned and ordered

Out of the door

Snowballs abounded

Within those iron gates

And still I loved it

While trying to escape

Huck weaving in green was

Something we learned

Poetry became a thing

Actually never scorned

We sat on a stone wall

In front of Ma’s house

We counted car plates

And wrote them in our books

We ran in the garden

Around and around

And dressed our dolls

Under the hedges unseen

Our black-haired dad

Would call us in

With a whistle few

Have even seen

Christmas there around

The fire grate with hanging

Streamers colouring

Our plates was like

Something from a magazine

I now gratefully think.

Life Poiesis Collection: Addiction Notes

“Tartan Walk” A page from my collage book, DS

A few days ago here, it was Tartan week. This poem is a shout out to all those loved ones struggling with addictions, especially those from Scotland:

Addiction Notes

It’s like walking through a minefield

What will blow up next?

Can the damage be minimized?

Can the trauma be mitigated?

Will the destruction spread; deepen?

The walking wounded surround me

Who can tend their wounds?

Who can find the mines and detonate them safely?

+++

Being a witness to the unveiling

Could be my unraveling

Which wind will be prevailing?

Will it show the scaling

Of addiction?

+++

I was caught up by a wave

Taken down by the undertow

And finally swept back on the beach –

This time.

+++

Cancelled, yes

Cancelled

Last minute

Can’t come

Illness

Can’t rest

Did best

Won’t be

There

To share

Your moment

O.K. take

Care!

Let down

Far down

But wait

The path

Of another

Must differ

Alone, yes

But

Witnessed, yes

Witnessed –

Both.

+++

Panic attack and prayer

Waiting and not waiting

Wisdom, words, speech and shame

Did I say that again?

Silence – golden or fraught

With unmentionable agonies

Of fears and realities

Unknown – yet known?

+++

The desire to love

Becomes its opposite

There is no end

Walk and fall

Struggle and stumble

The gaze of innocence

Lost, but there

Take my hand

The path’s light dim

One step as promised

Your heart

Is tarnished gold.

+++

The sweetest sound

Is a door opening

To let in the light

A word of self

Revelation a note of

Appreciation

Glows white

In the dark

Night

Of communication –

A door of hope

Has appeared.

+++

The picture is

Now complete

Four quadrants

Of hanging silence

I meet

Silence and silence

Equals vibrance

Of every feeling

Thought and hence

I work out

My own salvation

With fear and

Trembling

That which I

Feared the most

Has come upon

Will it control me?

+++

How many times can a heart break?

Take me away to where

The pain is unawake

For the sake of appearances

Of propriety, of survival

The silences cover

Swallowed words

The poison taken

The joy returns

In the moment of togetherness.

+++

The grief has come and gone

No it hasn’t

The line was carefully laid down

In surprise it was not crossed

The mood was challenged and changed

The formal love difficult to receive

The heart cries and will not silence

Deep calls unto deep

Hope and trust, my

Companions return.

+++

The pain so obvious

Is denied

Sarcasm assaults

The conflict veiled

Has begun

Half a lunch is better

Than none

A truncated visit

Again

Love and resentment

Co-mingle

A chess match

Played out

Unconscious

Careening

Ground lost

Heart-wrenched

Again.

A night of prayers

Interrupted

Understanding has no hands

Pieta

The next visit planned

Like a lifeline

A tightrope navigated

Letting go feels harsh

The holding on is deadly

Adieu dear one

Go with God

Until we meet again.

+++

Poiesis Life Collection: Flowers

Flowers

Flowers grow in

The garden to

Delight us and

Sometimes in

Spite of us.

The scent of sweetpeas

Lingers in the mind

Long after their

Pink and purple softness

And tendrils are gone.

A vase of pink and brown

Alstromeria

Sits boldly for weeks

On the desk for the worker

The elegance of candelabra

Primula

Decorates the forested

Garden for the wanderer.

Wonder awaits to overwhelm

Those who walk

Among the pink trees.

Sweetpeas

Flowering trees

Candelabra primula

Alstromeria

All of these

Are given

With ease.

The garden grows

The paint foregoes

The weeds that speed

To thwart us.

The flowers will

Stay with us

As paint blesses them

With a permanence

That replaces their being

With canvas.

Poiesis Life Collection: Writing Practices

“Jasmine Tea with Wiper Blade” Bricolage, DS

Writing Practices

In each of my life’s eras writing has emerged:

Practicing my ABC’s

And

Composition story notebooks

Once upon a time I

Autographed books with friends

Roses are Red Violets are Blue

Writing lines on the blackboard

Punishment

Memorization

In the beginning was the Word

I will not chew gum again in class

Passing notes in school

I have to go right home after school tonight

Do you like Naomi

Essays for English teacher

Quizzes

Words to a song

The author intended this and used that

Valentine’s cards from Anonymous

Be my Valentine

Mean girls wall writing never done

Deb dumb tells lies steals and dies

The boy enters

Meet me in the smoking area

O.K. passed along the row

Graffiti on windows

Wash this car

Thank you and invitation cards

For the lovely Birthday gift

Will you come to my grad

Deb’s baby shower

It’s a Girl

Our housewarming party is next week

BYOB

Applications for jobs

Proposals briefs business letters

To whom it may concern

Interoffice memos sales quotes

Client contracts

Field notes

Lunch box notes

Have a nice day I love you Mom

In sympathy Get Well Soon

Notes for absence

Please excuse N she has a

Dental appointment

Assertions you hurt me when

Regrets apologies

I am so sorry forgive me

I let you down

Advocacy this needs to change

Opinion taxes are too high

Cheque writing

Deposit slips

Bill paying with complaints

Medical applications

MVA wont be back today

Or next month

Health histories

Victim impact statements

Portfolio bios

Artist statements

Label lists

Price lists

Sales lists

Jury submission

CV admission

Calligraphy

Practicum verbatims

Course creating

Emails texts

What’s next

Discussion notes

Thinking of you

Across the miles

I use

Coloured pencils

Ink pens

Lead pencils

Ballpoint pens,

Gel pens,

Stylus in clay if

There is no other way

And my laptop

Every day the words

Just come out

And

Some are wise

Some are beautiful

Some ugly

Some useful

And effective

I also have paint

That just comes out

Every day.

Poiesis Life Writing: Words

“Skate Park, Ambleside Beach” Phone Photo DS

Words

Words pour from me like alphabet soup from a can

I cannot stem them and I do not plan

In the middle of the night I write so furiously

Go back to bed then more ideas come to me

I stumble out and go to the next room

Where laptop shines blue as the rain pours

Outside the dark windows

Like snow lying white on green grass beneath

Words that are barely known to me

Come out so fast I can hardly keep up

I cannot even hit the bathroom before they start

There is a pleasure to the keys under my fingers

The black squares make tiny snapping sounds

Until I linger over a garbled word that will not wait for

The spell correct or a space that has made it incorrect

On and on the flowing goes as my neck tires

And my slippered feet begin to get numb

I throw on the green knitted shawl that sits

On the back of my royal hue poet’s chair

Waiting as the night writing continues

To enthrall and ensnare.