WOMEN SHAPED BODIES: a found poem
My day passes like this:
Silas is home,
Silas is not home,
Silas is home,
Silas is sleeping,
awake,
out the front door,
Silas is walking back in.
Women Shaped Bodies, by Laura Cranehill
My day passes like this:
Silas is home,
Silas is not home,
Silas is home,
Silas is sleeping,
awake,
out the front door,
Silas is walking back in.
Women Shaped Bodies, by Laura Cranehill
each year / i wonder / if i’ll see them /
in the current / golden threads /
of dust and light / a poem
calling out / poems /
in the stone birdbath / chirruping / hello /
a stranger / from two counties over /
& still / it reaches /
& still each june / they come / again /
poems / little ribbons / i cannot touch /
catching wing / making a path / to
where i am / even here / in my empty
/ chest / of poems / i leave / my line /
in the current / poems /
threads tense and / slack /
the air
It’s a priveledge and pleasure to share this time and space with you all each June. Looking forward to 2027 already!
Fresh coffee.
Peaceful surroundings.
There is something
beautiful about a
quiet neighbourhood.
Once everyone else
has left.
Banana bread
the ultimate comfort food
a tribute of love
not too sweet
just enough to satisfy
simple to make if your bananas are ripe
tricky to bake
at risk of becoming overdone and dry
or underdone and caving in the center.
Much like our oligarchs
have done
to our economy
hoarding the wealth
stealing our futures
leaving the center
hollow and gooey
unhealthy for those
unwary enough to bite.
Brings to the mind thoughts
of Tantalus
and how he too sought to defy the gods
willingly sacrificed a child for a twisted purpose
Ultimately punished
with eternal torment
but worse
generations of doom
forced upon his descendents.
spiegel im spiegel
blue pupils dilate,
eager to consume the world,
let me see it all.
The golden clouds up above,
the oil-slick fly on my plate.
Shall I compare you to a magpie’s nest
of thorn and twine, of wool and weathered thread?
A feather from a starling’s speckled breast,
and a receipt the winter left for dead,
a hollow sound lined with a tuft of hare,
and that stray syllable snagged on the brambles –
I’m drawn to all things thought beyond repair
and drop them in here – in veritable shambles.
You – unpopped kernel lodged between my teeth,
a tune still looking for a pair of lungs,
the ghost of pine inhabiting the wreath –
your sweetest note’s the one that stayed unsung.
Rampant with rhymes and roots that learned to roam –
a place the mind could haunt, or call a home.
It just didn’t hit this year,
The pages didn’t lure me…
Inferior to my peers,
Fear I’ve numbed too securely
It just didn’t hit this year,
The pages didn’t spill out…
And the ink blots were not smeared
Across pages that stay in doubt
Now those blank pages will haunt
With reflective avoidance
As internal voices taunt,
Even they stew in annoyance
Puzzled by the use of various * # ! marks
Why can’t we use the real words
Well of course now they do
All that simulated sex in the movies
Why land sakes child what’s the world coming to
Complete graphic use of all those words
that got us a soap treatment back in the day
It’s okay I have a foul mouth anyhow
Tame it down in company of strangers
Long time ago tried to copy Henry Miller
Use all the scatological terms available
And made up a lot of my own combinations
just for their societal shock value
Now think long and hard before even writing
never mind saying those forbidden words
Do slip up now and utter a f*^k or s!~t!
Or maybe even a “!@#$%^&*/?” when severely provoked
Why lordy honey Elder John couldn’t say hell
but he would say hello no
And I found out when I was eight
darn and dang could stand in for damn
and why is it damn and not dam or damm anyway?
Don’t worry about the children and grandchildren
They’ll figure it out know what to say and not say
We all learned to do what’s right
Lordy honey bun I best hush now.
