National Poetry Month Project
First of all, let me make something clear. I make no claims for any of these poems as great literature. This was an experiment that I conducted in April 2003. Why? Well because it was national poetry month and it seemed like the thing to do at the time I suppose. There was no agenda beyond writing a poem a day, no binding theme, just getting up (or sometimes before laying down) every morning and writing a poem on the fly as it were. No drafts, no revision, just sitting in front of a blank screen until the idea came and I wrote it.
It is logical that the majority of the poems would be about Kel, the sensual and highly attractive lady who has been my muse, mate, and companion for several years now. But there are also poems about family, about people seen on the street, about the weather, about poetry itself and about the past.
So, with only two corrections (both typos) they are presented here for your hmm..well entertainment one hopes, or perhaps to stir your own creativity. And perhaps we will see you again next year, perhaps with a new set of poems..perhaps with your own set of poems.
May 2003-05-02
Slan Aghat
bardi
A Poem A Day April 2003
Day One
For mattie and sean
Like any green thing
meant to be their
first brushes with
mutual realities
are tentative
temporary
left to grow the
mutuality
becomes the greening
of their life
roots of embraces
and sharing cracking
through the concrete
of their distance and
allowing growth
into the moon and sun
forever
Day Two
one strand
of your hair
comes loose
in the moonlight
it flows
toward your breast
like a warming thought
Day Three
life pushes in green urges
from grey bark under blue sky
love has such colour
Day Four
my father's dream
are they the memory
of soft arms
from dead lovers
or are they like
his waking life
full of the dry
sawdust of
scarecrow gods
pretending to
fill empty lives
but empty themselves
Day Five
There was a time
my life was spent
crossing borders
countries lives loves
leading me in time
to wish there were
oracles with the border guards
welcome to our country
and do we feel sorry for you
Day Six
car stacked with guitars
wheels crunching against
gravel the only
sound in the still air
over the hills as
music moves
toward being
Day Seven
slow
soaking rain
that somehow
finds its way
through clothes
and skin until
it reaches bone
then you smile
and it all goes
back through all
and into the ground
flowers bursting
in gratitude
Day Eight
black is not
the colour of death
white is
glaring mountain
northern white
leaching souls
before it
chills the blood
and drags it to
cold eternity
Day Nine
TIME GENTLEMEN
Murphy moved behind the
long polished oak,burnished
with two centuries not of
blood but the thick grand
aftermath of Guiness
Liam tipped a Jameson back
while Keiran,foam hearted
drained his ale we
the second and third verses
of the song of the Wild Geese
Day Ten
A solitary crow
perches on the
still bare branches
the watchcorvid
for the rookery
as though he
were a poem
protecting hearts
Day Eleven
He tries to stay
away from the
amputation rooms.
The bed where she
does not lay
the kitchen where
she does not laugh
over morning coffee
the living room
where she would curl
in contentment
he feels the
phantom limb
that is the part of
him amputated by
her leaving
and tries to avoid
the rooms
the worlds
of being alone
Day Twelve
Winter,it is thought,
disappears,warm weather
clear skies bring the
world oh.
Winter has not disappeared
it had merely moved
grown inside left
me cold,cloud,dark
looking for the
warmth of your touch
Day Thirteen
the words
flit like duskshadows
or ferile cats
waiting to feed
from the memories
of you
Day Fourteen
Early but still
My Past
begins to
deconstruct
already parts of it
weave toward me
like party drunks
and then spread
the wings of what
has been
and,giant moths
flit off
toward the bright
lights of
should have been
Day Fifteen
I turn to
random theft
breaking and entering
into affairs of the heart
stealing old dreams
taking them to the
edge of the song
and prodding them
to go free
Day Sixteen
Gl?ire don Athair is don Mhac is don Spriod Naomh,
mar a bh? ar dt?is,
mar at? f?s,
is mar a bheidh tr? shaol na saol.
Is it?
In a world gone inconstant
is there a way of believing
that it shall be as it was be
Like a child I finger
the beads but cannot
be a child
must wonder why
and keep the anger
close lest it
boil like
a Horsemen's sky
Day Seventeen
the first drop
is fat
hesitant
forcing its way through
the dark clouds
like a pioneer
There is a long
low rumble of
appreciation
and
the drop is no
longer alone
as the sky becomes
dark and water
Day Eighteen
When the music ends
take the last note
and cherish it
feed it moonlight
and dreams
fears loves
and thunder
then set it loose
in the deep canyon
of being
and feed
from the echoes
forever
Day Nineteen
is there a return
to the generation days?
when wishes
were stronger
than spring storms
and hid in the
tall grass
and the thick
syrupy brambles
of blackberry bushes?
Is there?
oh
Day Twenty
trees
half through
their annual
greening days
breezes touching
dancing
life under
the grey skies
like her
smile in
the early
hours
before first coffee
Day Twenty One
windows within windows
doors within doors
until the words
slowly
are revealed
and escape
into the
wilder gardens
of poems
Day Twenty Two
There is a quiet
dribble of laughter
as he pauses to
talk to people
and then thumbs the
control as his
wheelchair moves
down the street.
The cockatiel
on his shoulder
preening
his reminder
that the mind
and soul
run free
Day Twenty Three
Listen
in the deep but stirring
day as river fog swirls
across the ground
like hungry cats
the last dreams of
night move quietly
within each house
awake
i watch them
dreams of love
of sex of hopes
and fears
sketch them for
my own stories
and try
very very hard
not to sleep
Day Twenty Four
Arena filled with the
rumbling Zamboni
clearing the dream ice
leading to the final period
Doesn't look good for the
good guys tonight.
Might Have Been 4
Might Yet Become 3
The period is rough but scoreless
the Might Have Been Wing
#23 too much creature fouls
slap fly the goalie
Despair misses and the
SCORE IS TIED
like dancers or leaf in
strong winds they fly
furious around each other
Then her smile swings
around launches the
puck across the
chopped ice
as the alarm clock
goes off
the good guys win
Day Twenty Five
The Gazebo stands
a sentry at the borders
where the shore blends
with the slow lap of water
fog blending them
the two,like shadows
move toward the gazebo
each othre.
A time of borders
the shore sharing
the border of space
with the water
out in the water
an invisible border
between countries
Day Twenty Six
He moves down
the street
in stages of
oscillation
parts of him
shaking into
the next step
before the rest follows
later he will
have enough
for a
bottle
and his
youth again
Day Twenty Seven
the highway
a grey ribbon
in the headlights
as the darkness closes
over the hills
over me in
a journey
from nowhere
to nowhere
Day Twenty Eight
An old lady
with a paper necklace
and a shopping cart
festooned with
tinsel
stops in front of
a window looking
at her reflection
I wonder what she sees..
the old woman
or a young one
waiting for a lover
back from the War
waiting for a future
that never
quite
came
Day Twenty Nine
Once again
it is a 3AM I
walk to the closet
count her clothes
over and over
as if the sum
would have answers
as if the sum
were a spell
that would bring
her back
Day Thirty
word by
word I
rebuild
the memories
and the dreams
word by
word I
remember
and hope
