30 Poems in 30 Days

Have you ever wanted to try writing poetry? Join in this event writing 30 poems in 30 days and watch your poetry prowess emerge.


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My people

I belong to the cooks, wizards of spice, choppers of vegetables
to the kneaders of dough, bread and cake bakers

I belong to the singers, choristers
to the horn players, recorder tooters

I belong to the walkers, observers of seasons
to the gardeners
to the contemplatives, listeners

I belong to the poets, choosers of words
to the mathematicians, questioners
to the ponderers, seekers of knowledge

These are my people, my tribes

We come with a hint of slowness,
deliberation and outdated
patience

There’s no app for what we do


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Busy morning at Earth General Store

- Peppermint soap is my favourite
- Put that back, Sweetie, we are not taking that
- Well maybe I’ll try it for a change, I usually have lavender
- So you put the seed in the middle and water it and it will expand and then you can transplant it
- Oh dear I forgot to count the number of refills
- The container is weighed already
- No problem I’ll just give you a discount for 15
- That jug of yours holds quite a bit
- What an awesome store, we should come here more often
- Yes it usually comes to $25 or so
- Do they have Oolong tea
- I have 4 daughters, I need 4 bars of chocolate
- Can you see the paprika anywhere
- There’s more in the raw food section
- Do you have a plan for your garden yet
- Here, I found a quarter, take it
- And your seeds are right here
- Do you have your own bag
- Can I have the itemized receipt please
- Thanks and have a great day!


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Butterflies

I dive into the suffering of one man
that he has spilled out into poems on so many pages

I take the book in quick strokes
but it drags me under

I come up spluttering
and gasping for air

in the image of the butterfly
he finds redemption and new life
- or so I hope -
he shows a broad smile in the photo on the last page

(again and again
we need to come back to simple things
petals in puddles
footprints in snow
lichen on trees)

I saw a butterfly in April in the Rockies
it fluttered along a rock wall in the sun
it may not have lived through that night
- brave vanguard of spring -
but it embodied the dance
completely


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The Last Wild Voice

I.

My mouth opens

and silence tumbles

out tremulous in its flight.

 

The voice: that strange winged

creature of fierce delicacy

and wild cries of full fired song

and sometimes grief keening.

 

II.

I was afraid to hear both the shadowed

darkling pierced wailing

just as much as the bright

jeweled corridors of tumbling desire.

 

I was afraid of who might join

me when my voice blossomed

and how the rough shimmering

silk might surprise

another wild mouth

to speak.

 

III.

We will lean down at last

to the attentive ear of the

tangled landscape

and sing our songs;

sing into the jumbled green gold

unutterably receptive earth.

 

IV.

And know ourselves wound healed

 

 

 

 


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Commute

I. Out

on the sidewalk
the april snow
that nobody wants

is printed with
pedestrian’s soles
pointing north
pointing south
heading to work

across the shoe tracks
from left to right
a waddling goose
left his diamond prints
heading to work

 

II. Back

revitalization -
as if a park was dead
that is only used
by squirrels
rabbits
skunks
magpies
pileated woodpeckers
blue jays
coyotes
stoic all-season walkers
and the lady with the black dog

[cleared swath] to be covered in [asphalt]

how many trees died for this new multi purpose trail?


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Raining Poems

Rain today, grey clouds.

The children splashed

and stomped through

the puddles filled

with flower petals.

You could see

the poetry right there

in the rain drops.

My feet were wet

with it,

my clothes soaked through

down to the skin.

I called the children

in early

and they changed

into dry shirts

and pants and socks.

I stayed wet.

And feasted on the bliss

of rain and poems.

 


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christine lake trail

suddenly the sound of the highway and the trainĀ deep in the valley are gone.

the forest is thick and dark
even with the snow cover on the ground.

the silence is eerie.
only occasionally do we hearĀ the cry of a bird.
one call sounds like somebody blowing on a whistle.

the hike to the frozen lake with its little rocky islands takes a good hour
steadily uphill in solitude except for the uneasy feeling
that there may be animals that see us
but we don’t see them.

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