Archives for posts with tag: Follow

The binding of boots

The binding of boots,
is matched by mufflings
of thick cloth, scarves, gloves
to meet slush caked to concrete—
Winter is the day
you discover a new song
that promises so much.

A change of climate.
A change of heart.
No hesitation.
No compromise.

Winter cuts away years
and makes a new day.
The palimpsest challenges
the ever-changing record
of personal evidence writ,
then destroyed, but now
melted resolve is fast frozen.
We walk upon empty promises,
unafraid to promise again,
to dream, desperate to be free,
despite that which binds us.

—   30 —

That’s how you would end filing (posting) in the old days — my Dad was a journalist.

This is the end of 12 Books in a Year.  I made the home page and posted it a year ago today.

The facts: 423 posts, 214 followers, 81 comments., 2,710 views, most views: 95, 53 countries, a whole lotta likes (cue Led Zeppelin).

Thank you. At the end of the performance, the performer says, (hopefully heartfelt) “Thank you”. Thank you for listening/reading. Thank you for your encouragement. I started this blog to see if I could jump start the poetry — there have been some body blows through the journey — oh yeah — I have been happy to stand in the sawdust ring and shout “Are you amused!” — but poetry is not a blood sport — it is a heart sport, a joy sport, a calling and an … aegis. And yes, the joy has come back.

Joy — because to be a poet — you can’t look away; you can’t stop your heart saying to your brain — make sense of this, tell me what I know— and what I don’t. Tell me — this can be better.

And if you give yourself up to this kind of sobriety/giddy madness — you do it — for your world/your writing — and your girl/guy, children, if you are so blessed — they suffer as a result of your curse. And the only reward is … they smile when you talk to them, they suffer the storms because they know — your joy, your rages, your trying to make sense of it all — comes from the heart.

That is what poetry is … the beat of your heart/the beat of the world.

Thank you for your likes, your comments, your follows — I had no idea WordPress possessed healing power — but, apparently, it does. From the bottom of my rusty soul and my mud mired shoes …

this is done. Thank you

— 30 —

The original idea was one year, it’s done and it all goes into a black hole. But no longer — sometimes you start the journey with the wrong goal in mind — it’s important to adjust in response to how the world continues.

The blog continues.

It is not going to be me anymore — 12 Books. Whether books or chapbooks — that took a lot — not all of it — but a lot.

I am arranging a gift/joy/surprise — a most wondrous array of poems that will begin soon. There will be a hiatus for a couple of weeks while details are ironed out. But after that—prepare for the main show. 12 books was only the introductory act!

cheers, Ward
<cheersward —  a plot of land reserved for vocal supporters of the home town; in the direction of joy; a Dionysian rout…>


It is not enough that you
confront the emptiness
of yourself,
of the world.

This frozen soul
forces me to
an endless waste
of my making.

Laugh and it is torn from you.
Cry and your tears freeze.
Plead—no one will free you—

you get one chance.

ear packed with wet snow
as you walk home hatless
squeak in a field of frozen
susurration, place of foot
like someone scrunching
Styrofoam, whisper of crystal
as your ears bleed in razor edged
wind, the silent explosion
as the field of absolute white
blinds you and you hear forever
for once

skates crystalline, the pass
of sunlight to the corner
the zigzag impossible bank
direct to the rods and cones
exposition of white noise
as light crackles about you
crazy explosion of spark
leaps to sky zone, laps
your horizon and keeps
on going, straight to the
North Pole, more than magnetic
like neon flowing at your feet

colour of porphyry, South Sea coral,
seeps onto the horizon—dawn arrives
palest of children, gold poppet
with a hint of mortality about her

noon, the stare of sun matches
the coldest cop, the hardest beggar,
their contest danced between ragged
pedestrian breath snatched away

by sheets of unwritten white, whisked
up to the hammer blow of world
emptying at the top; winter sun shines
on a not so objective observer

we strive to roll the ball a little faster
as if our thoughts could move the sun
we seek to replace sere yellow with iridescent
fish finning summer school of memory

dusk proves there are no unnatural
colours as heaven indulges in an orgy
of neon pastels, and the sun pauses
to determine what is to come

we grasp a new thought found in vapour,
swirled by honing edge of winter, we see
light of memory is a seed of promise
winter sun dreams on — a not so distant star

I am the monkey
on a chain
the organ
the grinder

I dance
grotesque parody
of my drive
to please
do what

This self contained
universe built
to explain
so I may dwell
upon it
as I dwell
within it

Meet the wall.
The wall is the end—
deeper density,
soft charcoal melt into
metal door black;

the wall is grit and
corrosion and is tough
enough; the wall is always
painted red and lurid until
all colour peels off and it is
only itself, black, fading
into the end of light.

The wall settles into the way
of winter, first harbinger;
the wall is the back of the
fire, the ashes rise in the last
heat before the wall falls in
and that’s it folks, show’s over.

Sky crouches into curtain fallen
an extra foot over the ground;
sun lies crumpled script page
in the prompter’s booth, and it’s
not even bleeding; timpani pound,
horns blare down the last wall as
warmth is concealed through deceit
(indeed, we suspected.) “Sun decamps”
read the headlines. News to no one.

Smudged and wet, lying like
yesterday’s newspaper
in the gutter, autumn comes
to this—the sheet metal days,
the abandoned lot surrounded by
wall of cheap metal, and we must
endure even this as we survey
this decrepit landscape—the dying of light.

(a hallowe’en romp)
baby’s looking funny since she died
got me feeling like suicide
baby I can’t wait until you speak
thru that rip in your cheek

C’mon baby, dare to be mine
You went and ate me out of my mind
you’re no valentine, you Hallowe’en queen
now give me back my liver and spleen,

oh, oh, oh,

give ‘em back, give ‘em back to me,
no more post amorous history
zombie love all gone wrong, give’ em back,
or I’ll get you with my heart attack

people say you’re a pretty ghoul
they say they like the way you drool
it’s alright I’ll just lock the door
cause once I’m gone
they won’t see you no more

baby likes the look  of human being
and you’re the best she’s ever seen
how about this Hallowe’en
you bring the meat

she provides the scream

it’s apparent to me this mutual misery
there’s no need to talk, we’re beyond all that
just one last attack, I’ll take my heart back

oh, oh, oh

Fall is the colour of annealed metal,
raw copper, grey slate, iron stamped
twilight, clouds raw, rust ash brood.
Evening forges light and craft, clouds
transform, a sudden glow renews
receding tepid sky; a rainbow appears,
stamps the evening miraculous,
a covenant, we hold hands as our eyes
drink and receive this revealed Eucharist.

moon wakes landscape to memory
in the face of identity we are satellites reflecting
worms, snakes, pale tubers rising in symphony
from chthonic rood; seeing mirrors tell
upon each of us; we join hands, afraid to howl

pale and translucent, we will never bend
light from its preordained path; we dance to mark
the spot where our foot lies. words speak. hands
slap. music mounts string, brass and tambourine
we tear ourselves apart, we consume our springs
of indifference, we eat our fears, excrete summer

we know this place; it is ours to defend
we mould this place into a shape of our understanding
we invest in this place, not another, nowhere other
than here, this place; we worship because it is hallowed
harrowed, it bears fruit though patently barren
someone told us it is ours and though we forget easily
we remember this, it is ours, someone told us so

the taste of this place is what I remember; the taste
of each other, my blood in your mouth, on your fist
I wipe away the regret of a moment ago and launch myself
at you, all thoughts, remembrances aside; the taste

soil, black and loam, acid sandy, salt and base, the blandness
of thirst, and the taste of dirt, is how I know this place

this place of thorns and grass, lush as a mattress, tough as stone
the throne of many a toss with thee; I know this place as it
has heard my groans, my laughs of privacy and deceit; I
conquered this place, you gave it to me; this place, you gave it to me

I remember these flowers as I wait to gaze at snow
I remember crystals as I watch this garden grow
I see a wave upon a beach far from any shore
in fields of grass that drown my sight; I rise, I soar
weightful, a thing of this earth, a moment’s satellite

the sky, a dream of far away
the moon, that mysterious land, impossible, free

%d bloggers like this: