Andrew

You were trying to be

a Kerouac

When you led me

from subway to streetcar

To marbled sidewalk

and thought you were adventure

Looking for old doorways on Bay

Where I knew there were none

And you were trying to make me

your Queen Anne’s Lace

So I would be

gentle with your secrets

sooth your eccentricities

and unravel your spirit

But I was the seedling of

a dogwood flower

And led you

From subway to streetcar

To tall grass footpath

And thought I was adventure

In convincing you

to cascade backwards between

dandelion and dew

to match my wavelength

which was unravelling itself between

the blades of grass

as though the meadow were

a maze leading straight

to your disposition

 

TDM

Summer Heat

I need some opinions on this one. Is it complete or does it have a long way to go? Please comment below with any thoughts. Thank you kindly.

 

I could tickle the shade

on a day like today,

musky odour (I admit)

emitting from my “delicate” temple

whose flustered

along with my will

to make happy with

they

who step lightly and grin

while I drip

and drop

and drag myself onward

through what seems like concrete Sahara

Word Vomit of the Imaginary Traveler

I have gone on many paper adventures, pages and pages of text have carried me up and up, far, far away. Daydreams and sleepy dreams have comforted my thoughts and set an imaginary trail behind me. Footsteps through cobblestone pathways, sipping dark coffee, following lamppost moons. Then tracking through snowy banks, heavy feet and runny nose, breathing in crisp frost, windy tears wiping away snowflakes that land on cheeks. Sun baked faces turning red as gazes are lifted, trailing the side of ancient monument and sand castle. Silk or linen draped across wandering eyes, highlighted colours amongst sepia and terra cotta. Crickets keeping souls awake in the night, a reminder to feed the fire to keep the warmth from escaping the tent, so that catching fireflies is a little bit more interesting. Though harder to see them in flame light, it is better for roasting marshmallows. Stopping by a stream to sip or splash water in the cracking faces and worn boots. Stopping by the side and peeling off jackets to rest heads on, stones to prop tired feet upon. And finally listening to ocean swells with active ears and quiet faces, being sprayed with salty mist. Then to squish toes in the sand when the water has not covered them, scraping a heal on a little shell, a tiny home built in repetitive beauty, swirling and twirling curves. The shell made of soft pinks and yellows, like the canvas stretching far beyond the rolling and bouncing waves, going going on until hidden by blues, lighter, then darker, then burst of silver overhead. Twinkle to preserve some light for walking home in, howls to bid goodnight.

TDM

Child Grin

Here is a very rough poem for which I was hoping to get some thoughts on:

i can tell

when you lean in quite close

that you wear the fragile grin of a child

on your face,

to hide behind gritted armour

has done you well

but you leave a trail of feathers behind

whenever I walk with you,

a hurried look on your face

to peek through fences

and burrow in the mud

excitement for any difference in the day,

what wonderful character that is,

to fill my head with thoughts of

daisies and falling

leaves and perfume

staining the air,

innocent charm that

scoops me up and tosses me

onto a bed of golden leaves

stealing sweet smiles

that become gentler

and soften into tiny baby giggles

as you frame my face with your hands

and lean in quite close

 

Stray

This piece is yet another work in progress. I would appreciate any feedback on composition or completion (is it complete or does it feel incomplete and abrupt).

A stray took to me

Like a fox to a fawn

And in so doing clung to my skirt

With such grip that she

almost tore me loose

From my garment

So instead of resisting

I guided her

along with me

And took rest by a bank

For I knew she would like to investigate

Just as much as I

What company had befallen her

 

TDM