To make Comments write directly to Jim at jimt@quixotic.ca
21
Jan
2019
When it’s time for me to go,
I drift to the edges
of the bubbling broth
of chatter
and then I slip
silently
into the night outside.
Categories: Poetry
Tags: death, departure
I added a picture to this poem, so that you would have a better sense of the scene that prompted this reflection. You'll have to go to the main page to see it, though.
Fresh snow coats the spiky crowns of evergreens
into narrow cones of shining white
steepled against a brillig sky --
a vast convocation
of pointy white hoods.
Do spruce trees also
have pointy little brains
beneath their whited hoods?
Tags: KKK, spruce trees, snow cones
26
Dec
2018
This poem grew out of seeing the sliver of a new moon, suspended in the night sky shortly after sunset. Net time you see such a moon, try reciting this poem out loud to it.
Hail to thee, silver crescent in the sky.
Tell me what you think you are.
Are you the universal sickle --
whetstoned symbol of seasonal harvest,
a harbinger of hope
that reaps the plainest grains,
to feed the famined millions?
Or are you the scimitar of Saladin,
white-hot steel tempered in the algebra of zero....
Tags: moon, crescent, Saladin, Damocles, sickle, scimitar
5
A friend is going through a deep depression. I tried to imagine myself inside his skin, and out came another poem. It begins
Dimness descends like a curtain.
Murk buries me, plugs my nostrils,
seals my ears; I hear nothing,
not even my own thoughts.
I wallow in my private pig-sty.
I want to move, but my muscles
have turned to water; every step feels like
wading in molasses....
Tags: Depression, misery, despair
23
Nov
“The fog,” Carl Sandburg wrote, “comes
on little cat feet.”
If so,
snow
arrives on kitten paws,
Tags: