A Poem that Rhymes!

Sunday, September 25th, 2016

Poets are not academics (though some are) or highly educated men and women (though they may be), but most of them are ordinary everyday people with the desire to express something fun or meaningful or turbulent or painful or joyful and so on and so on (you choose).

Many are computer nerds, taxi drivers, hamburger flippers at McDonald’s, cleaning men and women, students, drug addicts, police officers, shoe sales people, firemen, some doctors (yes it happens), teachers (okay, that may be obvious), presidents (you never know). Anyway, my point is–is there a point? Not sure. There is no rule or regulation as to who can and should write poetry–or anything else for that matter.

That brings me to a poem of my own. Nothing serious, just a fun play with words. So, please don’t take it seriously. It really isn’t meant to be taken seriously.

Here we go, a silly poem that rhymes–well somewhat:

A Poem that Rhymes 


On the deck in front of my room
at Cambria Pines Lodge
a little after noon
I’m tempted to snooze
but my undone work
wraps around my neck like a noose.
It is so tight
I want to fight
but then I see the light
and throw pen and paper out of sight.
I’d rather go for a walk
I don’t need to talk
or sing like a lark.
I sigh and admit
that this sounds like shit
but write I must
even if nothing
comes out of it.
There’s nothing to say
that hasn’t already been said
I’ve nothing to say
at the end of the day.
Oh, the freedom of silence
around me and in my mind
so I gaze at the highland
in the distance and pray
and so it’s okay
that I’ve nothing to say.
Amen.

Posted in Cambria, fun, nature, Path of Fire, rhyme, silly poem | 2 Comments »

Happy Mother’s Day in the Great Beyond

Saturday, May 10th, 2014


 

Mother

nearing ninety winds the old clock
pulling the chains dangling
from the wooden case.
Time stored in her flesh and bones
seeps through her hands.
I listen to each shallow breath,
feel the faint trembling of her arm
tucked into the curve of mine,
as we climb the last steep hill to the store
on those muted winter days
which follow each other like dull pearls
strung on the thread of life.
The late afternoon sun casts
our thin shapes among the
shadows of birches and pines
coated with hoarfrost.
In the coffee shop she softens bites of
crusty bread and dips them into hot chocolate.
A drop falls on the face of Madonna
staring blue-eyed and beige from the
cover of Mademoiselle.
At dusk the waitress switches on the light.
My mother’s face,
white as a moon,
refracts from the window-pane.
I peer past her into the growing
darkness outside.
It’s not death I fear,
I am afraid of being the last one alive.

Posted in Christa Polkinhorn, Mother, Path of Fire, poems, poetry | 2 Comments »

Where is home?

Wednesday, December 28th, 2011
I live in two countries and that’s exciting. By there is another side to it: the feeling of rootlessness and the longing for a permanent home.

Home

With Christmas looming once again
I drag gifts across town
board a plane heading for
what used to be home
always looking for that
     Hello dear
              so glad to see you

Old smells
the pulsing of familiar blood
some sense of lasting love
in a town of faces growing faint with time
friends scattered in Los Angeles
Zurich
            Oakland
Santa Fe

Baby boots kick
a happy squeal and quick kiss
eyes sparkle
     then languish

flexible
     fuzzy
           relationships

This aerodynamic tumbling
     leaves stretch-marks
in my heart

Here I am
still searching the earth
     for a home

(from Path of Fire)

Posted in home, homesick, longing, Path of Fire, poems | 2 Comments »