A Poem a Day (579): Shatter

 
I wrote a first draft of this poem last night at about half-midnight just before going to sleep. And I've posted it on JD Mader's writing blog - click here - so if you fancy writing or reading other people's writing, head over there for a scribble. You can also find out about JD's writing and his cool books. He has a kind of melodic rap in his writing style. The poem below is the second draft and a bit longer than the original. Have a groovy Saturday.

Shatter
 
We are but the darkest glass,
prisms turning, starkest shine,
and here in glass we reside.
 
We taste the bitter-sweetest salt
of the surging rush of sea below
and cloak ourselves in the cyan eyes
of the stillest tranquil sky above,
view laughing dolphins arching loops
over these aching oceans deep
with scarlet love, and we ourselves
are but glass, cut-outs spilling ideas,
a realm of secret colour undefined,
steadfast, yet ever breakable,
our fragility misting our acumen.
 
Stones could shatter us,
and yet we dwell beside them,
knowing how brittle are our bones.
 
The collector gathers memories,
new and old, spectres breathing in grey,
mirrors of all the things we have lived,
all the facets that make us human,
our passions, our guileless empathy,
all so steeped in hue, in so fragile words,
and yet we can never be forsaken
to one another. For we are, in our minds,
as we are, purest glass.
 
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, April 29, 2023

A Poem a Day (578): The mighty river

The mighty river 

 

In the peaceful flow of the mighty river,

the weave and the bind and the ebb,

and the blind belief that everything is,

with the beat and the drum of the hum

of the world in its filigree greenery;

the azure skin of the sky reflected,

drawn in the eye of a sea gazing back,

where white gulls swoop, in line and gust,

seek each other out in separation, the gulf

and the trough, and the arc playing light

in a rainbow, splashing and out-spilling

purest colour, deepest sound, aching now;

it seeps into the sun-danced grove below,

where towering trees plant roots and join hands,

glistening bark sucking in the morning dew

to be as others be; the sum of life charging,

plunging through ratted undergrowth; the dank,

damp scents of the lupid earth beat a tempo,

its heart echoing across the vast forest floor,

a mish-mash smash of cracking twigs, gluey moss,

an emerald carpet unrolled like a speaking tongue;

ants hold up their trophies high, sticky antennae

collecting every perfect sound cast out on the wind;

light flickers, transpires in all the yellow upturned leaves,

skinny stems gyrating in the tranquil breeze,

where bouncing bumble bees hollow out sound,

honeying the day in the sweetest shower,

carrying the circle onwards, green engaged,

as the days turn into days, and nights breathe

into nights, and so it all revolves, the great

turning, in light, in pitch, and the in-between,

and life reflected sparkles for the passenger alone,

becomes, ignites, bringing you back to you.

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, April 14, 2023

 

A Poem a Day (577): Binary

Binary

 

Binary, an adjective

made up of two things, two parts,

relating to, or belonging to a system

numerical, an umbilical cord

between numbers. A system with two

as its base, a pair – not one,

not alone.

 

There are two possible values here,

only two, no more, no more complex

than a couple, the ideal, the constant

companion, the support network we crave.

This bit, this binary digit, this open hand

of data, shedding light in a complex

universe.

 

When binary is fleshed out, a fingerprint,

emits a heartbeat, it’s a system of two genders,

male and female, assigned at birth.

But we can go further now than binary,

into non-binary, gender fluid, a glide

between the two, an identity neither male

nor female.

 

It is only you. We are not the same.

We are not data. We are individual.

And we are not alone.

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, April 11, 2023

A Poem a Day (576): Gold

 A poem I wrote on Saturday, and forgot to post ! Happy Tuesday, guys!

Gold

 

Alice says she knows your brother,

Alice says she knows Everyman.

Once, the streets were paved with gold,

but now we wade through mustard.

There is a power play they hold up high,

the ministry of something chilly,

and down here the bells have yet to toll,

to reveal what we already know.

 

It takes a while to take a picture.

You’ve got to get the focus right,

the angle, disintegrate the blur,

no shake; the snake, a second skin,

the in-between of the invisible view.

Here we go again, seeing it anew,

the past, the future, present tense,

just redrawn, resketched, tangible.

 

Copyright Vickie Johnstone, April 8, 2023