Poems written for, and submitted to, Every Day is a Poem five-day course with Jacquline Suskin. (Day 5 didn’t require a poem)
Every Day is a Poem, Day 1.
In Awe of a Glass Tumbler
Oh, mystic, magic container that sits,
Still but alive with the faintest vibration of liquid within.
Like a water boatman alighting
On the mirror of an evening pond.
And round, so round,
And so strong.
Yet your strength’s a brave illusion,
So easily may you be shattered.
And how strange, this stuff of which you are made.
That I see through you to the water within.
Can pick you up, hold you to my lips.
And drink.
Every Day is a Poem, Day 2.
The Spider in the Shower
Looking up, long slender legs, three joints on each.
As if a man had limbs of five and twenty feet.
The spider stretches one out, then one behind.
For reasons known only to that arachnid mind.
And in the winter dawn, the dewy rime
Along the old, abandoned railway line
A thousand webs did it adorn,
Each one a marvel, spun fresh that morn’.
Breath misting, I wondered, how could it be?
Bejewelled webs, wove fine, as if for me.
I stood and looked in timeless awe,
The Great Creator’s art, for sure.
Every Day is a Poem, Day 3.
The Open Window
A breeze through the open window,
The touch of warm wind on my cheek.
And on that flowing breath of air
Comes the effortless song of bird.
And timeless, their tuneful chatter,
Since before history’s dawn,
When the first man heard, then listened to,
The song of the very first bird.
They revel in their conversation,
Sing out ‘cross green wood and red brick the same.
With avine wisdom, never stopping to wonder
If they sang something untoward.
Every Day is a Poem, Day 4.
A Myriad of Thought-Buildings
Why do I write?
Because I can, I will, I should,
And, above all,
Because I enjoy it.
Because language is of the mind;
One cannot see it,
Only when written down
Or perceived through sound.
And the mind is of the spirit
And we are all spirit,
A spark of the Great Spirit,
The Divine Creator of this universe.
I can let words flow as they will,
Or hang them on a skeleton of structure.
An idea, a fleeting glimpse of a story,
That could be, if I chose to let it be.
Or a poem, a gathering of thought,
Nebulous, focused, wise.
Words fighting, one against another,
Or existing in harmony. Let them decide.
To create something new,
something personal,
Something of one’s own.
So easy to do with a pen or a keyboard!
I write to let my words stand for me,
This person, this body, this soul.
To let them shine, as it were from a beacon,
Going out, to travel in that infinite space.
So words reach from one mind to another,
A form of telepathy.
They provoke, entertain, heal, harmonise,
Distract, pacify, irritate, sadden, amuse.
Building blocks of a myriad of thought-buildings.
These words.
And, now, with the press of a key,
On the internet, visible to all!
