If Only For An Instant


Will I think of you when the wind howls
and waves break white as surrendering hankies,
or will I think of you when the sun breaks clouds

and dances on new leaves, green with childlike
abandon. What is it that brings you into my
thoughts; what senses spark a memory of you.

I thought I saw you yesterday, if only for an instant,
speck glint dust caught in the sunlight, ploughed
rough in the neighbour’s field. You were dressed

like spring, chasing bluebells through tangled
hedgerows, and then you were gone. Again.

You are a fleeting memory, a spark that lingers
and flickers, and survives in the shadows of song.
And I miss you like the day is eternally long.

Prompted by Recursion #25 “A Drowning”.
Written in Vester Aaby Denmark on 26 April ‘13


Hot Dust and Bologna Sandwiches


It was a day when dreams are forged.
Long dreamy recollections of feet that ache
and ears that strain for the cold lineal sound
of the river. I still dream of it, walking into
the colour of morning and quietly slipping
through rain-washed ferns, stepping around

mist-slicked rocks in my long rubber boots.
I cut a fast stride through rushing water,
keeping up with you. This was Dad’s place.
His fishing hole. He’d bent the branch
of a cedar tree by the side of the road so he
could find this spot every time. He’d park

the car, and we’d walk through the smell
of unsettled dust and rising heat that competed
with the morning sun. Dad with his fishing gear;
we carried all the food. We ate bologna sandwiches
spread thin with butter and a slick of French’s
yellow sunshine. The bread gummed up our teeth,

and I developed a hatred of meat perforated
with pimentos and olives. And there were rocks
as big as my feet. Huge. I’d throw them with great
effort into deep, silent pools so I could feel
the water’s depth thundering through the soles
of my feet. It was a sound so deep and hollow,

so lonely that I knew no word to describe it then.
I do now, now that you’re gone – that lonely, deep,
long resonating sound that shakes my core,
vibrates through the soles of my feet –
it’s the sound of love, and of love lost.

Yes, these are the things that dreams are made
of – the things that keep my dreams awake.

Also posted to dVerse Poets Open Link Night

Written for Recursions Day 15: A free-write and an Artsy-Craftsy Twist
The method: free-write in the shape of a river with little tributaries, then cut out that piece of paper to the shape you’ve written. Now free-write thoughts, snippets from previous poems, whatever, on another sheet of paper, and place the river
paper over the second free-write page. See if anything sparks, notice new word combinations, and directions that your thoughts go. Now write like a maniac.

Here’s my messy free-write:

Pop over to Joseph Harker’s blog for an interesting exercise! http://namingconstellations.wordpress.com/2013/04/14/recursion-fourteen-gift-of-the-nile/