And in between i write
up at seven
muffled dawning
coffee – eight
and in between i write
study horos
cut off contact
sunken nine
and in between i hate
masturbation
satisfy nothing
ten is saved for rage
in between i quit
wrestle paper
red of day
elevenses come buy
ice cubes, ginger
snap, to noon
drinks and tokes and lies
in between i hope
one for ponder
questions, cosmos
times for sleeping, learning
and in between i write.
***
Poetry Posts
Seasons Poem by Marilyn McIntyre
It’s spring here
or so they tell us
the squirrels don’t care
the weather’s not sure
Summer’s coming
always is, at the equator
deer rummage the forest floor
foxes bathe their pups
and the sun knows
Somewhere it’s autumn
the birds nest anyhow
dandelions grow, smiling
the grass stands up and moves
I, myself feel cool
Winter at the Pole
geese hiss their goslings
into bluebells, dancing
and the stream rushes along
he knows where he’s going
Spring is here
again without a timepiece
nature lets loose her bounty
the ice slinks into the water
time and infinity know.
Copyright © 1998 by Marilyn McIntyre, All rights reserved
***
poem drinking alone drinking poem by Joan Pond
I sat alone drinking a Margaux, Imperiale
by Joan Pond
I sat alone drinking a Margaux, Imperiale.
At three thousand a bottle,
it was described as a classic red
with vanilla-scented nose.
Having a ripe black fruit,
it held a firm and structured finish.
Along with Toll House Cookies
I emptied the bottle,
noting the ruby-red colour staining the sink.
A good wine to drink with dessert,
especially while listening to Beethoven”s Seventh.
The Allegretto was so memorable,
I wondered;
was it the wine or the cookies?
***
Poem What Should I do Poem by Joan Pond
And So I Called A Taxidermist
by Joan Pond
A sudden snow squall as we headed to Maine.
Another weekend of Paul asking,
when are you moving in?
Much silence as snow fell.
Pines appeared
as Crest-coated toothbrushes.
I laughed at the ceiling fan,
circulating mephitic air;
snow shoes on the wall,
and all the things that made
this place extemely, him.
There was no room for me
unless I was mounted to a wall.
And so I called a taxidermist,
asking,
what I should do.
***
Penance Poem by Joan Pond
Penance
by Joan Pond
I don”t miss your touch,
your house,
or the mouse you caught in your trap.
It was upside down and dead.
A grey puff of head under a wire.
You complained it ate the cheese,
and you”d have to re-load the trap.
It”s tiny pink hands,
as an aborted child holding on
for dear life.
You simply shucked it out the door.
I left shortly, thereafter,
still mobile.
Feeling somewhat trapped,
in this purgatory or hell.
Why couldn”t I tell you,
I felt just like that mouse?
***
cubicle poem by Joan Pond
Where To Go
by Joan Pond
How many corporate Rest Rooms must I endure?
Questioning myself;
examining a face in the mirror.
Looking forlorn and asking,
what am I doing here?
I washed my hands,
not wanting to return to my cubby hole.
Surrounded by white tile,
I realized
the devil hadn”t taken my soul.
I”d given it willingly to these companies.
Mutatis, mutandis,
going to and fro.
It was a mutual agreement,
yet I”m forlorn;
not knowing where to go.
***