pearls

Protected: Afterthought 1024—Breakthrough

Posted in nothing special, sapphics by maggie on 2016/06/01

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Afterthought 511—GO Transit to Guelph

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2015/11/16

Damn, forgot my wallet.  I've no I.D.
nor credit cards, just spare change
in my pocket from a previous deal.
And my phone, I don't have it on me
so a rendezvous'll be hard to arrange.

Fine, a bus ride west far as I can ride
on my last cash, hoping to get near
enough for my whereabouts to reveal
from one dream to the next held inside
earlier agreements too long left unclear.

My fellow passengers give their support
without hesitation, expecting no return —
one offers his coat, one part of her meal.
Down in an unmapped tunnel we stop short
having long known what love might learn.

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Afterthought 278—A Perfect Circle and a Stone

Posted in sestet by maggie on 2015/07/14

Hey, I bet you know someone who would know
someone who knew someone who's now a friend
of mine.  Try this, if you've not yet done
so.  Make a new friend aged eighty or so.
Get her talking memories, then ask for one
of Christmas.  Do perfect circles ever end?

See, there's an elderly gentleman with whom
I often meet mornings, coffee in the park,
me pushing my youngest's carriage, him his
walker to a bench where crapemyrtles bloom.
This coming Monday, he told me today, is
his birthday, proud of the one he'll mark.

We'd not shared our ages. Now he asked mine
and chuckled as I figured it out in my head.
Numbers were never something I memorized.
We got talking memory.  His is quite fine,
which leads to something I'd not realized:
my old companion is Canadian born and bred.

"Ontario," I chirped, hazarding a guess.
He nodded.  "Toronto?"  Yes, an hour west.
"Kitchener." North of that, still unsure 
how I could know, but grinned a broad yes
when I named his hometown: "Elmira. You're
from good country, home to the very best."

His grandfather'd been one of Elmira's key
citizens, did watch repair on Arthur Street.
Each Christmas had a grand window display
that children'd come from all afar to see.
His grandfather's home still stands today
near where South and Arthur streets meet.

"The bandstand," I reminisced. He smiled,
claimed that's where its boards came from...
don't shoot me if he's bending the truth.
We both found it all so incredibly wild
how streets he'd known well in his youth
would so familiar to me since have become.

My friend's eyes took on a joyful moist.
How had I come to make his town my own,
he inquired.  "It's not supposed to be,"
was all I'd say. Yet what can't be voiced,
eyes that've lived there still can see.
"Here," I told him, handing him my stone.

My stone, the one I carry wherever I go.
My stone, the one I hold up to any sky.
My stone, the one I tell my secrets to.
He holds the stone reverently, as though
it carries him to the home he once knew
like yesterday. Do perfect circles die?

As my rock touched his hand, so his breath
reached ground he'd come from — the stream
nearby, the trees and other plants, birds,
other animals, people.  Before my own death
I'll reach his age remembering his words
returning home to Elmira as if in a dream.

The basement in my friend's grandfather's place,
should I reveal mystical mysteries it held?
Or boast that Santa scene on its bicycle wheel?
Are perfect circles pointless?  Not the case
here — he knew by my stone's familiar feel
in his fingers how love's magic flies compelled.

Not supposed to be? he repeated my words
in a gentle whisper, handing back my stone.
Then he hugged me holding my child as I cried
in my solitude. When the crapemyrtles birds
warned a coming storm, only then he replied —
Can a perfect circle ever get left alone?

Afterthought 271—North over Superior

Posted in sonnet by maggie on 2015/07/09

                Schreiber, Ontario
                July 2015
This way works. The children do ok if we don't overdo. We've still two weeks before you're back to work. Tomorrow speaks its mind softly, has no demands to say. This way really works. Were we to stay there, we'd all die again. The same techniques would execute the same judgment's critiques. For all concerned, best'll be this way. Where and when our midnight's never gone's not new to either one of us. I won't throw shadows on our love. Neither should you. Whatever, ON-17'll take us on through before we turn back home. Don't think I don't recognize our loved ones' needs and wants.
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Afterthought 134—Hurricane Planning

Posted in rondeau by maggie on 2015/06/18

Unless they say so, prepare for the worst.  Pack
as though you'll be gone a month or more. Shack
up with friends unvisited since last event, upstate
far enough to avoid storm surge.  Don't navigate
through local flooding.  Beware if skies go black.
 
We've heard it before - disaster prep yakitty yak
as the storm steers off on an unexpected track
until we're unprepared.  So let's not evacuate . . .
                unless they say so.
 
I'm so in the wrong to've objected to attack?
Oh.  Sweep out the debris, ignore the flack,
pretend nothing's wrong, let this storm abate.
But as is said of escape plans we contemplate:
If you do leave home, then you can't come back
                unless they say so.


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Afterthought 227—One Eighty

Posted in triolet redoublé by maggie on 2015/06/09
 
Pull over.  Here.  We need to turn around
before we've gone too far beyond that end
of what we'd recognize as homeward bound.
Pull over here.  We need to.  Turn around.
Go back to where we lost the way we found,
that way that led us to ourselves. Friend,
pull over here.  We need to turn around
before we've gone too far.  Beyond that end,
what keeps us going when we have no chance?
Pull. Over. Here. We. Need. To. Turn. Around.
Were this not how we taught ourselves to dance,
what keeps us going?  When we have no chance
together, this road's lost all its romance.
We'll vanish down it, not a sight nor sound.
What keeps us going when we have no chance?
Pull over here.  We need to turn around.

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Protected: Undercurrent 100—Statue of Liberty

Posted in prose poetry by maggie on 2013/08/27

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Protected: Undercurrent 99—Strawberry Fields

Posted in prose poetry by maggie on 2013/08/26

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Protected: Undercurrent 98—The Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church

Posted in prose poetry by maggie on 2013/08/26

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