Afterthought 1084—Heart Hungry

Posted in curtal sonnet, nothing special by maggie on 2016/07/13

Let's rent kayaks, go watch icebergs relax
like lazy thoughts on currents as they melt
into horizons passing storms have blurred.

Mid-morning breezes tease across our backs.
Old island legends' fingers long and svelte
crisscross, composing secret songs unheard.

If we get separated, we'll meet up back here,
corner of Prescott and Military. Adrien felt
the lunches this cafe serves his preferred.
This far north, our days won't disappear,
                      take my word.


Protected: Afterthought 1024—Breakthrough

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

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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 262—Skerwink Trail

Posted in curtal sonnet by maggie on 2015/06/28

Trinity's waters embrace the rocks, whip
salt and sage into crowberry and Tuckamore
to perfume our reverent steps into her wild.

Without Dean I'd not've made it.  My hip
would've kept me from what we're here for —
to make it where the Music Box stands piled.

Otters!—yes, we saw them, like was said
we might.  And dolphins close to the shore!
No poetry could've been more perfectly styled.

Next year, you.  Join us at Sherwink's Head,
                      you and the child.

Afterthought 259—Wish You Were Here

Posted in curtal sonnet by maggie on 2015/06/22

No, the inn where he stayed had been booked
since last autumn for the weeks we want.
Tempted as we were to change our plans,

other schedules interfered.  We looked
from there down to St. John's waterfront . . .
this room with its view, all others sans.

Next time, maybe.  Now that we're hooked
summering here, let's come see the whales
together, when time and space are no man's
                      and harmony prevails.

Afterthought 237—Haiku

Posted in haiku by maggie on 2015/06/16

New moon behind clouds
     checks out accident damage—
it hardly matters.

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Afterthought 254—Paused

Posted in nothing special by maggie on 2015/06/12
I am to put the scene on pause
so I won't have to catch
him up when he retakes his place
after a bathroom break, detour
through the nursery, last trip
out with the dog, back with a wedge
of cheese and crackers, to pick
up where we were.
A night I wouldn't write down,
only passing time.
I wait to.  I wait for.  I wait,
fingering something remote.
Something on hold.
One minuscule space in a line
— still, quiet, unknown.
I do as told.

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Protected: Afterthought 248—An Educated Guess

Posted in nothing special, quintain by maggie on 2015/06/10

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Afterthought 180—One Must Not

Posted in nothing special, terzanelle by maggie on 2015/04/14
          "One must never be angry about 
          how little they say is left." --Sara 
One must never be annoyed
over how little we've said gets left
behind to fill the void.
Nor must one be angered at the theft
of hours wasted, of tears spent
over how little we've said gets left.
Nor must one be puzzled how it went
down so quickly, with scarce a thought
of hours wasted, of tears spent.
Nor must one regret how we fought
to keep it alive long after it died,
down so quickly with scarce a thought.
Nor must one mourn our love's suicide.
One can only take pleasure hoping but
to keep it alive long after it died.
Our lights are out, our doors shut.
One must not recreate what's destroyed.
One can give and take pleasure hoping, but
one must not be annoyed.

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