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Waffledom Poetry: 05/02/09

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Saturday, May 02, 2009. It holds the page together,. Makes my pen a one-piece. And yet when I write. The day becomes scattered. Between lines, scrawled. To the edges, unstuck. To the graffiti decorating. The wall under the bridge. Where empty needles lay. If it weren't for the tape. Torn white remnants would blow. Down the street, sweep. Up to the city, mache. With pieces of poetry. If it weren't for the tape. My words would be. I am what I am. View my complete profile. Links to Important Places.

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Chantarelle's Notebook

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May 2005 - Kristy Bowen. June 2005 - Anna Evans. July 2005 - Dan Maguire. August 2005 - Leisa Pierce. September 2005 - Andrea Jazwiecki. October 2005 - Corey Mesler. November 2005 - Rachel Bunting. December 2005 - Taylor Graham. January 2006 - Ruth Mark. February 2006 - Tanya Ranta. March 2006 - Bruce Niedt. July 2006 - Erik Linzbach. June 2015 - Bruce Niedt. Past Issues Of Chantarelle's Notebook. Issue #1 - August 2005. Issue #2 - November 2005. Issue #3 - February 2006. Issue #4 - May 2006.

waffledompoetry.blogspot.com

Waffledom Poetry

http://waffledompoetry.blogspot.com/2009/09/what-happens-to-our-memories-when-we.html

Monday, September 21, 2009. What happens to our memories when we are done with them? I am reminded of grandmother's hands,. The pale wrinkled backs she gentled with lotion,. The way her hand held mine, when we caught. The bus to shop, how her hands steadied. My back as if she were an angel protecting. All sides of me, how her hands brushed. The hair from my eyes, patted me on the back. Nudged me forward. What will happen when her hands. Are no longer a memory? Where will they go? I am what I am.

waffledompoetry.blogspot.com

Waffledom Poetry: 04/29/09

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Wednesday, April 29, 2009. Returning from the past/never look back. She marches in, all burnt orange. And exploding smiles, a loud siren. Calling, warning of impending calamity. That's already hit if she but knew it,. Marches, leading the assault. To the table where she plonks and reigns. Until one by one they leave. Her preaching to empty chairs. That no longer sing her praises. I am what I am. View my complete profile. Links to Important Places. Life, Poetry, Etcetera. My Life With Bad English.

waffledompoetry.blogspot.com

Waffledom Poetry

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Thursday, September 10, 2009. Though every kid with a spray can. Thinks he's a star, climbing. To leave his mark. As if he's the most important one,. As if he needs to prove he is the one. With the upbeat future, and digs. Too fancy to soil. He'll hang around big-noting, skite-ing. Of the daring danger, how the train. Near-clipped his ankle as it passed under. His fancy paint-job. Another night. There'll be a new decoration, some other kid,. Some other gang battling behind the tags. I am what I am.

waffledompoetry.blogspot.com

Waffledom Poetry: 04/28/09

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Tuesday, April 28, 2009. There is a lady who paints her face. That it bars neighbour's smiles,. Stops them in their tracks. Forcing them to step aside. As she passes from home. To car, to shops and back. As if she had no care left. No concerns of time, or food,. That will be replenished, eventually. No amount of tears. Changes her stance, her face. Must go on, regardless. Of the memories that visit her. At night when it doesn't matter. If her eyeshadow is green, or blue. I am what I am.

waffledompoetry.blogspot.com

Waffledom Poetry

http://waffledompoetry.blogspot.com/2010/01/its-past-rabbit-season-every-day-is.html

Thursday, January 14, 2010. It's past rabbit season. Every day is summer [speaking of seasons], sunshine. Dries the sand between cracked cobbles, cooks. The skinks' skin as they lay lazily on garden mulch. Much remains the same - shadows disappear. At midday, rats feed on blown flax seeds. And the grass gradually grows, although always slowly now,. Until it too is taught to conform. Behind the bright, seeps a river of doubt. Maybe it'll be okay now, maybe. There's no need to make drastic changes, maybe.

waffledompoetry.blogspot.com

Waffledom Poetry: 05/18/09

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Monday, May 18, 2009. Somewhere between suckling at the breast. And now, she grew up. Gathered her skins close, lit. The leftovers with a blow torch. And marched on through. Non-stop until her print. Was etched in black and white. And framed on a prominent wall. I am what I am. View my complete profile. Links to Important Places. Life, Poetry, Etcetera. My Life With Bad English. Poem Hunter . Com. Achiever Somewhere between suckling at the breast.

waffledompoetry.blogspot.com

Waffledom Poetry: 10/01/09

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Thursday, October 01, 2009. The clothes my poems wear. These days they are dressed in tailored. Truths that will fill black caves with a light. So eerily bright one blinks. Once. I draped them in gowns and masks,. Muslins and facinators to catch. The eye, beautified them. Hoping to enhance their look. The appeal was fleeting. It is easier to endow them in a well cut suit,. Pearls and elegant heels that click. And scrape occasionally on concrete, just. To see if they can still capture your attention.