Sunday, April 27, 2014

Bill Knott

Dream Amid Bed-Woods
Bill Knott

You must pull down sheets from these linen trees,
Blankets too, a pillowcase in full leaf,
But can’t: to snooze amidst their fruits, beneath
The sheath of that composite canopy’s

Roost, you must raise yourself past hammock heights—
Up where its deepest roots feel doubly sapped,
The dormitory orchard might lie wrapped
And ripe with you, whose foliage still invites

More lure of surface sleep. But must you trust
The ease in these boughs, the sway of whose loft
So often now wakes vows to never rest,

To somehow remain alow, to resist
All berth above: you must push off this soft
Palleted grove, this tall, forest mattress.

Just a poetry page

Friday, April 18, 2014


Not Again, Never.  Stop it NOW!  In total shock over this, it may seem small but it isn't.

Going Back

Now and then I think about them
the shadow people, those ones
I never really knew

I relive the love, hate, dramatic
fever bubbling just below
that surface we called reality.

The stuff of consumption
sucked stars right out
out of a velvet sky

blew them back out
into milky ways nowhere
close to what we knew before.

The madness of it all
the endless pits into which to fall
the devil with his cold hands

welcomed any quick descent
until something else
at the surface tugged

and I clung
eyes focused toward
stars distorted upside-down

in a sea of glass.

Debbie Calverley

Two Poems by Maureen McLane

What's the Matter

Why the low mood,
the picking at food?
Maybe it's the weather.

Maybe it's hormones.
Explanation's cheap
but sometimes hits the mark.

I am the target
of mysterious arrows
I myself let sling.

O that's your fantasy
of omnipotence.
You make everything 

your thing.

All day I stayed in bed.
It seemed someone else
must have been alive

have done what I did.
Failed to do
what I failed to.

It's still in my head
those things I did
and said and cared for

doing but it's all gone
white like green hills
in certain light

as Dante says the hillsides
can go white
in the middle of a new life.

Even Those

Even the places
the sun doesn't reach
in the deepest woods
are hot. Even the places

that never dry—the mosses
creeping everywhere
a damp carpet underfoot—
are dry. Even the quietest

places you've never been
are disquieted by your cry.
Even those places.

This Blue 

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Open Book

Open Book
Time was, your hands were on me night and day.
(The thrill along my spine!) Of course I flipped
for you, from A to Z and back to A,
not once suspecting our romantic script
was doomed (and how), you fickle, shallow fool.
You've traded everything you shared with me—
defining moments, leisurely, old school—
for quickies with your laptop, your PC, 
your iPad, iPhone, iDon't-Give-a-Damn:
amid their breathless litany of news,
blogs, tweets, directions, recipes and spam,
they will, at any moment that you choose,
look up a word (or dozens!) in a flash.
Well, here's a definition I find merry:
Comeuppance (noun): when all your gadgets crash,
and you crawl back to me—your dictionary.

Walking in on People

Saturday, April 5, 2014


Spring? Worst winter in Manitoba since 1898 - so ready...