dust on the prayer table
shrine sits unattended –
just the other day –
a new memory.
hand in hand
with my son
to your door.
The crazy paving
lay beneath our feet
as we stepped onto
the marble topped
Waiting at the caravan door,
with delightful anticipation,
we hear your quickening steps
and there you are:
Bursting with excitement,
blooming with emotion
to have and hold your
daughter and grandson.
Dad is behind you
reserved with pride and pleasure.
Your embrace is the warmest:
offering comfort that can
be found nowhere else.
We chat, play, laugh,
eat, walk, cry, and share
until evening comes.
Tashi settles in his cot,
And I’m in my old bed.
The chill damp air is familiar
and strangely reassuring.
Dad wipes the condensation
from the windows then retires.
When Tashi wakes for an early feed,
you come and join us, taking joy
in watching my love for him.
I might be a mother now, but
you are mine still and you pop
to the stove to warm me some milk.
We return to sleep and when I awake
I’m heartened to have this new memory,
crafted from my childhood impressions,
bringing you back to life with me
(For my mother Sylvia Kempton)
crazy paving wobble –
16 months it took
for me to finally toddle.
still touches texture –
paving my way
back home in history.
reawakens senses –
my finger traces
once existing edges.
as if it could exist –
Stone cold reality
of everything I miss.
[photo found @ Pinterest]
My body cries
my body gives a
I lack his latch.
Bottle beckons –
Gradual coaxing then
mother and son meet.
My body cries
milk tears –
joy of early
It’s been a long time since I posted a new poem, but I’ve been busy with the results of another (pro)creative project! This is an early reflection on dealing with a newborn (who is now 3 months old).
My posting has been quiet of late due to other aspects of my life crowding out my time, but I have scribbled a few lines from time to time in my notebook, so at some point new poems will appear here. In the meantime, take a trip over to VerseWrights where my poem “Existential Origami” has just been published. (Here’s the link to more of my poetry on VerseWrights).
Over the last couple of months I have been busily engaged in writing a journal article on physiological effects of meditation. Given the need to write with scientific precision, my poetry brain has been neglected. Having finished the article, I’ve seized the opportunity to try out a Dada poem by selecting a random line for each page of the article, then weaving those lines into the following poem:
Nonbeing, no world, no existence –
continually grasp at our sense of self, as if we were permanent and non-changing.
Teaching “emptiness to the untrained” being a violation of the Mahayana,
providing negative descriptions of meditation experience.
potential to harness the placebo effect.
Operational definition – spiritual transformation,
similar considerations of spiritual and contextual practice.
Yoga techniques prepare themselves,
meditators, the more experienced group showed less activation,
telemore maintenance, reduced expression of genes,
yielding improved performance on visual and spatial working memory tasks.
Seize opportunities that offer the potential to increase our understanding.
And if that was hard going, try reading Nanni Balestrini’s novel “Tristano”, where each copy is randomly varied. My copy is #11652, and while it was an interesting experience, I can’t say it was a particularly enjoyable read.
Just a quick update to say that my poem Self-Immolation has been published on VerseWrights. Take a look around the site and see the poetry of some fantastic poets in written, spoken, and video form!
She sits in sunshine
– not in her private room.
Communal lounge an open space,
fresh air filtering aging staleness,
curtains straining light, a translucent
membrane partitioning her internal
present from her external past.
She’s self-aware. She knows
she won’t remember my name.
She knows that facts are missing,
memories are slipping. She knows
she misses her sons, but how many
she can’t recall.
Her fingers fidget, nails immaculate,
shaped in soft rose enamel,
her daughter’s act of tenderness.
But she would never ask
her children to come.
We talk as others bleat:
baa-baa-baa single syllable
repeats – an adult child returned
to the babbling phase.
The sound fades as staff stall
his daily escape attempt.
We look on, as she looks on
this descent of man,
knowing her own trajectory,
mind falling in slow motion.
We talk of weather, the darkness and
continual rain. She doesn’t believe
in letting it get her down – we must
make our own sunbeams.
So here she sits in sunshine
– not in her private room.
A poem inspired by a lady in a dementia wing where I volunteer as a visitor for Age Concern. (Photo credit: Sunday Times)
Tracking retractions as a window into the scientific process
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
we were born naked onto the page of existence; with nothing but the pen of our soul to write ourselves into eternal ecstasy ~ DreamingBear Baraka Kanaan
Critical analysis of scholarly open-access publishing
ON = TIME
Some poet called Holly Magill
Get your poison, love.
Contemplations expressed through the written word...
dispatches from my home planet
Apophenia and creativity in poetry
Writing Fiction by Installment
musings of a self-proclaimed weirdo
Poetry by Walter Marks
My life in a snapshot
"We're all out there, somewhere, waiting to happen."
Thinking, writing, thinking about writing...
Poetry, musings and sightings from where the country changes
Poet (of sorts). I'm hiding behind your curtains.
The Musings of N. E. Skull
Poet playing in the bowels of vowels and kicking across consonants, I run roughshod through uncooperative words and strike an inking rhyme or two. Copyright © 2012-2014 Tiffany Coffman All Rights Reserved
"This is just the kind of sense that's... not."
A work in progress
Museum of Fiction
Words of Wonder, Worry and Whimsy
Poetry from a Dublin Scientist
You can't break up with a soul mate
Writings and Witterings
Poetry is the Mother of Necessity
Poetry from Paul Mortimer
** OFFICIAL Site of Artist Ray Ferrer **
raccoon + traveling bookstore + Nostrovia! Press
The literary works of Kevin Connelly, poetry, fiction, prose and photography
Poetry. Travel. Et cetera.
The Total Book Experience
Poetry by David Eric Cummins
A collection of poetry and essays on politics, social justice and the condition of humanity
Looking for the Light
Nature's nuances in a nutshell
poetry by claudia schoenfeld