Tried to Make a Nest

Posted April 1, 2019 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized

Tags: , ,

Tried to make a nest

She tried to make a nest upon his chest,
as if by folding into him
she could get him to hold her.

She liked to think of the light there as blue
but it was grey.
The chill of cement
as she walked to him, then bent to look for
a hollow, to fit into
a hollow,
could still be recalled
by her bared feet,
the hard cement beneath
whatever they covered it with.

   

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Draftish poem for Marian’s prompt on Real Toads about changes in love. 

Can Humans Smell Beauty

Posted February 17, 2019 by ManicDdaily
Categories: drawings, poetry

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Can Humans Smell Beauty

She sensed him more and more
when he was no more.
His scent filled hands otherwise vacant.
“I can’t” was all she would have said,
had she said.

The scent was not of rot, or cold,
but of the boldly fresh, the warm,
that is to say, a child’s head,
sun suddenly, the sweetness of just sitting
on a picnic table
or swing,
the aroma of singing or of being able
to sing,
what you hold to your breast when you notice
your heart beating,
or hurting,
that kind of thing,
what you hold to your breast
when it’s your heart you would hold. 

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For Magaly Guerrero’s prompt on Real Toads, which included the great question, which is the title here.  It doesn’t quite work as the title, but I haven’t come up with something else. 

The drawing is also mine (Karin Gustafson).  As always, all rights reserved. 

Moment

Posted February 8, 2019 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry

Tags: , , , , ,

Moment

I’m sitting on the train;
it’s all so much the same,
why does it always change?
this sitting on the train.

The strips along the platform
as yellow as they fade,
Now spray paint swelling every wall
but not much to be read,

sure, missives of a sort —
initials blown to bubble;
train jitter jars then starts again (again)
through city rubble.

I long for something shining
not metal and not glass;
will the dulled to sparkle,
what’s passed to not be past;

rest one hand against my lips,
think small moist palms (once kids),
then feel (imagined) yours, dry, warm,
as a kiss upon closed lids.

Now, we cross the river,
a train next track smears blue,
as I still wait for that some time
when I was me, you you.

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A drafty sort of poem for my prompt on Real Toads to write about this very moment. 

I’m sorry to have been so absent; I have been working working at work, but also have put out a couple of books–one about the death of my mother, called Momoir, Maybe, and a new children’s book, Little Dog Thirsts For Adventure.  Check them out!  

 

Like Lichen

Posted November 22, 2018 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry

Tags: , , , , ,

Like Lichen

LIke lichen is like an ear is like
some leaves
is how I love you–it’s just the shape
nature makes in me.

Like a fern is like a fir, like any tree truly,
like the dendrites that bring feeling
to a hand or body,
like the fingers of that hand, the limbs
of that body–
a shape nature makes–

like a nut, an egg,
like a planet, a seed, a heart–

like a riverbed or tributary,
like roots, like lightning,
like the capillaries that traverse
even stone–

the shape nature makes in me,
the love for you. 

 

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A love poem for Thanksgiving and my prompt on With Real Toads.  Check out my most recent book if you have a chance.  Momoir, Maybe, available on Amazon.  (Or a host of children’s books.) 

And many thanks!  

 

My New Book – Momoir, Maybe

Posted September 11, 2018 by ManicDdaily
Categories: Karin Gustafson book, poetry, Uncategorized

Tags: , , , , ,

My new book, a series of micro-fictions and fact, available now. It is a book of particular interest for anyone who has, or once had, a mother. It feels like an act of stupidity, hubris or bravery–honestly, I just don’t know–to put it out, but I have worked a great deal on it and think it’s good (ha–maybe). Please check it out. Note that it is not a children’s book, though it is a pretty book in print.

Know No More

Posted September 8, 2018 by ManicDdaily
Categories: drawings, poetry

Tags: , , , ,

I have cut the plantain grove and know no more
what is to be done.

Potatoes? I must buy them in the market.
Rice spills from its bags. Rice must be bagged!

I have cut the plantain grove and
now there is no place
my sweat may drip shaded.

The green has turned to rust
that holds roots only, roots
that look like worms cut once too many,
the white worms that gather between the ribs
of the drowned then sodden ashore.

I have cut the plantain grove
and now there is no place
where we might meet,
no place to hang your ribbon, to shoulder
your dress;
there is only the rusted earth and
me with worms in my chest.

I have cut the plantain grove
for the soldiers are coming and
there is nowhere for your ribbon,
the shoulder of your dress,
only me here on this red earth
full of white worms.

I have cut my chest and lie like a worm.
And you, where are your shoulders?
And you, what ribbons
your dress?

The soldiers know how to walk
on rice, know how to line up
on potatoes; they don’t bother with forced marches,
on earth that is so soft
before trampled, so red before stained.

I have cut the plantain grove
and hide beneath
what was great and felled.

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This is a rather odd poem, written for an exercise (but it also seems to reflect my feelings about the dismal political climate.) I am posting for Toni’s prompt on Real Toads about the Void as it seems to fit that. Drawing, such as it is, is mine.

Evening Porch

Posted August 30, 2018 by ManicDdaily
Categories: poetry, Uncategorized

Tags: , , , ,

Evening Porch

I went out to an evening porch
because a bur bit at my heart.
I could not tell if it was you
or your loss that stung so smart.

The crickets rubbed a murmur synched
to a wholeness I could barely hear;
my forehead had to listen hard
harder even than my ears.

The breeze that rose from somewhere North
felt a bit like fingertips;
you too were raised in a place of cold
but rarely touched my face, my lips.

And yet this sweep of ending day
whose deep’s deep blue except where green
speaks to me of you, of you,
and means what I would have it mean:

that you loved me and I loved back,
that foreheads can be made to hear
(as now beneath the crickets’ arc
the stream’s rush cushions far and near)

so that on the planks I walk
beside a door that leads to light,
beside that blue that you’re blurred in,
I find a seat that bears with night

and try to write there till it’s dark,
write there even in the dark,
letters that feel their way along
this burdened page, unburred heart.

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Here’s a poem for my own prompt – Going, Going, Gone, on Real Toads.

Painting is mine, though not sure it goes with the poem! All rights reserved.