The Path

Others have walked this way before
left their stories here.

A bevy of young boys scamper
laughing, pushing, daring
one falls, scrapes his knee
he doesn’t cry
‘cause boys don’t cry.
He gets up, brushes gravel off his knee
runs to catch up with the others

A young couple in love
he plays the gentleman,
holds his hand out to help her down the slope
She’s a New Woman, refuses.
They aren’t lovers anymore.

Another couple
he slips
she grabs him
they both fall into the grass
giggling at the ridiculousness of it all
then discover clouds above.
There’s a ship.
No, it’s a horse.

A man walks alone
walking off his loss
his wife beside him only in his memory
his tears wet the grass.

I step onto the path
my story merges with theirs.

#Poem #Paths #Memories #Stories #MargaretGHanna

White

Sweet scent fills the air
Wind-blown white flurries drift by.
Blizzard of blossoms

The pear tree is always the first to bloom. She stands vainly, a glory of white when other trees sport only the meagerest green haze. Bees and wasps nuzzle her blossoms and, intoxicated with pollen and nectar, buzz drunkenly back to their nest. Waxwings whistle as they chow down on her blossoms. A robin proclaims her as part of his territory and defies anyone to take her from him. The heady smell of spring foretells the promise of autumn bounty.

The west wind arrives. It goes where it will, and everything in its way must survive or bow before it. It cares naught for beauty or vanity. The wind strips her blossoms, tears her dress to tatters, flings petals thither and yon, not caring where they fall. They gather in drifts or lie trapped in the grass, shreds and patches of past glory.

The wind departs. Her glory is gone. She is just an ordinary tree, clothed in green, humbled until next spring.

(This is my first attempt at haibun, a Japanese literary form combing prose and haiku.)

#Haibun #Haiku #PearBlossoms #Fiction #Spring #Poetry #Prose #MargaretGHanna

Christmas Eve

‘Tis midnight. Now the witching hour begins
When mysteries are revealed; when angels sing;
When snowmen, wearing magic hats, will dance;
When flying reindeer land on roofs and prance.

‘Tis midnight, time of endings and beginnings,
When past and future meet, and in that meeting
Demand that we mere mortals must decide
To stay the course or dare to take the tide.

‘Tis midnight, darkest time of all the year
When doubt and disappointment nurture fear.
But even as darkest night gives way to morn,
So even in darkest hour new hope is born.

So let us live in hope and not despair
And work in faith to birth new day most fair.

 

#ChristmasEve #Meditation #Sonnet #Poem #Hope #Faith #MargaretGHanna #BWLAuthor

In the beginning . . .

Cosmos2_1
Cindy Zampa: Cosmos 2 (used with permission)

In the beginning
chaos and confusion reigned

I did not speak.

The miasma of elements and energy swirled
drifted to and fro
pulsing
pulsing
pulsing.

I did not speak.

The unspoken word is formless, shapeless,
full of potential, opportunity, future, hope

The spoken word takes flesh and form,
is solid, fixed.
takes its own course with consequences
unimagined and unimaginable.

What is spoken cannot be unspoken
what is done cannot be undone

And thus I dared not speak.

But then you took my hand in yours.
I looked into your face,
saw Wisdom in your eyes,
heard you say, “You are not alone,”

And then We spoke.

(Inspired by Cindy Zampa’s Voice and Vision 2019 painting Cosmos 2. The poem combines elements of two Judeo-Christian creation stories: the first chapter of the Book of Genesis and the creation story as narrated by Wisdom (a woman) in Chapter 8 of the Book of Proverbs.)

You can see more of Cindy’s art here.

#VoiceAndVision2019 #Creation #Poetry #SpokenWord #CindyZampa #MargaretGHanna #Meditation

Blah! Blah! Blah!

They bury us ‘neath heaps of words
And promises galore,
With e-mails, tweets and Instagram
And knockings on our door,
With TV ads and streetside signs
Till we cry out, “No more!”

“Where’s the wisdom and the vision
That unifies this lot?
We see no indication that
You’ve given it much thought.
Without that, all your promises
Are so much tommy-rot.”

 

(We are in the midst of a federal election, with politicians from all parts of the spectrum vying to buy our votes with our money. Do I sound cynical?)

#FederalElection #Promises #Politicians #Poem #Humour #Poetry #MargaretGHanna

Beets (Ick!)

Oh, rosy, ruby, rotund root,
for you I do not give a hoot.
I do not like you if you are
roasted, boiled, in a jar,
or served in sauce some think divine –
you’ll not pollute this plate of mine.

Howe’er, your greens are quite delish.
I’ll let them grace my dinner dish.
Stir-fried with onion, not too much,
A little garlic, just a touch.
Served with butter, salt and pepper,
there’s no dish that I like better.

Stay off my plate, you bleedin’ beet.
I want your greens beside my meat.

But if you’re served as borscht or cake
I’ll have you then upon my plate.

 

#Poem #Humour #Food #MargaretGHanna

Can’t-Think-of-Anything-to-Write Rant

Can’t write!
Nothing to write about!
No way, Jose.
My pen’s out of ink.
I have no paper,
I have no pencil.
My computer’s broke,
My brain is broke,
So there!

Can’t manage a single original thought
or even an unoriginal thought.

Can’t think of anything witty
inspiring
thoughtful
insightful
profound,
not that I ever did.

Or anything stupid,
dumb
mundane
trashy
boring,
although I’m able to at other times.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll think of something to write.
But not today.

(Recently, I seem to be afflicted by “writer’s block.” If I can’t think of anything to write about, then I might was well write about not being able to think of anything to write about. Or something.)

#WritersBlock #Humour #Writing #Creativity #Rant #Inspiration #Poem #MargaretGHanna

In Honour of International Refugee Day

The Refugee’s Rebuke

I will be stronger, so say you,
But you don’t live this nightmare through.

You live in peace and safety there
And know not war, and yet you dare

To say to me, I should not fear?
You’d not say that if you lived here.

I live with grief, I live with strife,
I’ve lived with war throughout my life.

I see the bodies in the street,
Heads and torsos, limbs and feet.

I see the shredded blood-soaked clothing,
I see the hate, I see the loathing.

I hear my children’s night time cries.
They dream that death lives in the skies.

Safety’s secure as shifting sands,
No choice but to escape these lands.

Our homes are bombed, our neighbours dead,
And we survivors live in dread.

We hear the bombs and bullets flying.
We hear the cries of people dying

All in the name of righteousness.
A lie! It’s human spitefulness

Born of envy, fueled by hate,
That drives us to this horrid state.

A bullet’s not the dove of peace.
A bomb will never bring surcease.

“God’s on our side,” our leaders cry.
With that, they try to justify

The bombs and mortars that rain down
On every neighbourhood and town.

Out of that death, what do they gain?
An inch of land? A glorious name?

While those of us who live in tents,
Our lives destroyed, our homeland rent,

We bear the brunt of heinous deeds
Regardless of our race and creed.

So you who sit in easy chairs
And crow about the alms you share,

I say to you, please, hear our voice.
Armageddon’s not our choice.

Like you, we long for days of peace.
Like you, we pray that war will cease.

And like your children – safe, secure –
We want that ours can go to school

And learn that kindness, gentleness
Will out-trump hate, intolerance,

And make this world a better place
For everyone of every race.

(Inspired, in part, by the aphorism, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”)

#InternationalRefugeeDay #Refugees #War #Genocide #Persecution #Poem #MargaretGHanna

Our heads too oft are turned . . .

Our heads too oft are turned by shiny things.
We are deceived to think that what we want
is what we need, but no. ‘Tis all illusion
devised by high-paid shillers to entice.

We measure riches, not in joy and peace,
but things amassed we think will awe our neighbours
And we allow ourselves beguiled to be
by things that fill a space but soon grow old

and leave us just as empty as before.
‘Tis fantasy. The glitz and glamour promised
turns to rust and dross – Fool’s Gold is all –
And fools are we to chase the empty dream.

Though we amass great treasure on this earth
‘Tis friends and family measure our true worth.

(inspired by a painting of two Magpies on their nest)

#Sonnett #Poem #Poetry #Magpies #Illusion #Deception #TrueTreasure #FamilyAndFriends