Posts Tagged ‘poetry’
red sled
~
on her sled
~
~
from the window
I watch her
she is one red mitten, lost
on the path, smitten
by the four-footed track
of a wild rabbit
hurrying home
or the toe of a red
shoe, peeks from under
the hem of a white
crinoline, a cardinal launches
from one tree, snow-laden
to another
~
~
Copyright. 2015 Jane Tims
snow across the landscape
~
end of day
~
new-feathered, the valley
a black and white wing
stretches from horizon
the beat encloses
clouds and winter sky
field under snow, the back
of a settling dove
a lone skier presses
towards shelter, and
amber streak of sky
~
~
~
Copyright 2014 Jane Tims
falling snow
~
busy snow
~
pecks at
the window edge
lays cold feathers
along the glass
builds a humped man
around the backbone
of the mugo pine
startles the
grazing deer
~
~
Copyright 2014 Jane Tims
~
~
December garlands
~
in December
~
we gather pine cones
wreaths of lion’s paw
hawthorn, cedar boughs
and juniper
~
we walk the wild ways
pruners and scissors
baskets and stout cord
to bind bunches of
branches
~
balsam and holly
berries and garlands
of evergreen, red
rosehips and acorns,
gilded, needles and
thorns
~
~
~
© Jane Tims 2014
the influence of brothers
~
~
the influence of brothers
~
she says
I feel memory blue
today I found your brother’s G.I. Joe combat jeep
inside its trunk a canvas tent little zippered sleeping bags plastic explosives tiny guns
just as he put it all away
last day he played
~
I laugh
she says
you wait
your son will grow
and leave his toys behind
~
she misunderstands
I am remembering the day I found my box of Barbie
nylon dresses impossible buttons plastic heels and
inside her vanity with opening drawers
Barbie’s teeny tiny cold cream jars her nail polish her comb
and her
teeny
tiny
hand grenade
~
~
~
Copyright 2014 Jane Tims
sharing the grey woods
a poor photo of a ruffed grouse in one of the trees behind our house
~
We share our grey woods with so many plants and animals. Sadly, our interactions do not always benefit the wild life.
The big panes of glass in our picture windows have brought disaster to so many birds. If the sun shines just right, the glass is like a mirror. When a bird sees the reflection of trees and sky, it must think it is flying deeper into the woods. I find keeping the window curtains closed removes the mirror illusion and prevents some collisions.
Sometimes, we will hear a thump and by the time we investigate, the bird will have recovered. Sometimes the bird is not so lucky.
~
~
Heartbeat
~
alive in morning birdsong thud thud thudding in my ears
slow as a pulse then faster final beats too quick to count
a spruce grouse in the thicket on a mound of leaves
drumming for a mate
~
all day
I thought of him
and smiled
~
buried in evening birdsong a thud on the window
the partridge sighing in the grass
tail narrowed feathers ruffled at his neck oddly bent
fingers on his throat
faint flutter
blood from his beak
~
I smoothed him into a mound of dead leaves
inspected the window
a feather stuck to the glass
moved as though nostrils drew faint breath
~
nothing broken
~
~
Copyright 2014 Jane Tims
newfall of snow
~
~
newfall: words escape me
~
the white ephemeral
perhaps frost
the fir boughs divided
the sculptured steel
of a flake of snow
~
try again
~
paper stencil
on chocolate cake
powdered sugar
sifted on the rills
of the new plowed field
~
again
~
sweet in my mouth
the bitter melted in morning sun
white hot on my cheek
the writing lamp
~
a lamp to the left
casts no shadow
(the shadow of a pen
or a hand)
~
(unless you are wrong-handed)
~
chimney shadow
on a fresh-snowed roof
or trees on the eastern edge of the road
where the sun cannot warm
~
the morning
dusting of ice
~
try again
~
~
~
Published as ‘newfall: words escape me’, The Fiddlehead 196, Summer 1998.
Copyright 2014 Jane Tims
abandoned meeting house
~
~
the meeting house
~
~
crooked clapboards
doors nailed shut
remember
~
they argued
into the supper hour
words threaded, knotted
~
violent voices
eyes wool, ears cotton, lips
flax flayed to linen
~
over wages paid
to the man who splits
the wood, stokes the fire
~
at home, needles
slid, silent, through layers
of quilting
~
women forgot their thimbles
pricked thumbs
left blood on fabric
~
~
Copyright 2014 Jane Tims
November first frost
~
November first frost
~
air brittle, a broken
sliver of moon between
disrobing larches, silence
ruptured by craven’s cry
~
~
~
© Jane Tims 1995
crows too
~
~
Grim Women
~
1.
~
the crows burden the trees
gather their iron grits
criticize one another
~
they slip through gaps
in the matrix
and are gone
~
their wings are bruises
on the afternoon
~
their wind is deliberate
and desperate
hardened to the goal
~
2.
~
in black
grim women
watch one-another
hide the key
beneath the doormat
and glide
towards the town
~
~
Published as ‘Grim Women’, Women & Environments International Magazine (WEIM) No 86/87 Spring/Summer, 2011, p 8
Copyright 2014 Jane Tims
~
nichepoetryandprose 