verlie burroughs

Angel If the ancients only knew what they were heading into. No inkling of the extraterrestrials travelling in the everywhen through all dimensions, free falling fuggheads  too numerous to mention. Slipping through gateways and portals, Replicants, Androids, and all manner of space trash. Meanwhile back on the planet A full flower moon and  mass migration  of birds tonight Turn down the lights! If you listen quietly you can you almost hear  their flight If they only knew what they are heading into. It’s open season on angels here With help from Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary & Historical Dictionary of Science Fiction  Day 30 Prompt: In his poem, “ Angels ,” Russell Edson speaks of these spiritual warrior-messenger-guardians as if they were a type of endangered animal. Brief as it is, the poem is disorienting in its use of flattened diction, odd similes, and elliptical statements. Today, try writing your own poem that discusses a real or mythical being or p...

Now I’ve seen a lot of doors  I’ve lived so many places Now I don’t go far How far back do we go? Past is only seconds ago Be here now     Day 29 Prompt: compare your everyday present life with your past self, using specific details to conjure aspects of your past and present in the reader’s mind.

Dear Poet Oizys Your words are like an artifact,   are art, in fact. How long will they last, and who will hear them  anyway you ask?  Forever I say, you’re blazing a new path  for all of us.   Day 28 Prompt: Today, try writing a poem that follows these beats: three sentences, six lines: statement, question, conclusion. Note: Praise for the brilliant poet Oizys who I discovered on this journey.

  Curtain call If it’s your first rodeo or your one last ride farewell Be bold, you know (It’s your show) don’t be afraid to fall Who’s going to remember anyway It’s not over til the final curtain call Day 27 Prompt: write a poem in which all the verses contain the same number of lines (whether couplets, triplets, quatrains, etc.) and in which you give the reader instructions of some kind. Note: just cheering myself (and others) on the last leg of this April poetry marathon.

  A poem For me a poem  is a little song like a bird’s song that you hear  and then it’s gone but the memory lingers on. Day 26 prompt: Today, we challenge you to write your own  ars poetica , giving the reader some insight into what keeps you writing poetry, or what you think poetry should do.

Coming Out of Hibernation When I went out to wash the car yesterday  I was prepared,  with my (red) bucket  of soapy water and a brush And that made all the difference In my straw hat, my loose pink shirt  and ripped up jeans I felt very avant-garde  I can’t explain it, It was just a feeling like Van Gogh getting ready painting The sun was shining  Birds were singing It was absolutely gorgeous I almost did a pirouette  I washed the car in a kind of trance brushed and rinsed away  the winter bloom of green (algae) The car seemed to respond to me almost purring like a cat. Up the street a dog was barking (at a cat?) in a neighbour’s driveway pulling on a leash, a drama I ignored My car seemed to sigh in relief as we continued with the spa Splash, splash, splash I gave myself a little shower It was invigorating in the heat! All last night I worried like a dog having a bad dream Did I turn off the hose? Turning and turning in my sleep Not sure if I wa...

Night write Poems pass like trains  in the middle of the night Journeys underway They are carrying heavy freight The weight of our dreams. Note: written years ago and posted on another site; bringing it back for another airing because it seems to fit today’s prompt. Day 24 Prompt: write a poem that takes place at night, and describes something magical or strange that happens but that no one is awake (or around) to notice.  

  Villanelle purgatory Just give me five tercets, something French and existential Five tercets, and an aba rhyme scheme followed by a quatrain It looks easy on the page. What is the secret to the villanelle? All my scribble is going to hell tryin to write a villanelle I had to look it up, oh well, and I got more confused with every page I want to write something swell, something French and existential I wonder if all poets dwell in this special kind of hell Scribbling rhymes in villanelle, until they give up in a rage It looks easy on the page, what is the secret to the villanelle? At least I know now what a tercet is. Oh yes i know it very well But the strict rhyming is beginning to feel a little like a cage What I need is something special, something French and existential Finally on the fifth stanza, I’m getting there and that’s essential One must go on even if it’s dreadful, at least it’s something on the page (Even if not widely appreciated) What is the damn secret to the vil...

While reading The Love Song of J. Alfred Pruefrock Shall we go out at dawn and walk along the path, and enjoy the cherry blossom scented air And you can take your walking stick (and you can lean on it, admiring the forget-me-nots sprinkled everywhere)  Watch your step (the creeping blackberry winds along the edges of the path and will grab you with its hidden thorns) Are you getting tired now? Please let me find you a chair  And we can sit for awhile and listen to the Robins sing  between the silences that sound a lot like prayer. Day 22    Prompt: write a poem in which the speaker is in dialogue with self. Note: this is as close as I could get. My apologies to T.S. Eliot.  

Pagoda Garden Mae called me  wu-li   at the chinese cafe where I worked for chips and gravy (on special days chicken chow mein) Day 21 prompt: muse on your name and nicknames you’ve been given  

  Raven In Kwakw a k a 'wakw legend  it was Raven who first  brought light to the world Raven the trickster, the creator! Lifted the lid of the wooden box  with his powerful beak And released the Sun  Once when I was driving    in my car on my way home to the beach I looked up and saw a pair of them  flying side by side, ahead of me For a few miles we were travelling  at about the same pace  It was lovely!    And for a moment  I felt like they were accompanying me I’ve seen them gathered at the grave yard,   after a burial,    just standing around like guests Are you paying your respects ? I ask But the Ravens don’t answer me . I’ve had the privilege to see some beautiful artwork depicting the Raven creation story in prints and carving made by Kwakiutl artist Calvin Hunt at his Copper Maker gallery, in Fort Rupert BC.   Our Land | Our People | Living Tradition, The Kwakwaka'wakw Potlatch on the Nor...

  Flora Sweet Alyssum ~  Worth beyond beauty Azalea  ~ Temperance Balm of Gilead  ~ Cure    Relief Bay Tree  ~ Glory Bluebell  ~ Constancy Camomile  ~ Energy in adversity Cedar Leaf  ~ I live for thee Chickweed  ~ Rendezvous Chicory  ~. Frugality Coreopsis  ~ Always cheerful Crocus, Spring  ~ Youthful gladness Crocus, Saffron  ~ Mirth Day 19 Prompt: pick a flower or two (or a whole bouquet, if you like) from this online edition of Kate Greenaway’s  Language of Flowers . Now, write your own poem in which you muse on your selections’ names and meanings. If you’re so inclined, you could even do some outside research into your flowers, and incorporate facts that you learn into your work.

I went down to Tilbury Town looking for Poetry I heard she used to work at the fish factory But it had been awhile since she’d been seen I fancied myself a new age Don Quixote  My Rocinante an old Barracuda  with an ashtray (and a potato for gas cap) And that’s what got me in trouble They stopped us at the ferry dock You cannot board like that !  (they hadn’t noticed on the way over) You’ll have to find a gas cap And that was that I could not cross over the wine dark sea to continue my search for Poetry I’m in exile now in Tilbury Town  And Poetry is not around Sancho and I are parked at a garage where we    wait  until a new gas cap arrives Maybe Tuesday                                                         ~ to be continued                        ...

Skirting the Cape          ~ visiting the lighthouse (reading your poems Julia) It is still beautiful (all these years later) The rock is sun-warmed where we lounge propped up on elbows watching the waves crash below Ron is reciting behind his binoculars  Naming the familiar fishing boats by their colours as they cut through turbulent waters skirting the Cape  On Saturday we go to town in the life raft (to take me back) We    see some of those same folks at the dock And some stop and chat                                   …about firewood, gooseberries and foundation posts, And when you get home, you write a poem  about it (of course you do)                  a conversation,    [you] take home           like a bunch of flowers            ...