Don’t expect anything great, and you might only be moderately disappointed at the lack of surprise.

Posted: April 7, 2010 in Ink's Poetry

So I owe you my past progress for 30 poems in 30 Days, eh? Below, you’ll find what I’ve conjured up for the first 7. Many are still in progress, so your disappointment is fully justified. Some I’m relatively happy with as is.


Click here to read numbers 1 through 7 of 30



The snowman lost a tooth
frowning under armies of raindrops
advancing the right of spring.

His right coal eye,
one and a half inches below his left
watched lawn reclaimed
from winter’s bulky fingerprints,
a shrinking island
stranded in rising waters.

Washing the ground out from under him,
the following day found the snowman’s best poker face
impaled on a sea of tiny green pikes.

Having lent his eyes to the grass,
he could not see the sun,
flashed back instead
to inherited memories
formed from merging flakes
molded by rainbow-patterned mittens.

Back to #1-7


Only in dazed consciousness
was I woken,
aware the breath of life
that punctured my lips
was instinctive;
insistent lungs
driven by a heart
that still doesn’t know
when to stop.

Back to #1-7


a poem starting with a Louise Glück line

I fell asleep in the river, I woke in the river,
the river swallowed me, the river gargled me,
the river flowed through small towns, the river changed names,
I saw the releasing arms of land, I renamed the river, ocean,

I fell asleep in the ocean, I woke in the ocean,
the ocean intimated a nightmare, the ocean said it was a secret,
the ocean solemnly insisted, the ocean was a bed on which no-one could lay,
I imagined a boat-less bed, I pictured a clear blue sky,

I fell asleep in the ocean, I woke in a dream,
the dream was of a nervous cradle, the dream was of my body being rocked
the dream was of the ocean’s permeable arms, the dream made the ocean’s arms weak,
I slipped through the ocean’s arms, I felt the ocean wave back to land

I fell beneath a bed, I dream beneath a bed,
the bed remembers a lover, the bed practices holding her,
the bed is too warm to build muscle, the bed never grows ice,
I sleep under a boat-less bed, I know the eternal caress of currents,

Back to #1-7


Her heart bore broken-off bits of keys
coded to so many corroded locks
that it did not pump,
but blood stream jingled
and breast clanked
with each heave
of involuntary motion
while turning to trudge away
from welcome mats
lying in front of closing doors.

Back to #1-7


Too crowded was the bar,
so the poet, bereft of his
favourite bartender
waved hello from afar.

Back to #1-7


A ubiquitous nature
denotes the willingness of God,
that finger thrust deep
into every pool of experience.

Back to #1-7


Before boats bore buttons
that launched bombs
that split atoms
that split Adams
into eves of desolation,
metal shells punctured flesh,
bullet pointing death
like grains of red sand
fallen through a cracked hourglass.

Before triggers decided
the moment of mortality,
there were strings and rods
and sharpened stone,
velocity that insisted
on penetration alone,
warriors who turned
from common prey
to their own.

Before distance was warrior’s friend,
polished steel of blacksmiths
blinded opponents with light,
made gashes and slashes forthwith
on the left and to the right.
And if without sword opponents met,
with steely eyes stung with sweat,
armor and muscle and bones were whet
to slake battle’s desire
for hero to be met.

Before all of this, was nothing known?
This path to violence all we’ve been shown?
We struggle daily, but how have we grown?
For all the blood the Earth’s absorbed,
what wicked crops have yet to be sewn?

Back to #1-7


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