Monday, January 20, 2020
* * My new poems here to date: 1,153* *
The header above is out my back window just about dawn.
wordcurrents is on Facebook now.
Also new: You can now “Share” and “Like” my posts. Please do so. You will see the buttons below each post.
Over time, I have taken my own advice and compiled a collection of my favourite poems from this site. I did this by clicking on the “Add to favorites” link below the archive version of each poem that I like a lot. (If you don’t see the link, click on the post’s title to get to the archive version.) Each selection is stored in your own list, accessible in the “Lists” menu, above.
If you are a subscriber, your list is stored in the site database. If you are not a subscriber, the list is stored on your computer in a cookie, which deletes your list if you delete the cookie. All lists are private; even I can’t access any but my own. If you do have a list, I would be pleased to hear about it. Cheers.
“Popular Posts” I am amazed to discover that some of my posts have been viewed multiple tens of thousands of times in the past six years, since I enabled the counter. (see column to the right).
I was searching for my sonnets here, and discovered they are not easily come by. Here is a link to a page that starts the list of forty-eight sonnets. There are just a few on each screen, and you have to follow the link to a newer or older group: Sonnets Other types are discoverable through the Lists menu, above.
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Posted in aaa
used to be
a fun sprint up
two, three steps at a stride
a little race with myself
Remember as I muscle
up another breathy step
Posted in Poetry
Tagged aging, irony
[To be spoken]
Hello, my name is Doug, and I’m an addict.
My parents were to blame, because that day in 1937,
they urged me to inhale slash exhale.
And, wouldn’t you know it, one inhale slash exhale,
and I was ever-lovin’ hard-rock hooked.
Oxygen, first slash last my drug of choice:
one sip, one deep inhale, and I couldn’t —
resist slash stop.
Dawn to oxygen-fueled dawn
I forged my days in dragon-tree’s fiery blasts
my fading pewter helmet: testament to that orgy.
(For a while there was a chin-strap?)
Painful side-effects slash cons include
That the dawn-drawn sun — emerging from the molten river
like a bronze eye staring at my noodling slash paranoia
then sinking at day’s end behind royal rags of sky —
plays such painful mortal music in my core.
And the terrible beauty of the silence cuts me:
in the rooms, after voices, giggles in the dark, fade away,
then I can inhale the stark quintessence
of the beating heart of earth and hear the breath
that hums over the strings of a spider’s cello.
Perhaps in years to come (between bagpipe duets slash soliloquies)
some of you will sit here listening to the silences.
Some will slash can not, but today, my friends and loves:
today I say life is a gas that drifts away:
inhale deeply slash exhale.
July 15, 2017