Poems from the Memory Bank

Poems published in Ladybug Flights a magazine you might enjoy

cronelogical — Mon, 18 Oct 2010 09:06:44 +0000

At the end of a long life
the sharpened edge of time
cuts the beaded chain of memory
into tiny segments

Breath

Our breath collects in the circle
the net moves outward
pattern changing
as newcomers settle on the edges

A single thread twists free
but wind
caught
turns back to join the others

Around a point, the pattern
shapes itself netting
knitting
each generation repeating breaks and pauses

We breath to one another
new stories for old
old stories threading together
yet we keep losing the centre

The Stone Wall

She drew the stone wall
planted her brush firmly at the bottom.

“I’ll have three rows of pink carnations
six yellow roses
and a hollyhock at either end.”
A gate? Why can’t I find a gate?
One should
be able to make a gate
in a painted wall.”
She knew-knew she couldn’t
that wall was much too solid
and too high
to make a gate.

Where water falls

Where water falls
dark banks deepen
twisted roots curve
braiding together
to hold back the earth

Deep caverns fill
and the river rat
finds new dwelling places

In dank reaches
black bats gather

The otters seek new sandbars
for their morning toilet

The black bear picks his way
more carefully climbs to a ledge
where wild raspberries
ripen in August heat

Otter and me

As my white canoe tosses
I seek shelter close to the otter
Suspicious, He glides away and loneliness
tightens my throat
Ashore, I climb
to a higher ledge
waiting
for witness

Gates

She passes
The gate has been closed
he shut it
he always does shut gates
carefully checks the latch
This puzzles her

There are spaces on either side
quite wide enough for any child
or even a small woman
to slip through, and this fence
is low, not high enough
to challenge a tall man

His lawn is always tidy, grass
close clipped, yet she
has never seen him mowing.
There are frangipani trees
in his garden but no blossoms
on his lawn.

Her gate swings in the summer wind,
a panel loose and banging
a cluster of plastic pot, one rolling
Cottoneaster berries squish on the bricks
A hovea droops on a branch
over a fish pond-the pond is darkly green
mould climbs the rocks
A spider web twists, the spider lowering
his thick body over empty carcasses

Frances Sbrocchi

Hospital

cronelogical — Sun, 21 Mar 2010 00:54:19 +0000

Now that she is very old and been in hospital for 30 days, she no longer thinks of hospital as a place of rest but rather of constant movement, waiting, meeting too many people and being poked, proded and re-defined daily.

Young Mother

cronelogical — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 01:58:51 +0000

Oh Yes– when she was younger she thought, going to the hospital with pneumonia was a real treat–she did not take her knitting to the hospital and the nurse brought her tea in the night when she was crying because she wasn’t home looking after the babies and because the cool white, clean sheets felt so good and, in the hospital everyone seemed to be looking after her and she wasn’t looking after anyone at all.

On top of the mountain

cronelogical — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 02:17:52 +0000

On top of Tod Mountain

Challenge: A poem without a verb

cronelogical — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 08:19:04 +0000

memoir without verbs
a challenge

Snow
a crystal touch on a baby’s face
four feet of white across a frozen land
purple moon shadows under pines
diamonds on tree limbs in the morning sun
weapons for school boys
walls in the school yard
my tracks across a field and those of a hare
a hundred telephone poles along my way to school
After deep winter’s darkness
spring lake
and summer field
acres of riches
the black earth
dust
dust
and yellow harvest
combines
tiny harvest mice
The table full:
potatoes, pumpkin, corn, beans , cabbage, strawberries, saskatoons, blue berries,
raspberries, choke cherries, pincherries, cranberries, carrots, turnips six inches across, bitter horseradish, beets.
Time for the fall supper
November snow

Summer Orchids

cronelogical — Sat, 15 Aug 2009 07:50:43 +0000

Waiting for spring

tiny summer orchids

brighten

my memory

Many Layered

cronelogical — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 01:07:52 +0000

After weeks of being unable to draw

cronelogical — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 02:59:31 +0000

A yellow lady slipper

The light that guides home

cronelogical — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 05:46:25 +0000

The light that guides one home

The Jar

cronelogical — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 00:56:13 +0000

A jar etched with your name
a single petal from a faded rose
a golden leaf
two pebbles from a distant island shore
a ring too small
a button covered with blue silk
a single pearl from a necklace
broken long ago

A painting waiting to happen

cronelogical — Sat, 15 Nov 2008 11:30:16 +0000

Moon shadow
purple pines
darken the snow

Boys against girls

cronelogical — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 01:38:20 +0000

Our Walk

cronelogical — Sun, 06 Jul 2008 08:48:30 +0000

Pink Lady

cronelogical — Mon, 19 May 2008 02:02:32 +0000

On her birthday
in pink satin
with her new helmet
and her new scooter
my lady rides

Symbol

cronelogical — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 11:36:12 +0000

Tree
deep rooted in the earth
laced into sky
map of generations
outliving all
cliche of truth
in a hundred languages.

From the prairie memory

cronelogical — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 01:44:55 +0000

Dark blue skies in the evening light

Roving

cronelogical — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 08:26:08 +0000

Let wayward fingers
prize words out of the ether
minus thought
and drift on the edge
across the final bar
that fences the horizon
only the white flag
signals trust
I hoist the blank page
and hope
there are words, and wordlings
far beyond my minding

Butterflies on Rainbow beach

cronelogical — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 02:00:06 +0000

Poem in the Dark of Night

cronelogical — Thu, 17 Jan 2008 01:08:27 +0000

The ravages of time–a cliche
but she knew that was the only way
she saw the mirror

All other words
she wrote on candy wrappers
tossed into the sea

Childhood

cronelogical — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 08:09:20 +0000

As the crone sat dreaming beside the summer sea

Her dreams were all of long ago

the tiny country store, grain elevators, the old gas pump, the post box

where Jenny Wren lived in summer.

The Postmaster, whose sign said “Bird in Residence, do not disturb.”

Inside the warm stove where local farmers came to gather mail, tell stories

and fill the air with pipe smoke

while the child hidden behind the counter stored their tales. Fran