dave-hardin - Hello Poetry

We first laid eyes on you over drinks and dinner in the Latin Quarter, a short stroll from the Spanish Arch, its historical significance gone in a heartbeat along with all expectation of ambush by austere beauty on those wind swept stepping stones Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer. The River Corrib gleams like vintage vinyl beneath Wolfe Tone Bridge, grainy and black as your liquid image glowing serene on screen, countless heartbeats of moonlight mingling quayside with the sea in a salty embrace that stings my eyes and seizes me by the throat. The windows of St. Martin’s frame the timeless river. Soft chamois of morning lifts the stubborn tarnish of dawn from its braided embellished tales. We tuck into our full Irish and drink watery coffee while you float outside time to the rhythm of the tides in your small brackish sea.

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May 18, 2017

May 18, 2017 at 8:14 AM UTC

Dinner In Galway

We first laid eyes on you over drinks and dinner in the Latin Quarter, a short stroll from the Spanish Arch, its historical significance gone in a heartbeat along with all expectation of ambush by austere beauty on those wind swept stepping stones Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer. The River Corrib gleams like vintage vinyl beneath Wolfe Tone Bridge, grainy and black as your liquid image glowing serene on screen, countless heartbeats of moonlight mingling quayside with the sea in a salty embrace that stings my eyes and seizes me by the throat. The windows of St. Martin’s frame the timeless river. Soft chamois of morning lifts the stubborn tarnish of dawn from its braided embellished tales. We tuck into our full Irish and drink watery coffee while you float outside time to the rhythm of the tides in your small brackish sea.

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We first laid eyes on you over drinks and a late dinner in the Latin Quarter, a short stroll from the Spanish Arch, its historical significance gone in a heartbeat along with expectation of ambush by austere beauty on those wind swept stepping stones Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer. The River Corrib rushes beneath Wolfe Tone Bridge, grainy and black as your liquid image on the screen, countless heartbeats of moonlight mingling quayside with the sea in a salty embrace that stings my eyes and seizes my throat. The windows of St. Martin’s frame the timeless river. Chamois cloth of morning lifts the stubborn tarnish of dawn from its braided embellishments. We tuck into our full Irish and drink the watery coffee while you float outside of time in your brackish sea.

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May 17, 2017

May 17, 2017 at 9:03 AM UTC

Dinner In Galway

We first laid eyes on you over drinks and a late dinner in the Latin Quarter, a short stroll from the Spanish Arch, its historical significance gone in a heartbeat along with expectation of ambush by austere beauty on those wind swept stepping stones Inishmore, Inishmaan and Inisheer. The River Corrib rushes beneath Wolfe Tone Bridge, grainy and black as your liquid image on the screen, countless heartbeats of moonlight mingling quayside with the sea in a salty embrace that stings my eyes and seizes my throat. The windows of St. Martin’s frame the timeless river. Chamois cloth of morning lifts the stubborn tarnish of dawn from its braided embellishments. We tuck into our full Irish and drink the watery coffee while you float outside of time in your brackish sea.

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It’s the letting go, book of your hands forever falling open, your words on the page taking flight a few downy letters at a time, sentences learning to trust their wings, short forays of paragraphs you strain to read against porcelain blue sky, whole chapters lifting off as one to wheel by their own lights, leaving you to slip between these clean white pages with a good book, trying not to read too much into the author’s soaring dedication.

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May 14, 2017

May 14, 2017 at 3:06 PM UTC

Mother To Words

It’s the letting go, book of your hands forever falling open, your words on the page taking flight a few downy letters at a time, sentences learning to trust their wings, short forays of paragraphs you strain to read against porcelain blue sky, whole chapters lifting off as one to wheel by their own lights, leaving you to slip between these clean white pages with a good book, trying not to read too much into the author’s soaring dedication.

20

Years after giving up the game for good I still dream of turning up late to a match juggling a chipped red racquet, high-impact lenses, salt tanned right hand glove and two blue ***** fresh in the can, my dream court receding down darkened halls, a warren of identical doors, portholes slashing avocado carpet with watery cross ties, florescent flickers that merge and pool, flushing me into flat light within a stark white cube to toe the red service line once again only to find my forehand serve impeded by stacked furniture and packing crates arranged into a crooked lane plat of a miniature medieval Bruges. Racquetball, a game of angles gone sadly out of fashion, the MacGuffin in my dreams and my playing days when you were my true opponent. Never one for racquet sports, you ran me stroking passing shots, methodical while I hurled myself heedless headlong into walls, losing on points, nursing trophies of bruises.

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May 11, 2017

May 11, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC

Racquetball

Years after giving up the game for good I still dream of turning up late to a match juggling a chipped red racquet, high-impact lenses, salt tanned right hand glove and two blue ***** fresh in the can, my dream court receding down darkened halls, a warren of identical doors, portholes slashing avocado carpet with watery cross ties, florescent flickers that merge and pool, flushing me into flat light within a stark white cube to toe the red service line once again only to find my forehand serve impeded by stacked furniture and packing crates arranged into a crooked lane plat of a miniature medieval Bruges. Racquetball, a game of angles gone sadly out of fashion, the MacGuffin in my dreams and my playing days when you were my true opponent. Never one for racquet sports, you ran me stroking passing shots, methodical while I hurled myself heedless headlong into walls, losing on points, nursing trophies of bruises.

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As it happens I did not buy this book of collected poems in St. John, New Brunswick or Charlottetown, P.E.I. I didn’t pick it up in Yorkville on a long weekend in Toronto, nor was I delighted to spot it in a window display on a stop I didn’t make for coffee in Kamloops, B.C. No doubt Halifax has its share of bookstores, none of which I’ve visited on the road to North Sydney to catch the ferry to Newfoundland, where one imagines happening upon a salt cured, weather beaten mom and pop clinging to life quayside in St. Johns. The border with sleep lies just up ahead where soon I’ll be borne across on thoughts of the boats of these poems lifted on the rising tide of the U.S. dollar, Billy Collins buttoned up for the night inside a tent pitched upon the calm seas of my chest.

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May 11, 2017

May 11, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC

Reading In Bed

As it happens I did not buy this book of collected poems in St. John, New Brunswick or Charlottetown, P.E.I. I didn’t pick it up in Yorkville on a long weekend in Toronto, nor was I delighted to spot it in a window display on a stop I didn’t make for coffee in Kamloops, B.C. No doubt Halifax has its share of bookstores, none of which I’ve visited on the road to North Sydney to catch the ferry to Newfoundland, where one imagines happening upon a salt cured, weather beaten mom and pop clinging to life quayside in St. Johns. The border with sleep lies just up ahead where soon I’ll be borne across on thoughts of the boats of these poems lifted on the rising tide of the U.S. dollar, Billy Collins buttoned up for the night inside a tent pitched upon the calm seas of my chest.

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As it happens I did not buy this book of collected poems in St. John, New Brunswick or Charlottetown, P.E.I. I didn’t pick it up in Yorkville on a weekend spree in Toronto, nor was I delighted to spot it in a window display when I stopped for lunch in Kamloops, B.C. No doubt Halifax has its share of bookstores, none of which I’ve visited on the road to North Sydney to catch the ferry to Newfoundland, where one could imagine happening upon a salt cured, weather beaten mom and pop clinging to life quayside in St. Johns. The border with sleep lies just up ahead where soon I’ll be borne across on thoughts of the boats of these poems rising on the tide of the U.S. dollar, The Rain In Portugal a tent rising and falling on my chest.

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May 10, 2017

May 10, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC

Reading In Bed

As it happens I did not buy this book of collected poems in St. John, New Brunswick or Charlottetown, P.E.I. I didn’t pick it up in Yorkville on a weekend spree in Toronto, nor was I delighted to spot it in a window display when I stopped for lunch in Kamloops, B.C. No doubt Halifax has its share of bookstores, none of which I’ve visited on the road to North Sydney to catch the ferry to Newfoundland, where one could imagine happening upon a salt cured, weather beaten mom and pop clinging to life quayside in St. Johns. The border with sleep lies just up ahead where soon I’ll be borne across on thoughts of the boats of these poems rising on the tide of the U.S. dollar, The Rain In Portugal a tent rising and falling on my chest.

18

Years after giving up the game for good I still dream of turning up late to a match juggling a chipped red racquet, high-impact lenses, salt tanned right hand glove and two blue ***** fresh in the can, my dream court receding down darkened halls, a warren of identical doors, portholes slashing avocado carpet with watery cross ties, florescent flickers that merge and pool, flushing me into flat light within a stark white cube to toe the red service line once again only to find my forehand serve impeded by stacked furniture and packing crates arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges. Racquetball, a game of angles gone sadly out of fashion, the MacGuffin in my dreams, as it was in my playing days when you were my true opponent, King of Center Court running me, stroking passing shots, methodical while I hurled myself heedless headlong into walls, losing on points, nursing trophies of bruises.

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May 1, 2017

May 1, 2017 at 8:33 AM UTC

Racquetball

Years after giving up the game for good I still dream of turning up late to a match juggling a chipped red racquet, high-impact lenses, salt tanned right hand glove and two blue ***** fresh in the can, my dream court receding down darkened halls, a warren of identical doors, portholes slashing avocado carpet with watery cross ties, florescent flickers that merge and pool, flushing me into flat light within a stark white cube to toe the red service line once again only to find my forehand serve impeded by stacked furniture and packing crates arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges. Racquetball, a game of angles gone sadly out of fashion, the MacGuffin in my dreams, as it was in my playing days when you were my true opponent, King of Center Court running me, stroking passing shots, methodical while I hurled myself heedless headlong into walls, losing on points, nursing trophies of bruises.

32

Lower, lower, a little more to the right, right, so I work my way down ahead of the rain, laboring under the gaze of a robin overseer relaying your wanton desire in bossy birdsong. She keeps an eye out for worms while I mind the angle of the rake, ride grassy undulations, tines biting into your arching back.

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May 1, 2017

May 1, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC

Thatching

Lower, lower, a little more to the right, right, so I work my way down ahead of the rain, laboring under the gaze of a robin overseer relaying your wanton desire in bossy birdsong. She keeps an eye out for worms while I mind the angle of the rake, ride grassy undulations, tines biting into your arching back.

7

Years after giving up the game for good I still dream of turning up late to a match juggling a chipped red racquet, high-impact lenses, salt tanned right hand glove and two blue ***** fresh in the can, my dream court receding down darkened halls, a warren of identical doors, portholes slashing avocado carpet with watery cross ties, florescent flickers that merge and pool, flushing me into flat light within a stark white cube to toe the red service line once again only to find my forehand serve impeded by jumbled tables, five drawer files, armoires, roll top desks and bureaus arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges. Racquetball, a game of angles gone sadly out of fashion, the MacGuffin in my dreams, as it was in my playing days when you were my true opponent, King of Center Court running me, stroking passing shots, methodical while I hurled myself heedless headlong into walls, losing on points, nursing trophies of bruises.

0

Apr 29, 2017

Apr 29, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC

Racquetball

Years after giving up the game for good I still dream of turning up late to a match juggling a chipped red racquet, high-impact lenses, salt tanned right hand glove and two blue ***** fresh in the can, my dream court receding down darkened halls, a warren of identical doors, portholes slashing avocado carpet with watery cross ties, florescent flickers that merge and pool, flushing me into flat light within a stark white cube to toe the red service line once again only to find my forehand serve impeded by jumbled tables, five drawer files, armoires, roll top desks and bureaus arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges. Racquetball, a game of angles gone sadly out of fashion, the MacGuffin in my dreams, as it was in my playing days when you were my true opponent, King of Center Court running me, stroking passing shots, methodical while I hurled myself heedless headlong into walls, losing on points, nursing trophies of bruises.

32

Years after giving up the game for good I dream of turning up late to a match juggling my chipped red racquet, high-impact lenses, salt tanned right hand glove and two blue ***** fresh in the can, my dream court receding down darkened halls, a warren of identical doors, square portholes slashing avocado carpet with watery cross ties, florescent flickers that merge and pool, flushing me into flat light within a white cube to toe the red service line once again only to find my forehand serve impeded by a jumble of tables, five drawer files and armoires, packing crates, roll top desks and bureaus arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges. Racquetball, a game of angles gone sadly out of fashion, is the MacGuffin in my dream as it was in my playing days when you were always the real opponent, King of Center Court running me, stroking passing shots while I dove heedless, headlong into walls, losing on points, nursing my trophy of bruises.

0

Apr 28, 2017

Apr 28, 2017 at 9:25 AM UTC

Racquetball

Years after giving up the game for good I dream of turning up late to a match juggling my chipped red racquet, high-impact lenses, salt tanned right hand glove and two blue ***** fresh in the can, my dream court receding down darkened halls, a warren of identical doors, square portholes slashing avocado carpet with watery cross ties, florescent flickers that merge and pool, flushing me into flat light within a white cube to toe the red service line once again only to find my forehand serve impeded by a jumble of tables, five drawer files and armoires, packing crates, roll top desks and bureaus arranged into the crooked lane plat of medieval Bruges. Racquetball, a game of angles gone sadly out of fashion, is the MacGuffin in my dream as it was in my playing days when you were always the real opponent, King of Center Court running me, stroking passing shots while I dove heedless, headlong into walls, losing on points, nursing my trophy of bruises.

32