Ottawa Ross lives in Ottawa - Canada's capital - writing, walking, thinking. There are too few poets in the world.
Pull up a chair, and read a poem with me.
Ross curates Medium.com's most popular poetry publication, called "Poets Unlimited." Check it out. 61 followers / 7.3k words
Come and sit there on the cushion Our chopping and mixing and baking are done We must just sit and talk about nothing And enjoy all these things That we talked about for days
Come and share some drink with me So much out there is pointless and lost But in here there is a plan and an order This we eat first, and then we'll eat that And when we've drunk our glasses dry We can fill them again
Come and help me gather these things Stacked and washed and dried We'll put them all on a shelf Or into a purpose-made drawer And they will be there for us again On another lazy evening.
Melting away the crystalline snow underfoot I spread crystals of salt Scattered across the icy walkway. Overhead Bohemian-glass icicles Hang like stalactites Like for the tenuous Damocles. My beard is frozen, encrusted in the blizzard But indoors soon I'll shed my layers. And sit to warm my throat With a bit of Scotch whisky No ice in mine, please.
White frosted trees Outside our glassy windows Do you dream of electric lights Hung upon your bows Patterned papers And corrugated boxes From your distant cousins Placed around your trunk And your only drink A pale tinny water from a cup While the sweet elixir Gathered by your roots Becomes a distant memory
Ringing in the years Ringing in the ears Wringing out the fears Writhing in our tears Wrinkled in our years Winking at your dears Wishing for some seers Would that they saw beers Waiting for me nears Would raise a glass in cheers.
Melt into me Caramel and salt Pine sap into quicksilver Fog dissolving in volcanic lava An alchemy discordant and electric Makes an ore of iron sing into steel A green copper ingot shine into bronze But discarded I am left as detritus and debris, a cold abrasive **** Among the twisted forms of the ideas never formed Far away from the shaping hammer and anvil The bellows there that only draws Pulling away the last of the heat And unidentifiable melted figures Are each there somewhat me But are incomplete alone