An average man is all I see,
Standing in front of this puddle made by rain,
As more people walk by in glee,
Murky, my reflection it cannot maintain,

Then you stopped by and see,
"Why is this man staring at a puddle?",
Bravely I ask "are you staring at me?",
Silent, she sat beside me in my rubble,

Say and beautify those words,
Stay and make one of two worlds,
Bravely take me away forever,
Never look back until we get older,

Who are we to make love so pretty?
In all honesty, "why did it have to be me?"
Silent, she and I both agree,
The best is here, nowhere else we'd rather be.

Who are we to make love so pretty?
Her eyes glitter of a cherry sunshine story,
That was never perfect but we both agree,
The best is here, nowhere else we'd rather be.

Sometimes I wake up to the soft whirring sound
Of the washing machine spinning clothes round and round,
The chirps from the sparrows sitting under the eaves,
The rustling and scraping as the wind blows the leaves,
The murmur of talk as someone speaks to the dogs,
The pit-pat on concrete as the running man jogs,
The noise from the pigeons as they feed from tin cups,
The beat of their wings as disturbed they fly up,
And as the room comes alight with the early-morn glow,
It’s telling me it’s time to get up and go.

From Entertaining Verse Poems
©Blair Gowrie (Roderick Macdonald)

The man who wears a leather belt and uses sensible words
loves her in cobalt violet, in the streaks of a hazy violent sky
after a storm has passed and she lets him
he claims that the egg people are coming, they’ll bring with
them handful of gifts of glory, of the things people hide
in the crevices of sidewalks, in the spaces where identity cards
are devoured by the teeth of the unknown
the television is always on and the static that surrounds them
is the serenading music she listens to before she falls asleep at night
she pretends that love is painting one’s nails while the other
loses their mind
as he laughs at the invisible neighbors outside the window
his bones can smell the coming of the apocalypse
and it’s not in the form of a swarm, or a flood
it comes in the bodies of girls with strawberry blonde
hair and that’s why he’s so drawn to her
and why his mother was swallowed by the earth
she learns that illness comes in permanent mauve
the walls of her room are covered in that hue
the boy she sneaks cigarettes from at the diner
in his car the color is almost a tangible personification
the smoke blows out into the crisp air like a bag of potato chips
the lungs constrict and expand
the thoughts hindered from years of yielding to the yellow sun
with the ****** robe
the child, the woman, the human lives in ****
but the thinker manages to escape years later
and live in the suburbs on an easy paycheck from
foolish strangers that believe that gasoline is a cheap party trick
and a fantastic high
she doesn’t recognize touch anymore besides
the harsh graze of asphalt hitting her knees
people seldom realize that freedom is not in
the way your toes curl but in the way they finally unfurl
how curious you can spot patterns where there are none
to be rescued does not always come in the way of clean arms

She loved him in transparent maroon
the grasp of warm sand kissing you gently