Tuesday, November 22, 2011


It's been so very, very, long since I've posted a poem. I stumbled upon this one in my email draft box. Given the things happening in my life right now, I feel it is especially nice that my past self wrote this for my present self's consolation.

it comes on suddenly, sometimes
When you can't see the sun.
You wander, broken hearted in the dark
bumping into tables, the sofa,
and some unidentifiable object left on the floor
just to break your toe.
Pain is comforting.
So close your eyes, it's dark anyway
And remember the sun,
Remember how it feels on your skin,
Remember the light touch of it's rays on your cheek
Smile at it's white heat.
It's just a few hours now 'til
It wakes you

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Happy Engageaversary

Three years ago today Jeff and I made crepes, went on a hike, read Billy Collin's poetry, went to the temple and got engaged. The whole evening ended at a restaurant I had always wanted to go to: The Melting Pot. A magical place where the fondue flows like water and there is no end of things to dip in said flowing fondue. It was an amazing day. One that has lead to three wonderful years together and a bright future. Here's to love and learning how to make fondue (today).

Sunday, February 7, 2010


Hello blogging world! It's been way too long. The writing of poems continues, but it turns out having more than one blog often leads to neglect of one of them. Well, here is a short little verse I wrote after feeling our little boy kick for the first time:

The belly, full and round isn't beautiful to me.
Except when I feel his body, stretching and turning.
Hello, little man.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Ode to a broken arm

It's been almost five months since the day of my awful bike accident, when my forearm folded in half and I learned of a new level of pain.  I wrote this poem a few weeks after (when my mind wasn't as addled by painkillers) the initial experience and following surgery.  

Ode to a broken arm

Showers weren't the same,
a mending arm raised high
swathed in plastic and elastics 
in a dry salute to the shampoo, 
preserving the cast. 
Dinners have a new dimension. 
In my lap the arm complains,
begins to throb.
The best position is
vertical, hand raised, 
supported by an elbow
like an unspoken meal-time challenge
to arm wrestle the girl
with the metal in her arm. 
Don't think me ungrateful. 
I know full well
a hundred years ago the doctor 
would have shook his head at me and 
said: "That's going to have to come off".

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Thou Art

It being Sunday and all, thought this poem might fit in nicely:

Thou Art
Thou art,
the Invisible Heart of the nations
the Blood of the vein,
and wind of the sea,

Thou art
the journey back,
the road unknown,
the palm and pine and oak of Love
and the breath which swells through the forest.

Art thou the unshakable bridge over black water?

Thou art the Gold of the sun
The Velvet of grass
and the Footpath home. 

Art thou the unshakable bridge over black water?

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

The birth of a blog

And here are the first few poems to inaugurate this foray into the poetry-blogging world.  If only you (my dear readers that must have wandered far to stumble on this blog) could have read my first poems, but really I'm so glad you can't, you'd understand how far I've come.  Perhaps in five years I'll say the same about these babies.  But here goes, the blog begins with this tentative post, like I'm sliding a paper towards you with an offer I'm not sure you'll accept: 
A response  

He sings me. 
He highs and lows, 
Plucks and bows
Opens up and reads me   

He wilds and tames like dancing flames 
Like cinnamon candy, or sweet burning brandy 
Over cherries jubilee.   

He winds and spools, 
Suns and cools, 
Drinks me down and holds me. 
Enfolds me 
Open his eyes and beholds me   

He changes, ranges, 
Ascends and mends 
And like a wheel he turns me, 
Heals and burns me   

Wakes and breaks, 
Soothes and aches, 
And like the wind he shakes me 
May, July and Decembers me 
And he remembers me.       

You are   

You are the moth to my favorite sweater. 
The moment after my pen runs out of ink. 
You are the morning after bad fish. 
You are the mud puddle, 
That I didn’t see until too late 
And I get soaked to the knee. 
You are the flat tire for the umteenth time leaving me stranded in a place 
Where the wind never stops howling 
And the rain is always cold. 
You are old gum. 
Canine tumors. 
Wet hair on a cold day. 
You are, 

Worker's Compensation  
I never knew until I knew. 
Each day in your presence 
Takes a teaspoon of my soul
Time I'll never reclaim.
I don't hate you, But I miss those pieces.
Will you give me back the soul I lost, 
The time I gave and talent I wasted?     

  - by Amy Kyle