APAD | A Poem A Day – sharing page

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29 Responses to APAD | A Poem A Day – sharing page

  1. brigitsflame says:

    Bardi’s apad 1.

    Liked by 1 person

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  3. Beware, by Kathy Boles-Turner.

    The Balance Wheel, by Anne Sexton.


  4. bardiphouka says:

    Even without Strangers

    Do not approach the night like a lover.

    The night, like any unknown city, is

    capricious to the best and worse

    Its politics are full of darkness and swirling

    winds as the rain applauds its validity.

    Even without strangers the night is

    not pretending to be anyone’s family..

    There is a rough rumble of thunder and the life

    of night is split for a moment by lightning

    revealing how much you may never see.

    Liked by 1 person

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  6. bardiphouka says:

    APAD 3

    This is Now

    This is the road shimmering in water

    shimmering in ripples of water

    There are small California pools

    that whisper across my shoes as I walk

    in the off again on again rain.

    This is not your cold moments

    or my alone moments

    This is Now

    This is the road shimmering in waters


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  8. bardiphouka says:

    APAD 4-2015

    Wild Home Street

    Accidental attempts at genuflection.
    No I had not planned to find my knee,
    undiscovered in any church, planted on
    a sidewalk with enough cracks to bury
    a coven of mothers.

    My carryalls spill their contents
    out and away and into the street.
    I scoop them back in before
    building my body slowly vertical
    before carrying on

    to my house of peeled paint and old verse,
    aware that no amount of genuflection will
    have you inside when I arrive.


  9. bardiphouka says:

    Before computers the trees would grow restless
    knowing they were to be turned into ideas and
    grocery lists. Their feel of wind and wing
    turned to immortality that never becomes that
    even in the loss of being remembered

    In civic basements everywhere were slightly
    warped cabinets full of papers with the
    bittersweet scent of almost mold.
    Papers of birth and papers of death
    papers of marriage and homes taken for families.

    Looking for a book I find some letters instead,
    your heart and thoughts turned to words that
    do not move across the paper but that lead my
    eyes to dance the memories. Would anyone but me care,
    or would they move to find something more important.

    Liked by 1 person

  10. bardiphouka says:

    water and the tin

    Stale biscuits in a tin,
    stuck in my messenger bag
    with other poems.

    I never eat them, I just
    carry them back and forth
    from red brick to glistened green.

    where the river runs brown and turgid
    spreading out to the banks as though
    hungry for the stale biscuits

    even though I might be needed to go with
    breath and thoughts of you
    pull me back in the sunset

    and the rattle of stale biscuits
    in a tin of dubious history
    and unsure futures.


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  19. bluegerl says:

    Bluegerl says

    Apads for … some time past.

    Pictures from the Past

    A tune half heard from window high.
    The silken notes woke memories
    My childhood where a voice so soft
    whispered lullabies. Who she was
    I do not know, but someone loved me.


    An evening in front of the Television.

    Time’s a-flying wall-clock said.
    It’s time you were abed.
    “Not I” I cheekily replied.
    Not until the knot they’ve tied.

    The movie was a soppy one.
    A him so sad, a face so glum.
    She gay and chirpy, hid her sad
    By acting bright, but awful bad.

    They cautious met, then left.
    Both of them bereft.
    Met again,’How nice to see…’
    Stutters ‘Can I buy you tea?’

    The film had had the usual plot,
    The writer tried, but not a lot.
    Just eyes a gazing, full and soft
    Until they bedded in his loft.

    Soft smiles in early sun exchanged
    Fingers, hands, o’er bodies ranged.
    Showers shared, and clothing donned
    Confirmed the ending, Love Did Bond.

    It went from ick to eurgh, and hahaha
    The script was dreadful, blah blahblah.
    But the – Oh so ‘ART’ was pasted on
    And all in all- oh well. Slow evening gone.


    Advice to a young man.

    Love them deep and love them strong,
    But when the end comes to their song
    Leave them behind – walk soft away –
    Gently, as if you truly wish to say
    I’d like to stay for one more day,

    (But no, another love is calling — Haste away.).


    White ‘Little Star of Bethlehem’
    How sweetly do you shine
    Along the grassy banks that line
    The roads from there to mine.

    Is that your truly-given name?
    Tho’ that rose has such a fame.
    What’s in a name, tis just a game?
    And I do love you, just the same..


    And I won’t bother you with all the others, I did do one a day!

    This was my Easter Sunday. 2015.
    The Sunny day of Sunday. Easter 2015.

    ‘They’ promised a whole full day of sunshine,
    and all the week to come!
    Just in case they may well be deceiving us
    I grabbed my chance, (must never let them pass!)
    So locked my door at lunchtime or a bit before.
    (I much prefer to drive when visitors in my land
    Are already seated in anticipation
    At their host’s laid table, and are not
    Pursuing an unreliable course upon my road.)

    The sun had brought out the scarab-coloured cars
    Bright green, a secret bronze, and wicked scarlet.
    Usually the non-holiday vehicles are white,
    or grey or black. But not today, a gaily day.

    I reached my beach, lying in an emerald embrace
    of the far-tranquil ocean. Sand there was aplenty
    But the walk was first, along the disappearing cliffs.

    Stomp-stomp my feet went, huff-huff my breath,
    Click-clack my stick with which I poke at things.
    (it also has a monocular set in the handle,
    through which I peer, with silent giggles
    in case a watcher near could see me
    stick my cane into my eye, and wonder).

    Birds do sleep at lunchtimes; there were some rooks.
    Small yellow hawkweeds lay like unfound Christmas loot,
    (those chocolate pennies wrapped in shiny gold).
    My stomping stopped. I stood quite shocked!

    A bush of that wild plum, by name the Sloe.
    Was blossoming beside the path and perfumed the air!
    It was a bush to be inside, to stare wideyed into the fair
    so-tiny petals in a fragile white. In their masses,
    a million miracles that flower in the chill
    of Blackthorn Wintertime. And the wind is chill still.

    These other wonders found, in what could seem to be a desert;
    Bare, with Spring not even here.
    On foot-shone pebbles I strode,
    collided with a bumble bee, and solemnly apologised.

    I reached the steps – a mighty fall
    of once smooth steps but now with cliff eroded,
    loose and angled like a geometry set.
    A rock warbler near, unseen, warbled his multiple notes
    like falling upward raindrops.

    I rolled up my trouser legs, took off my shoes
    and felt the hot loose sand scratch softly on my toes.
    Down past the crispbread of dried seaweed, over still lost shells,
    To wet my hobbling toes in water-firm relief in captured seas.
    Rocks, sere, greyheaded with dried baby-musselshells,
    Denied my bare feet access to the rocks but pools were found.
    Full of unseen secrets. This is where my cane was bound!
    To lift heavy wet-hair hanks of weed, to chase a scuttling crab,
    To crash a cliff in mighty tiny rivers, or make a leaking dam.

    I wandered on, and watched the clouds reflected in the water-sheen
    pursued by shoo-ing winds.

    I was in no hurry, so admired the shivers
    being tickled on the pools by windy fingers.

    Black stick-figures moved along
    the high dry banks of cliff-shed sand, but I was near my song.

    Above me clouds were my white plates upon a glass table seen from below.

    I found an oyster shell sea-carved salt-white the shape of a baby’s footprint.

    Six winkle-shelled hermit crabs who raced so slowly
    to see who could reach the waterline and safety-first.

    Sitting on a grassy-whiskered bank I brushed off my feet,
    but the beach insisted on leaving me a gift
    of bright metallic glintings on my skin. My beach diamonds.

    Shoes donned, a flat-footed stomping march up the runway for the boats
    to leave the sand where it belonged.

    My car so quietly waiting, warm and content.

    We returned home through hedges white with Sloeblossom
    and hawkweed scattered fields of fattened sheep.
    The afternooners were out now, leaving their broken bread and washing-up behind.
    They were passing on my left – going to my beaches, but I had empty road ahead.
    And home, and coffee, or shall I have tea instead?

    Liked by 2 people

  20. bluegerl says:

    The fly.

    Flicking in and out of corners of my eye
    That fizzing whizzing little fly.
    He stayed a while on my table clean.
    Walking insouciantly on my screen
    Daring me, with flick of wing, if I was able,
    To whack him with what was available.

    I reached up and grabbed the swat,
    Laid it beside me, handy, quickly got.
    Waited for his cheeky self to land
    To wash his face, or clean a wing,
    So I could take the swat in hand
    and WHACK!! .. upon that fizzy thng.

    But no. With many faceted eye
    that bizzy fizzy sodding little fly
    Espies my swat, and says ‘Bye bye!’.
    Why do flies have to be

    so damned irritating and annoying and distracting and stop me thinking up rhymes for …
    I can’t think when he keeps flitting…

    oh… he’s gone out of the door!

    Liked by 1 person

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  22. bluegerl says:

    Heaven’s sword.

    High, heaven-distant among the capitals
    Of stone the sound rang out of angel’s note.
    Music to make the skin of arms feel chill,
    To raise a well of tears and close the throat.

    Feet have stayed themselves upon the flags
    Broken, glazed of old, but shone with wear,
    Still one stands, entranced,. nay – lost
    Among the notes of pain aloft up there.

    Faure’s In Paradisum


  23. bluegerl says:

    On moving the pc table.

    “Not Sunday, Monday!” Is a note
    scribbled in the margin, crumpled,
    found on the floor behind the desk.
    Did I forget you once too often?
    Did we meet?
    About what did we speak?

    I have an abysss of regret
    for something that wasn’t you.
    Forgotten, mind-rubbed away.
    For that unknown day,
    when we didn’t meet?
    I wonder, did we meet?
    And did we speak?

    Where did I unintentionally fail?


  24. bluegerl says:

    Rain falling from an April sky
    reminds forgetful hearts
    To weep for those so distant parts
    Of lives, long gone,
    Without them even asking why?


    Liked by 1 person

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  26. Liza Cooke says:

    Apad Day 29.

    Love, subtle, sneaks beneath a wary sole,
    And trips the firm once-bitten soul;
    Laughs in glee as custard pies of lust
    Lead the victim gladly where he must.

    APAD day 30

    The life to come?
    Walking through the eternal days,
    Dreaming through the sleepless nights?
    Does it end, and when?

    Do I meet it when next I turn
    around the corner by the church?
    Or falling down in a supermarket
    clutching at my chest?
    Maybe, much more likely to lie
    brainless, aimless,
    Dead in my head
    wondering what the sky is made of
    Or what is this material called bread?

    Will I rot slowly from without,
    or from within? My aunty had a body
    until she was ninety nine.
    But her life was past, no more to come
    and should have been stopped
    ten years before. A kindness to a life of why;
    and did she hurt as much as I?


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