the birds begin their evening declensions,
note by note, the grammar of praise.
The air cools. I close the window to a crack,
the pale sky falling out of sight, yoked
now to darkness. I write at my desk by the light
of a lamp: a small moon turning the tide.
How fathom the mysterious waters
in which my soul swims, finning stars?
The clock ticks but time sleeps
until I return to the bone-white shore,
a wave from far away, heartbeat of the ocean,
tugging at the wagging brown tongues of words.
This poem appeared in the Crosswinds 2019 Poetry Contest Anthology.
Here’s a pic of my poem as it appears in the entirely wonderful print journal: Crosswinds Poetry, Volume IV, 2019. Many thanks to the editors for including it in their spring issue!
after Cecilia Woloch’s “Blazon”
Him I love, with hair like saltmeadow rush,
eyes that beach me on unexpected shores,
mouth of a wild and generous sea
Under whose spell children have flown
to the moon, from whose lips the secret
lives of teddy bears told
In whose hammock of shoulders my heart swings,
his moonlit back a white bench, buttocks smooth
as ancient boulders
In whose countries of hands I am born again,
whose tongue is both midwife and stirring
Him I love, whose ticklish feet like gold bricks bank
on never being touched, legs of a mustang,
rain in the wind
In whom has lived the grip, the gale, the gall
of a thing, who as the world turns
is my world turning
Upon whose sun-blessed chest I lay my head,
hear the hammering, thank again the small
gods at work in their chambers
Another poem from my chapbook “Irresistible”, due out any day now from Finishing Line Press: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/irresistible-by-lynne-burnett/
You’ll leave your dreams
for it. Blossoms have
open in bliss,
limbs been left shaken.
It hides out of reach
but orchestrates its life
so you know it’s near.
It began when the sky fell
through the tiniest crack—
now that’s a rush of angels
never seen! It could be
a famous conductor’s wand
waving in the air
or your ticket to serenity.
Its odds for striking
the right note
are better than yours
(a real feather
in the world’s cap)
for over and over
it sings an old song
handed down from the first
day it was ever sung—
praising, praising everything.
Say this is for the birds,
and you’d be right,
but then the riddle’s more
how a bigger brain could find less
to praise from its high perch.
Another old favourite, first in North Shore Magazine (2008)