Category: poetry & prose

  • new old older


    young green leaves, rooted into
    rough hewn stump, anchored upon
    rich forest soil, draped across
    cragged heavy stone, wedged along
    ancient sweeping mountains, jutting from
    shifting geological faults, slipping around
    revolving green orb, floating in
    vast mysterious universe

    – bardo

    I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

  • Whirls Clear Water

    by powerful strokes
    levering solid against fluid
    an oar pushing on crystal water
    delving deftly and deep
    by muscular heft against molecular drag
    plunging paddles
    scooping by effort to counter friction
    blurring stillness into motion
    unseen effort into swirling chaos
    below the calming tranquility
    of a kayak drifting upon the lake

    – bardo

    I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

  • Misinformed

    the moment
    a tree
    falls in the forest
    crashes
    breaking branches
    thrashing limbs
    cracking wood
    makes a sound
    heard by just one
    witness
    who tells the story
    to friends
    who were not there
    an audience
    unable to confirm
    the moment
    the noise
    the disruption to
    the peace of the forest
    exaggerated
    amplified
    by words
    feelings
    hunches
    fears
    misrepresenting and
    unable to precisely
    articulate
    the moment

    – bardo

    I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

  • firewood

    the fate of a tree brings a curious twist
    starting as seed
    on wind, through mist
    tucked into the soil
    spattered with rain
    sprouting and growing new heights to attain
    shrugging snow, budding leaf
    basking summers often brief
    sunlit evenings casting long shadows
    brilliant colours before even more snows
    year after year, decades pass, seasons withdraw
    until fate arrives
    as a wind
    or a flame
    or a saw
    to be hewn and moved
    lugged, logged and planed
    milled into geometrically linear grained
    lumber.
    or not.
    maybe nothing more than a log for a fire
    split
    axed
    set hot
    aflame and a flame to admire
    to warm hands
    hearts
    and cook sizzling food
    a curious twisting fate
    from tree to fire wood.

    – bardo

    A cubic meter of firewood landed on my front lawn yesterday and I spent well over an hour carting and stacking it while feeling a bit bittersweet on the fate of these trees to become fuel for my future backyard fires rather than, say, lumber for the doghouse that I built a couple weeks ago.

    I have reserved some space on this blog each week to be creative, and to post some fiction, poetry, art or prose. Writing a daily blog could easily get repetitive and turn into driveling updates. Instead, Wordy Wednesdays give me a bit of a creative nudge when inspiration strikes.

  • Those Woodpecker Winters

    ”Wake up! Wake up!” The woodpecker knocks, flying from tree trunk to tree trunk, swooping gracefully between the branches. “Spring is here. Wake up!“

    Against the pale white bark of the poplar trees, her red crest hat can be seen by all the creatures of the forest, like a flame alight in dark meadow.

    “Wake up, poplar!” She knocks. “Wake up, spruce!”

    “Let us sleep. It is only April. The winter is still not over.” Poplar replies with a shiver of her branches.

    “Even the ants are still hiding in their burrows. ” Creaks spruce. “Let us be if only for a few more weeks. Wake us when the hares winter white coats have fallen, or when the wasps stir from their nests. Not now. It is still too soon.”

    “Oh, but poplar, if you do not wake now and show the fresh green your leaves to the winter she will not know her time is passed. And spruce, if your boughs do not bud fresh and bright winter will wonder why you wait.” Woodpecker knocks, flying from tree to tree tapping her bill against the cool wooden trunks. “So, wake up! Wake up, I say!”

    Spruce shivers her needles in the spring breeze.

    Poplar shakes her bare branches against the whisps of low clouds.

    ”Let us sleep!” The trees all say together.

    And so woodpecker flies along her way, red hat and all, chased by a stray snowflake fluttering down towards the ground and adrift on the cool spring winds.