WHO AM I NOW?

Coming late to the party indeed...this poet aspirant is right now touring the eastern seaboard and trying to have meet ups (some of them Mod-Povian) as I go. This is my third term as an enrollee, first time as a CTA. My educational and employment background(s) are equally complicated and checkered and I have been known to say that I'm a recently retired mental health consumer but the longer I manage to stay out of the bin, the less recent it becomes (and that's a really good thing, trust me).

I'm a Canadian originally from Scarborough, Ontario (lived a block from the famous Scarborough Bluffs) but lived in various parts of Canada before at last settling in Edmonton - Canada's most northern  provincial capital - at 53 degrees latitude, Albertans like to joke that we live on the lip of the Arctic Circle (at least this one does).

Married to the love of my life for almost half a century - we love to spend our time traveling now as much as possible - and he indulges my passion for writing and this trip we're on now is all about that ... I know how lucky I am.

I am really happy to be part of ModPo in general, and the CTA community in particular, and will try to be more of a presence as time goes on. Traveling and commenting has turned out to be a bit more difficult than I  thought it would be. Thanks for your interest Sean (your shirts are wonderful btw).

Muse Musings

Bargaining with the muse proves to be
Many a poet's undoing
For harsh is she and blood her
Price, accepting nothing
Less, she'll flay your soul
Lay bare your thoughts
And still not
Promise
Verse

S.E.Ingraham

t

FIRING THE SIGNALS

She fell into the day, a pond filled with yesterday's
friends and loose teeth
Struggled to her feet stamping through old money
and a ripped skirt that didn't fit ever
Shrugged on her jeans wondering about her DNA
and her other genes and that bridge
And if the signals in that part of her brain's tower were
firing on all circuits or if that poor organ
Had gone on strike for good and all, or if she was
thinking of some other cells.

IN SEPTEMBER, WHEN THE SUMACS BLUSH

Autumn strokes the days,
gentles dusk with chill
And trees begin to don
their frocks fall-fine
Colour is preeminent;
ask maples, oaks, or
silver birches.

But the showiest of all,
the loveliest say some
Start slowly, barely
noticeable at first
As if lit from within,
the sumac glows
deep crimson,
like embers in a fire

It takes real frost
to spread the scarlet,
compliment the gentle tree,
blush it carmine to its roots.
When deep frost hits,
the sumacs breathe
collective sighs and then,
they are ablaze.

Fierce  flames
burn hot to the touch,
it seems; but only briefly,
like actual flames
cannot sustain for long
they're gone too soon.

A week, two at the most,
they fade to dullest wine,
their death's complete
And herald winter,
waiting in the wings.

S.E.Ingraham
Sun.Sept.7.2008 (revised August 31.2015)

ON THE CUSP OF RECALL

The woman holds
a basket woven from
spiders-web silk.
It's filled
with traditions
forgotten,
and she wanders
through
the sleeping city
trying to remember
the architecture
of love,
the customs
that combine
to make a life.
She feels close
to grasping
the notion,
but before
her mind
can get a fix—
it separates
and she is
left tremulous
with despair.

AN ASSEMBLING OF POEMS

Alarming poems,
thirsty for gossip,
slink from Dante's
storm drains
Creep through
streets, dark
with secrets,
to where poets
famous, and not,
gather in salons.

They meet
to speak,
their tongues
bathed in bronze
cognac, keen
as razors.
Pretend to think
loftily, mouth
ideas of import.

MOM, ARE YOU THERE? IT'S ME...

Surprisingly, I find myself missing you these days
Me, who was almost relieved when you died
Although, bearing a back-pack filled with blood
and carrying a cup of your tears
I distracted myself for almost two years
Not wanting to put either down, nor spill a drop
on the ground

But, taking a stroll by the lake last night, noting
the ice skinning the surface.
An overwhelming feeling of loss lay over me
as geese veed  above,  headed south
Another winter's settling in and you're not here
but that's not all of it
Your grand-daughter's gone also, and with her,
the boys are gone too

Oh—you probably know, from where-ever you
watch—and I know that you do
They're not where you are, they still breathe
Do you know that she just doesn't want us in
their lives any more
It's going on three months since we've been
in touch, and yes, I'm dying a bit more
every day

Walking along the shore last night, I wanted
so much to talk to you
Realizing as I did, that what I really wanted was
for you to still be here
If you were, I'm quite sure, our girl would never
have done this thing that's she's doing
I don't think she could have been this cruel if
she knew you would know

I scanned the skies, emptied of geese, searching
for some sign of you, I think
Something to give me a hint, some suggestion -
some something to tell me
what I could do, what I should do, that might
make a difference, might get through
to my girl - help her see what she's doing,
what's happening to all of our lives
the longer this impasse goes on

Mom , I know that we didn't always see eye to eye—
an understatement to say the least
And this probably feels like I only want you because
I need something
But when did that ever happen?
Did I ever need anything from you?
Not that I'd admit, I don't think...
I learned to dislike you so much...alright, it was
close to hate by the end
Maybe this is the one good thing that will come
out of the estrangement...
I will find a way back to you.