Beneath Glass

A wasp
trapped beneath a jar
is the most docile thing
crawling about on the
inside of the glass
a most piteous sight
its body moves
as if signing
a contract of truce
and you might be tempted
to lift the edge
enough for the wasp’s egress
but do not be fooled
for as domesticated
and humiliated
and repentant
as the insect beneath glass appears
you are merely watching
bottled fury


You are a charlatan, oh moon man
you have a radiant face, but
your glow comes only
because you’ve conned the sun
and stolen her shine.

You flirt with the sea, and she
would rise up to kiss you
but you move on, leaving her
to dash herself against a shore
and then fall back in disgrace

You are a seller of cheap wine,
causing an intoxication in lovers,
and you look on with mockery
at their silly antics

Oh moon man, you are a charlatan
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.


Written for dVerse. The challange today is to write a poem about the moon as if the moon were a flesh and blood person.  I will admit to being inspired by Bjorn Rudberg‘s fabulous response to the prompt


On the trees, mostly green
but here…
leaves have turned
a different hue. There’s still time
before the white, but each
bit of colour marks a countdown

I think I still have a lot
of living in me
but my knees are yellow


Today is Quadrille day at dVerse…and the word of the day is “leaves”.

If not for the fame…then what?

nobody writes poetry for the fame:
I doubt that I’ll ever
sell out a concert hall –
where adoring fans will scream
to hear me reciting free verse,
or swoon as they listen
to tight metered form poetry
I’ll never have gobs of money
thrust into my hands
just for the privilege
of having my autograph
on a note-pad
Chances are slim
that I’ll ever be stopped
on the street by someone who gushes
“Aren’t you Bryan the poet?”
or, “I recognize you from
the picture on your blog”
nobody writes poetry for the fame:
so what’s the point?
Why does the robin sing
as it splashes in a puddle
why does a baby coo when
she sees her favourite toy
why does a dog bare his teeth
at an approaching stranger
why does the nettle sting
at the slightest touch?
The bird, the baby, the beast,
even the plants of pain
do nothing for the recognition
or the praise
but simply give expression
of what they feel or of what they are
nobody writes poetry for the fame
and that is probably good
for the fame of poetry
would change the nature of the poet
and that would destroy both
the songs
and the stings


sharing at dVerse for OLN

The view through the mirror

The view through the mirror is different for each one of us. You see you, and I see me. Beyond that, the view changes from day to day, and even second by second. I glance and see each hair in place one moment, and all disheveled the next…you see youth one day, and seemingly the next, you see wrinkles. The view through the mirror changes constantly, and your experience of the mirror will not…cannot be my experience. Ever. We each see, through the mirror, a bit of who we are…and as who we are changes, so does the view through the mirror. And that is why, when you hear a song, or read a poem, or view a painting, you will hear, and understand, and see something quite different from my own experience with the same; and even your experience will not be the same as it would have been a year ago, or will be a year from now…for art may not be silvered glass, but it is still, in a very real way, a mirror.

When the Sky Explodes in Glorious Colour

Why do people seem to desire clear skies? Oh yes, there is something nice about that unbroken blue with no punctuation other than the blazing eye of Sol, but that skyscape becomes so much more when there is a cloud or two (or two-hundred) to give the sky definition and contour. Besides which, when the sun goes down on a cloudless day, it merely sets. It is only on cloudy days when the sky explodes in glorious colour as it bids the sun “goodnight”

dragons bask on rocks
underneath the blazing sun –
but fly above clouds


written for dVerse

Facts About the Olympics That I’ve Just Made Up: Javelin

In the earliest years of the Olympics, the throwing event of Javelin was not a competition to see who could throw the furthest, but a competition of accuracy.   For the first few Olympiads, the competitors hurled their javelins at a painted target (much like a bullseye), but fans soon lost interest in this sport.  In order to reinvigorate the event, the IOC made the controversial decision to introduce moving targets. Each competitor was allowed to pick one athlete (of any discipline) from an enemy nation to be his target. The goal was to impale the target between the shoulder blades. Needless to say, if the targets wished to survive, they would have to outrun the projectiles that were hurtling towards them.  And that is how the 100 Meter Sprint was born.


your view of the world
is so entrenched
that even when
a firmly established truth
presents itself
you deny the undeniable
and say “it’s just
a wrong interpretation”

your blinders have been
on so long
you can’t even believe
what is right beside you


I have no monopoly on the truth. I have my beliefs and convictions, but I know that in some things, I am probably wrong (the trick is trying to figure out which things I am wrong about).  My issue is with those who are so dogmatic in their world view that they won’t even entertain the idea that they might be able to learn something from those with opposing viewpoints.