Poetry ~ Waka
Toronto Photographer: Sara Desjardins
~
whispered, “good night”
caterpillars, I woke up
to butterflies.
~
gently land
on soft petals,
flitting joy.
~
joined together
in the garden, they play house
a brief time.
© Cheryl-Lynn, 2014/06/24
Check out Sara Desjardins’ (photographer) Facebook Page as well.
hot summer night
skinny dipping in the pool
kids sound asleep
toddlers giggling
splashing in the wading pool
naked
end of summer
children rarely seem to have
tan lines.
© Cheryl-Lynn 2014/06/23
As I was waiting for my son to visit last night, I was preparing my late dinner, steak and rapini and grabbed my notebook that I kept on the counter and scribbled these thoughts with fondness.
sorting rapini
watching water boil, missing
bella’s kitchen.
~reminiscing where foul don’t always fly~
hear the geese fly
aiming for cottage country
honk honk honk
In my thirteen years living in Toronto, I made amazing friends and colleagues. I miss many and sorting the rapini while the water was coming to a boil, I could not help but be reminded of that weekend I spent mostly in Bella…Maria’s kitchen. She cooks like most Italian mothers do…with abundance of love. She taught me by having me take part in making a cannelloni from scratch! {the sauce as well} (which I hurried to practice upon arrival on Montreal soil) then prepare a decadent dessert, tiramisu and watching her prepare rapini. My hips do not allow for the dessert too often but rapini is a new favourite that replaces my love for spinach and broccoli…now it reminds me of juicy food and succulent conversations with Maria. Je t’aime bella, cia mia cara.
(haiku)
Ciao Bella!
Maria knows best
feeds bellies with succulence
“mangia mangia”
What I also discovered living in Toronto was that not all feathered species like to fly. Many parks are filled with geese and ducks who are fed all year long…don’t really care to leave this great home. They seem to have taken residence and do not bother to fly south winters.
I still love to look at the geese who usually fly in the shape of a giant V with the leader at the head, coming and going from Canadian towns. However, I found these Toronto geese less intriguing but more intrusive with their pompous attitudes, blocking some majour intersections in the Lakeshore area while motorists had to literally stop while a family led by Queen goose mother decided to cross the street! I suppose it is funny now but in some parks especially at Centre Island, it may not always easy to find a clean spot to lay your red checkered tablecloth for a romantic picnic.
(haiku)
Toronto Geese
roaming,head high
lawns become their giant
chamber pot
© Cheryl-Lynn 2014/06/21
Sitting here
contemplate
not so clear
roles of late
sitting here
I am, I am,
pondering
reflecting
weighing pros
and also cons
making sure
I don’t lose sight
of simple basic principles,
As I think of this tonight
I ask for some guiding light
and grace to finally see
make sure I never
ever ever
lose sight of things that matter.
© Cheryl-Lynn 2014/06/21
This was originally written for a prompt 51 at Pooky Poetry on Loss of Sense but I misunderstood obviously, yet decided to post it anyway.
Stigma deprives so many suffering youths and adults from getting proper treatment. There is treatment and there IS recovery.
deadlygothicdesigns.webs.com
The stigma of her despair
She struggled every day at school
dragging her feet there anyway
life at home was not so cool
she rarely talked to anyone
at school they called her emo
she always dressed the same
black shirt, black jeans without a logo
a long black trench coat too
all clothes she got at Sally Ann
she died her hair jet black
painted her nails and lips
black with hints of maroon red
to match colour of blood,
it looked like her uniform
a suit of raw despair
because no one did care.
she tried to ask for help
saying she felt so sad
whenever she couldn’t stand
the pain, she chose to hurt herself
then students saw her marks
and bullied her some more
the teacher called her parents
so she could seek some help
but they screamed with such fury
for shaming the family.
And…
View original post 124 more words
Thoughts interrupted ( puente)
where shall I go from here
so many paths to choose
don’t want to upset anyone
~life’s filled with so much wonder~
summer festivals begin
jazz, blues, francophonie
time to hop and have some fun
© Cheryl-Lynn 2014/06/20
This is a new poetic form I am trying called the Puente (which means bridge in Spanish), uses a one line “bridge” to connect the first and last stanzas.
– 3 stanzas
– Stanzas 1 & 3 contain different ideas, thoughts
– Stanzas 1 & 3 consist of the same number of lines (meter and/or rhyming up to poet)
– Stanza 2 connects meaning from first to last stanza
– Stanza 2 must be one line enclosed in tildes ( ~ )
– Stanza 2 is the last line of Stanza 1 and first line of Stanza 3
Written for Poetry Jam – June 20 ,2014 Check this link out to see so many amazing poems written for this prompt.
PHOTO PROMPT
Copyright -Mary Shipman
The auction was on. People piled into the Bourgeois house out of curiosity, no one really wanted to buy a house after what had happened. It was five years ago. The city waited out of respect for their past Mayor François Bourgeois but the taxes had to be paid; the law said 18 months in arrears and a property had to be auctioned off to cover at least unpaid taxes.
A young girl was lagging behind her mother, staring at the wallpaper where the little Amelie had slept. She remembered sadly, playing Barbies here. That was before the Bourgeois Massacre.
© Cheryl-Lynn 2014/06/20
Written for Friday Fictioneers – Photo Prompt June 20,2014 – Fiction under 100 words.
months of drought
scorching sun kills
the soil
~
mother earth weeps our folly
for causing global warming.
© Cheryl-Lynn 2014/06/19
Written for: Heeding Haiku with HA – Consider the Soil
I spent many summers when I was a young child at Kilarney Cottage in Shawbridge (Prevost) Quebec in the Laurentians. My great grand-father O’Donnell immigrated to Montreal from Ballybunion, Ireland before the Irish famine; he built this cottage for his family of seven children.
My great-aunt took over hosting when her father passed. There was a creek where we spent hours hopping from rock to rock until we reached a pool of water and where I first learned how to swim. There was always something to explore in that creek. The cottage had 15 rooms and my great-aunt always hosted many friends and family that came from Montreal. Thank goodness the sound of the creek at night buffered the loud sounds of adults partying until the wee hours.
My aunt (father’s sister) did this painting of the creek years ago and I am so happy I still have this as the photos never gave it justice. This painting is only a glimpse of this long creek that led to mini cascades of water falls and one huge pool of still water. I still hear the sounds of that creek and the ice-cold water, brrrr.
hear the rapids
foaming swirls
creek
~
jumping rocks,
dodging frigid water
splash
~
lazy days
lying on our big rock
fingers paddling
~
fall asleep,
water flowing
white noise.
© Cheryl-Lynn 2014/06/19
June 18, 1982
In memory of Fred,
a great man, friend, husband, father
miss you.
You loved me
like your own,
thank you.
© Cheryl-Lynn 2014/06/18
Tournesol dans un Jardin 
