Sleeping Beauty but not the fairy tale

     This poem came about when a small grandchild came for a visit. It was about naptime, I suppose, and she fell asleep on the couch wrapped in a soft gray throw.  No need for a picture. The words supply it all you need. Sleeping Beauty   Blonde curls spread like a crown around her head she lies crosswise wrapped in a soft gray cover that’s warm as a kitten’s fur   Her fingers uncurl and curl, ever so slightly; her breath’s soft enough to send a feather on its way   She doesn’t hear her Papa rustling paper as he reads in the next room nor the kettle hum or the water run in the kitchen close by   Afternoon sun lights a fair complexion and the tiny veins on small eyelids; a picture book is closed, upside down beside her   There’s no knight rushing in; She’s not in line for any throne; but I’m her Grandma, and she’s royal enough for me.   © Carolyn R. Wilker Published in an earlier Tower Poetry issue   

Like a Potter

  When my friend Valda was doing pottery, describing how to make the work strong, I pondered what she said. I thought of us (writers and poets) like potters, working with our words, massaging where the expression was weak, where the meaning wasn’t as strong, to make it stand on its own, strong and beautiful. Here's the poem that came from it (published by Tower Poetry):   Poet Potter Words are jumbled cells of clay in the potter's open hand They gather with the force of a wheel propelled by the potter's feet   The wheel spins round and round mere clay in the potter's hands mere words in the poet's mind   unfocused the neck wobbles and collapses sinks to the bottom   The potter's focus and mindful maneuvering remodel the clay   Words arrange themselves  into solid bottom, sides and neck, till the finished piece is ready for the fire of the editor's kiln   ©Carolyn R. Wilker   Also contained in Travelling Light , a collection of light-hearted free verse poet

Costumes and Treats

    Halloween night, when I was growing up in rural Ontario was quite different than kids roaming the streets in the city looking  for treats. For us, we had to wait until Dad was done his chores in the barn, milking cows and feeding the cattle, chickens, pigs and gathering eggs. Here's a look into our Halloween. Costumes and Treats Come Halloween night there were no store-bought costumes we rummaged our parents' closet for the real             the ridiculous           the unusual and came up with the usual Mom's dress   a string of costume jewelry Dad's coveralls, clean from the wash a handkerchief stuffed in the front pocket;   fresh child faces without a mask we could be someone else  without hiding the real us a small bad for treats and we waited 'til evening chores were done There were never tricks Mrs. B. always asked us to sing for our treats I don't remember the songs we sang on a cold October night only the smell of fresh baking spread on the table befo

Bold Orange

 This poem came about in October 2018 (published the following year) when I drove up the street in Stratford on my way to visit Mom in the hospital. The leaves had been falling and many were still cloaked in reds and oranges. It was the orange ones that stood out that day, against the blue sky, on the ground. I can't wear orange myself, but for those who can, it conjures up the word bold . And this poem. And I think I had someone in mind when I wrote about courage. Bold Orange Bold orange colours the sky the hue of her brightness daring and courage It isn't everyday you see that kind of daring squaring with the universe and speaking of courage doing her best with what she has more than most who have more she colours the sky with her gratitude Summer 2019 Volume 68 No. 1 Tower Poetry


           I  remember, as a child, shuffling through piles of coloured leaves. I hear them crinkle and rustle. And then we made piles of leaves while raking them. And I suppose we might have jumped in them. As an adult, I still love that sound when I'm walking in the fall. Already in mid-September this year, leaves are turning colour. The tree across our street is almost completely turned. Most of its leaves are red. What I was thinking of when I wrote this poem was the quiet way the season changes, a bit at a time.     Autumn weaves itself into summer nights ushers in cool air the first chance it gets   It changes greens to splendid reds and yellows nips roses still in bud steals kisses from the sun whispers to migrating birds tells squirrels to fill their homes with food   Autumn slips in so quietly that it’s hard to tell just when summer ends and the season of splendour begins    This poem has also been published by Tower Poetry. Update comin