poetpotter

  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...

    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 do...

 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    Thi...

 Sadly we did not get to the beach at all this summer. With COVID and the newer variants, it just didn't happen. Still I love being at the beach, not necessarily to sit in the hot sun or swim distances which is harder to do there, and swimming is not one of my stronger skills.  I like to walk on the beach and pay attention to waves and how they creep up or crash in, and how footprints in the sand gradually disappear each time the waves come in.  Here's a poem I wrote years ago after an early morning walk on the beach at Southampton. Beach Walk Take the sandy path along the water's edge at dawn only the cry of soaring gulls and soft lapping of waves washing the golden sand seagulls rest on rock islands in the mist where a finger of land points into the lake see the treasures scattered on the beach a slice of rock remnant of nature's force fragile shells, empty of life and branches, stripped of bark and roughness sit on the rock in the quiet of dawn listen to the music of...

  Go ahead and do it. Imagine sitting in a room with many tables, all set with fresh white tablecloths, plates, glasses of water sent in place, and cutlery lined up neatly. And you sit patiently until the wait staff comes for your order. This is where my imagination took me:   In a restaurant   Ice clinks in full glasses of water waiters set tables the cutlery loud against china plates   I hear a sound     an orchestra starting up tuning at the conductor’s baton I pick up the napkin and pen from my pocket and begin to write   Not like Bach or Beethoven writing with quill and ink on their elegant white sleeves but on a napkin    its finish bruised by a quick wipe wrinkled     though barely     by the narrow escape of a plate set next to a goblet of water on a table covered in white   The only sound in my head is the symphony of words    coming toge...