Ways To Go

Your bed was in my dream last night
Beige knit bedspread
Reaching out to my hand
Where I lay on the floor
Counting the wooden tiles
Like building block pieces
In checkered patterns

Now right to left
Now up and down

Cheap and replaceable
So tenants destroy just one small part
With cigarettes left burning
Or oil spilled from bottles promising VEGETABLE
So mothers can count ten servings
With bags and jars and mixes and cans
On pyramids sent back to school

You were on your bed last night
As young as I am now old

Now brown haired
Now grey
Now brown

Because I am dreaming
I do not hate you
And you smile
And you hurt me
And I think of ways to go.

by Heather Emme

To read all the #verseday poems, click here. To read my twitter poems, click here.


Pen Strokes

Our nakedness is suspect
It is secret
It is sold
Our physical exposure is commoditized
And airbrushed clean
And slid from left to right
Pores abolished
Scars expunged
Our nature is covered in pen strokes
Until there is no naked left
But only the art of men

Our passions, they are suspect
They are secret
They are sold
Our conceptual exposure is commoditized
And edited clean
And slid from left to right
Forthrightness abolished
Hurt expunged
Our spirit is covered in pen strokes
Until there is no passion left
But only the words of men

by Heather Emme

I’m still in surgical recovery, so poems are keeping my blog alive. To read all the #verseday poems, click here. To read my twitter poems, click here.


SLNSW_10716_2UW_Audition_StudioIf me and you
You and me
Met face to face
Each in our space
There are chances
All the chances
That we would have felt uncomfortable

We would have left with nothing
Left with nothing
Left to show for it

But I met you through melody
Through songs that melted into me
Through songs I heard but could not see
Through words you wrote instinctively

And so I guess I know you some
And so I cry a little bit
I cry a bit
I cry for it
For ends and counting infinite
I count the rhythm of the step
You take away from all of this
You take away your time, your kiss
Goodnight sweet prince
I tell you this
The music can be solid, sure
In a way you never were
The music can be sure

And the silence can endure

by Heather Emme

To read all the #verseday poems, click here. To read my twitter poems, click here.

Eight Words

Things I cannot say in eight words:
I love you like plants, voracious,
Love soil and sun and summer rain.
I hold you like a nest holds eggs,

Tenderly so you will not break.
Things I cannot say in eight words,
I try to say in hundreds more,
But you prefer a soundless kiss.

You prefer me, my eyes closed tight,
Contemplating you and I and
Things I cannot say in eight words.
You tell me that I am enough

And that you know, you always knew
That my love is voluminous
And so I say with nothing, the
Things I cannot say in eight words.

by Heather Emme

To read all the #verseday poems, click here. To read my twitter poems, click here.

Verseday The First

I plan to post a poem every Thursday, because why the heck not? Here is the first:

Canadian Authors One Should Avoid Whilst Suffering From A Mental Illness

I was born to read
Said mother, indeed,
That the doctors and orderlies gasped
In the hospital room
I emerged from the womb
A novel in infant hand, clasped

From Munsch to Lee
To Ms. Montgomery
From Korman to Gilman and back
From cover to last
I worked my way past
The Canadian library stacks

But I grew up and learned
As chemicals burned
And twisted inside of my brain
There are authors Canuck
One should censor like fuck
If you check in the box marked “not sane”

Margaret Atwood, to start
May be close to my heart
But her prose is decidedly cynical
Every character doomed
She should not be consumed
By depressives, once diagnosed clinical

And Rohinton Mistry’s
Indian histories
Are oftentimes deeply distressing
So if my Seratonin
Is busy re-zonin’
I’d rather zone out the depressing

Those paranoid
Should clearly avoid
The writings of Naomi Klein
Her Doctrine is Shocking
For brains that are balking
And No Logo’s no pal of mine

And then in no hope-land
We find Douglas Coupland
Who writes on most any old topic
What unites all his work
Is a riveting quirk
That turns every word misanthropic

And you can be certain
That Cohen and Berton
Will bide their time haunting our sleep
And while Mowat and Richler
May write the odd tickler
Even they can’t avoid getting deep

If I had it my way
Then one Thomson Highway
Would only write limericks and jokes
And Findley and Davies
Now dead in their gravies
Would chat just like regular folks

Neurologically broken
This author has spoken
These writers, to me, are now static
Though they may be brilliant
I’m not that resilient
When I am not right in the attic