Friday, October 18, 2013

Book Spine Poems

The Regina Public Library 
is sponsoring a book spine poetry photo challenge. 
What a terrific idea! 
I looked around my office this morning, came up with 
six piles of books, six photos, six poems.
So much fun, I had to force myself to stop.

No apologies for the weather
beneath that starry place
closer to the sun.
Who has seen the wind
where the wild things are
inventing the hawk.
Your last day on earth
everything arrives at the light:
the touchstone,
birthday letters,
clay birds
beyond my keeping.
The small words in my body
could be the gates of the sun,
proof of a tongue,
earth after rain,

-Shelley A. Leedahl

The day is a cold grey stone
under her skin.
That night we were ravenous
in the vision of birds
in a city you will never visit.
Two citizens
accordion breathing and dancing,
becoming light.
Coming home from home
west by northwest.
Waking in Eden.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

Listen, Honey,
tell me everything:

     a few words for January,
     what is already known,
     country roads, great Canadian murder
     and mystery stories,
     orchestra of the lost steps,
     the house of the easily amused.

How did you get this number
in a sunburned country?
Riding planet Earth?
Talking down the northern lights?

Listen, Honey,
you haven’t changed a bit.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

a dangerous friend,
the angel on the roof.

What was mine:
the sweet edge,
a new path to the waterfall.

The other sea. Lost gospels—
various miracles—
The bare plum of winter rain.

The laws of ice—
                                    hard light

-Shelley A. Leedahl

Let me be the one
clinging to the myth
in the misleading absence of light.
The roaring girl
getting to know you
where the rain ends.
What can’t be changed shouldn’t be mourned:
          blood of angels,
          the dogs of babel,
          19 knives,
          a haunting sun.

Listen, Honey,
let’s not let a little thing
like the end of the world
come between us.

-Shelley A. Leedahl

Origami dove
through black spruce
the colour of bones,
a grain of rice.
The blue field.

Restless white fields.
The height in between
yellowgrass, red clay


The old familiar

The day is a cold grey stone,
the yellow heart
Black zodiac.

What is this thing called love?

-Shelley A. Leedahl