Come in and sit down . . .

2015 has poems, paintings, new art & photography. Feel free to come in and sit down.

In 2010 I wrote a poem a day: blunt misshapen ideas left on this digital desk for anyone to peek over my shoulder. It was a diary, a discipline, and a delight. My two hundred fifty-nine un-edited poems taught me what discipline can do for a person hardwired to notice. I found if I would stop and write a poem, I was free.


Polly McCann

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Snow


When you break my heart
it sounds like someone
walking on snow
the sound of a thousand
crystals last breath
but what you don't know
is that Spring is coming.

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

Dear Humpty Dumpty

In honor of very nearly finishing my Humpty Dumpty Picture book after almost eight months and a million revisions of sweat and tears, I reposting this poem I found on my own blog from August 2010. Yes sometimes you have no idea what you've written without a search engine.

Dear Humpty Dumpty,
I hear the new style is all in
red velvet cushions for hats
this year.  As you are my 
best egg customer, I've taken 
the liberty of ordering for you
one for each end. They should 
come in next wednesday, I'll 
send the king's horses 
to deliver them.

Signed,
Mad Hatter

Monday, January 5, 2015

Clack

On winter nights around half past ten
the clocks begin to sing their chorus
of clacks. Why so silent all day and
then so boisterous at night, like
a dog that never stops yapping?
And why do the clocks click every
second even without a second hand?
How do they do that? What do clocks
say to one another at night? What
do they talk about? And why
do they speed up every year circling
the holidays like ever nearing vultures
making my head spin. Didn't I just
put these decorations away last week, or
was it last year? Clocks, those
clackers. Gotta love them, even
if they snore at night like my
great Uncle, they are there for
for you every minute of the day.

Art Show January 2015

Cooked up some great illustrations this fall for my portfolio.  Come see them in person at my art show at Smithville Midcontinent Public Library near Kansas City, MO. I called it "Studio Under Glass" because you can catch a glimpse of things from my studio that inspire me, along with new artwork. For directions, check out my website at www.pollymccann.com.

Sunday, December 28, 2014

Cracked

I figured I'm a bird because I have feathers
I thought I was a bird, I mean, I have a beak.
I thought I could fly because I hovered
in a sky colored robin's egg blue.
My wings never even got tired.
Life was easy until. . . crack
When I saw my world lay broken, and
in this new one-- I can't fly,
I mean, not even a little bit--I cried.
So maybe I'm not a bird after all.
Maybe I'm an alligator. Maybe
I just dreamt I was a bird.
All I know is that freedom is cold
and big and hungry. But it's worth it,
because I found you here in
this place. What do you call it?
Yeah, a nest . . . a nest.





Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Benton

I found this poem in my notes of a nonfiction biography project about Thomas Hart Benton, American painter. I often write a poem from the perspective of my main character to help me start a book, fiction or non fiction. I also wrote a tall tale about this character because he was so larger than life. 

Benton

I get up with the sun, but
it’s not to catch the light.
I pack my bag and beg
for a fight.  Out on the bluff
I brawl with the sun, with
shadows, barns, and everyone.
I stare at the sky
and the colors of the world
as the wheat crackles and spins,
curves and whirls.
I traipse down an old country
road, find some folks and watch
what they’re doin’.
Then I join ‘em
in a drink and a song.
Play my harmonica

all night long.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Invisible Lines

The black birds-- starlings most likely
because there are so many, and they sing
instead of call-- move in such a way, swirls
of flight, landing, and re-landing, the tip
of the conductor's wand carves a blind path
their wings so many sharp quills of invisible ink
Their traceless flight proves that if I could
see the wind, it would swirl and coil
like a snake in water. What is that place
in-between feathers, a kingdom
I, wingless, will never visit this side of
dreaming? No I will dig in the dirt and
cheer shoots of winter strawberries racing
towards the porch, hens 'n chicks with stead-
fast succulent hearts waiting out winter's breath,
a hollyhock leaf peeping out into the rare
December sun. I will tend my winter garden
and leave the winter sky for the birds
to dig up. We each have somewhere to
love.