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.

2014 has poems, paintings, new art & photography. Feel free to come in and sit down.

Polly McCann

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Buying Wine


Okay, so you need red wine
to cook purple cabbage. Red wine
plus red onions plus red cabbage
sautéed in butter, yes butter--
Yum, better than candy, it warms
up your cold winter heart from blue
 to red with it's purple splendor.
So you go to the store to buy
the wine and then you have
to decide which one. You think,
"It's a special occasion, so
let's buy a special wine.
Something magnificent,
something red, something
from a good year, a year when
something good happened.
So you don't even
try to for last year's wine,
and the year before that
wasn't that great either.
What about 2011
or 2010? No, no, and no.
And that's the oldest
wine they have at the
tiny grocery store
that offers cupcakes
and succulents at the
front entrance and frigid
flowers dyed blue and orange.
As though flowers didn't
already come in orange
naturally out of the earth
that way. And so then you
realize that even without
going back to a good year
you are out a huge chunk
of change. How much would
it cost to go back to a good
year?And so you buy the wine
anyway, the manger wondering
aloud why you bought the
"pricey" stuff, and you

saying it's for friends.
"You must like them a lot,"
he says. "I do." you say,
and you mean it.




Saturday, November 15, 2014

Purple Cabbage

So Pablo Neruda, of course, has probably written the best poem ever written about a cabbage. In one of his odes, Ode to an Artichoke, he talks about the cabbage: "The cabbage/ Dedicated itself/  To trying on skirts."  So true. But I can't help writing one too.


Purple Cabbage

Purple cabbage planted
into the flower bed
knowing you'd outlive
the deadly frost
I hate to see flowers die
And it was true they faded
to shadows after last
night's arctic breath.
Almost invisible.
But you, purple cabbage
your opened wide to kiss
the frosty stars--
your dress magenta
like the milky way
won wondrous surprise,
the praise of small
children who found
your rings of lusty laughter
a miracle and forgot
to cry over the others'
deaths.

Music Man

When the trees are bare
you can see what's left
everything you took
for granted--
the nest from spring,
the squirrels accidental lair,
that leaf, or is it a bird?
Small black notes
left on the sheet music
of a chalked over sky.
What will the winter birds
eat when acrid berries
are gone? They don't
seem worried. And here
is the woodpecker. Has
he been here all summer?
Now I see him in his little
red cap and his zebra
striped jacket. What
a man for fashion!
He won't run out of food
when the ice forms herself
over the hallowed out hulls
of empty seeds. Why?
You know he eats
little mites who sleep
inside the tree. He hammers
notes on a scale up and down
the paper white bark.
I'd like to be like him. Face
winter with my new red hat
knowing that my pantry
will never run out,
with my back to the sun
and a coat of feathers.
No, I am him. I am. I am.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Leave

When 
leave the earth
I wanna be ...  like a leaf
I'll fall to the ground
and lay there dying
Everyone will know 
I spent my life reaching 
for the light
toward the only Sun 
then I'll burst into a little
flame of my own 
my red heart 
will match his fiery
one


Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Mandala

In the center of the circle
are the slip tied tails
of a single undulating
ribbon. Knot, are you theory--
strings who never meet,
one or many?
Dream ribbon rain-bowed
glow you push the greyed
dusk with a swords edge,
who else sees you--
who has ever seen your
gilded secrets?
Your beauty unfolds,
blooms as the rose-
en-bridge to the destination
of dreams? No, not the source,
you are the servant, the door
we perceive to a star dance
too thick for four dimensions.
Our serpentine path through
time amuses you. Timeless
bridge to soul source, you
make me wonder who tied
you up into a bow.
You make me certain
love is fifth dimensional.
You sift me, grow in me,
show me that the
Universe-weaver
loves in color.




Saturday, October 25, 2014

The Writing Process or Why I Love Being a Failure

Check out my guest blog this week at The Storyteller's Inkpot. As part of their Alumni Voices series: The Writing Process, or Why I Love Being a Failure:

On the highest shelf of a storage closet, in the furthest part of my basement, behind a room someone painted purple — for reasons known only to them-- are three boxes . . . .

Monday, October 20, 2014

Whose got the button?

Back cradled in the nook of the chair,
cheered by half light from a high window--
a glow which filters into the low, violet 
colored room squished with art supplies, 
books, and lost things-- like a jelly sandwich 
made by small sticky fingers and a
distracted mother-- a kaleidoscope of jars
and brushes to make color, a kite, a quilting
hoop, unfinished children's mobiles,
paper sandals, a doll holding a miniature
bag marked "cookies," a round cardboard
box with a round lid covered
with pictures of roosters or eggs maybe--
Inside the box, though it smells like
stiff potpourri, there are only buttons.
Buttons which sound like sea shells being
sifted by searching fingers, buttons which
glide over each other like piano keys
tinkling their own shirtless tune. Yes,
I'm looking for a button to replace
the one on this olive drab blouse, an olive
colored button not too big and not too small--
no pretty small then. One is too yellow,
one is too large. Another just right, but the 
metal shines too bright. I'll find one
here in a minute- I always do. But wait.
What do other people do when they lose
a button. Do they have a button box?
A box passed from mother to daughter
for generations uncounted? A box
with buttons from kitchens, weddings
and wars? Babies buttons, glass buttons,
buttons for generals and jeans?
Do they have buttons at all. Or am I 
a lost button kind of person,
while the rest of the world are
lost shirts?