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

Monday, August 25, 2014

Blue Jasper Prairie

This is who I am
I am the air that cradles each tree
the cavernous jasper blue of the sky
I am the slice of pie between each spoke
of the wagon wheel. I am the space under
the dude ranch sign. I am the tickling
beard of each white cloud. I am the last note
of every bird’s song, the ever changing pane
between every limb on every barked branch
I am kinlight between every head of grain
I am the current under each gliding wing.
Yes, this is me. I am the quickinging blur
of the paved road. The silence after
the ending note.
This is me.
This is who I am.

Sunday, August 24, 2014


We saw a vulture today
in the neighborhood
it came to say hi
borrow a cup of sugar
scavenge some dried
He was handsome
for a vulture

there are little lizard
hands all over the living room
carpet that the dog
chewed from a toy

and I wonder
if when all that is dead
and dismembered is
removed from my heart

it might grow again
So vultures aren't
a bad thing then

Saturday, August 23, 2014


My prayers are like weeds along the side of the path
fuzzy short ones-- good for the outhouse
sprawling canopies of fruitless vines
fiery trumpet bushes that signal it is August
tiny notes of joy

Strangling creepers, trees of thorns, these are my prayers
interrupted by little blue tailed skinks
the cinching murmur of gnats
but maybe those are prayers too

My prayers are like the weeds along the side of the path
chicory as blue as the sky, Queens Anne's Lace
Magenta honeyed clover swarmed by bees
Thistle down catching the breeze, Deadly nightshade
orbs of seductive poison

This tiny shell skidding over the rocks
from my false steps, that one is like my prayers too
Leaving silvery trails of indecision, they begin
full of confidence only to die in this fireball of a noon

you already know what I'll do--
I'll throw the snail over toward the creek where
the mud is soft and smells worse than sin
there it can cool off, hope to revive
in the protection of the shade

and I know you'll find it there-- You can't hide
easily, I can hear your music even through
the earbuds in my ears. Nothing keeps out
the sound of the crickets from these weeds

I hear them--
love      love     love     love
    love     love     love     love
their cry is what I walk on, what
I breathe, and the pace I speak
And the cicada are louder, competing
with the sun for power over power
and they say louder and louder
I aaaaaaaaam
I aaaaaaaaam
I am

Friday, August 22, 2014


(a poem by Mio, a mermaid)
I’m like a cuttlefish
I reflect I refract
an invisible-scuttle fish
I mirror everyone become
sand when they want sand
become shells to hide who I am
Perhaps I'll sway-- an anemone
Maybe pucker like parrot fish
or split in two a branching kelp
help... I've rooted here I'm stuck
lost in the forest of tridents
none of them mine I'm like a sea 
plume a feathered pen with no 
strength left to sign my  name
after everyone I've been
who can remember
after everyone I can't be
who cares
me a worthless cuttlefish
who has run out of camo
I will use my ink instead
to etch this web of truth and lie
I will write until I’ve bled it all
'til the whole ocean fills
with ink, and even our tears
will be Sepia.

Here is a rough sketch of a poem from the novel series I'm working on.  Poems help me get the idea for where the novel is going and what kind of characters are in my story. 

Thursday, August 21, 2014


bless this
swollen bud
barely plump
but surely alive
birthed from
this bare
a sign
yes so

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Sedona Cantos 2008

Drink me--a curious label
to etch in glass. Do you
believe what labels say
Well I can learn five
impossible things
before breakfast
from what labels
do not. Sedona,
her red tumbler
peaks give me
vertigo as I sip
a curious drink
I believe there
must be words
for a very new
taste…pale ale
the afterthought
of green olives
the soft hint of 
rubber sole
bubbles float
ever upward in
excelsior like Sedona
your peaks full of wonder

I feel a bit like a second grader when I create a poem with form, but it really satisfies the artist in me to shape a poem about the subject is speaks to.  Here is a tumbler shape in honor of the first time I ever tasted beer in Sedona, Arizona.  I didn't become a beer drinker, but I enjoyed that first taste more than the poem lets on-- just for it's novelty. 

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Walking Under Words

What is the sound of
of an oar after it dips in water?
Do you hear it?
The sound of fruit
after it falls from a tree?
What is the sound of a bird
after it has flown away?
What about the sound
after the rain?
What do you hear just as
the TV is turned off,
or the last round of
a loud argument upstairs--
or the last breath
of a haggard embrace.

What do you hear?