February Poems

2/9/2013

FATE

I don't believe in fate.
By chance,
or by design,
things happen.
Choose your fate?
- you can, so that's not fate, that's choice.
Coincidence?
How many tales to tell,
it happens all the time,
some think that's fate,
mostly it's just strange chance.
But sometimes, I think,
God intervenes.

– Deeanne

4 Comments

Judy Bandidt

2/8/2013 07:10:54 pm

Dee, this is really thought-provoking.

I really like the first four lines in particular.

The questioning of choice and coincidence in relation to fate is apt.

Could 'strange choice' become 'happenstance' do you think?

Judy

Dee link

2/22/2013 08:16:37 pm

Thanks for the comment, Judy. Happenstance: that's a strange word, I don't think I have ever used it. It would fit in this context, but it repeats 'happen' two lines before, and I feel the 'strange'ness is appropriate. What coincidence isn't met with some amazement?

Susie Faint link

2/10/2013 11:58:58 am

hunting bears

I’ve looked beneath her pillow
felt for lumps inside the sheets
between the mattress and quilt she kicks
to the end when fast asleep …

of course I’ve checked the toy box
a hundred times or more
beneath the rumpled bath mat …
behind the bedroom door

I’ve checked inside her pillow slip
all her little ports and bags
‘cos she likes to stuff him into things
you’d never dream he’d fit

now, don’t forget the staircase
up, down and underneath because
that is a fancy hiding place …
a lair where bears would meet

we must not give in to panic
though I know enough to swear
we cannot dream of bed-time
without her precious bear …

oh, Anthony, you are clever …
we really should have guessed
she’s jammed him in your bait box
top that, to hide a bear!

Susie Faint

Susie Faint link

2/10/2013 12:10:33 pm

christmas in july

light was merely peeping
when I crept from our camp leaving
all others quietly sleeping – not a word

the lapping of not distant tide had called
to paths I hoped would wind
to the solitude I wished to find
on the brink of an indian sea –
where imagery of exotic lands
markets, spice, and desert sand
and language I might never hear
could sing their songs to me

but on that path of powder red
in silence, the unexpected stood
on watch for barefoot passing –
aftermath of fire –

black, skeletal, wattle scrub
grass blades burnt to ground
clean scent of ash and char

and yet,
the legacy of night and sea
shrouded every crow-black tree
in dimensions of translucency –
glistering salt in mist

and to every stick and crevassed root
to every blackened limb
countless webs so fine were strung
spun with dew in rising sun

and all of this a gift to me –
white christmas by an indian sea

Susie Faint

February Poems

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