Life is poetry

Life is poetry

Life is music

Life is art, dance….

Each speck

Each peccadillo

Each laugh, each tear

Each flower

Each breath

Each moment

Each eternity


Is poetry

a river of being


River and spray,

Flame and ash,

Song and echo,

Home and journey,

Everything and

nothing at all.

©2017, Ontheland

If feelings of déjà vu are coming up for you, you may  have heard Cid Corman’s three-line poem titled ‘The Call’ (at the link scroll down to find the poem–it opens with ‘Life is poetry’. Or you may have heard these words attributed to Leonard Cohen:  ‘Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash’. Both Cid Corman’s poem and Leonard Cohen’s quote resonate with me.



In symbols, clustered stars, far meaning hides

In poems, wordless messages reside

literal sense afloat or cast aside—

And sometimes words and form together glide

In serendipity gates open wide.


This is my response to Jane Dougherty’s 50th Poetry Challenge: ‘Fifty’.  She will be taking a break from hosting challenges for a while.  I would like to express my profound gratitude for the challenges she has offered. For me it was a weekly writing workshop, an opportunity to learn and experiment with aspects of form I would not have tackled on my own.

The form proposed for this week is called a ‘Fifty’:  five lines of 10 syllables each. Each line must rhyme.  Combining a long syllable count with rhyme requirements was by no means effortless for me.  My topic was partly inspired by the image provided with the challenge, but as the poem is not about the image I have not shown it here.


I shiver

chilled by the

imposing shadows of

your towering monuments.

How will I write,

write a poem?

You loom so LARGE—

adorned with literary acclaim and

linguistic brilliance!

But here is the sun—

I’ll lean against warm stone and

bask in radiant heat.

44 words makes a Quadrille.  This is my first attempt in response to dVerse #17: Shadow.





Old Ontario Mill


An old mill stands at the edge of town

inviting stories of long ago,

when harvested grains were locally ground,

and turbines powered by water flow.


As I stand by the rushing creek,

and train my gaze on the sturdy mill,

I hear the rushing waters speak

of days gone by before all stood still.


Lost in halls of childhood hours,

recalling memories of weekend drives,

to a country mill for sacks of flour,

to mix, knead and leave to rise.


How quickly old traditions fade

Each generation sees changes unfurl

Yet old stone mills endure and stay,

Solid reminders of an older world.


I wrote this poem in response to The Secretkeeper Weekly Writing Prompt #31 (prompt words: Town, Train, Fade, Hear, Hall). The mill at the edge of town is shown in the above photo, taken in February. After I wrote the poem I discovered that the notion that it was a flour mill was pure fantasy on my part.  Though there are many old flour mills across Ontario, Babcock Mill was built in 1856 for grist planing and making baskets!

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