I don't know. I was supposed to write someting about bacon.

Bacon
She tells me
Is like pure good.

Rhyming!

Sing a song of twenty dollars
The artist is too poor
When the landlord comes to holler
He heads right out the door.

I like to think of myself
As a plank.
Not a piece of wood
Inert
Cold
Dead.

Rather
I am a plank
the pilates move.
I'm Alive
and I move
Air and blood flows
and I breathe
But I am solid
Grounded
Strong.

Until I lose my focus,
I am strong.

When my mind wanders
or I forget
My Core
I shake
I tremble
And I begin to feel
what a precarious position
I am in.

Rewrite: Steeping

http://onepoemoneday.blogspot.com/2007/01/steeping.html

You drink too much tea
they say,
but you just shrug and pour another cup.

There's something about your tea
that makes me
quiver.

It could be the colour,
a light and clear brown
so different from their muddy coffee;
or the way it trembles
when you set it on the saucer,
like a lover that's just been
pulled away from your lips.

I sympathise.
I remember what it was like
being pulled away from those lips:
the leap in my stomach
and the urge to jump right back at them
that I always
somehow
managed to sublimate.

I think you knew how it felt.
Everytime we pulled apart
you had this mischevious little grin on your face
that said,
I know you want me.

The worst part is
you were right,
and I still do.
I want to be the the leaves
that you turn into clear
brown
tea.

Destruction, and the ability of the world to continue.

It is morning, around ten.
My pot of tea
Sits unassumingly next to my cup
and saucer.

A sugar cube rests
on my saucer,
white,
sparkling like the sand
on a perfect beach.

I drop it into my cup.
It sits,
askew,
waiting.

Lifting my pot of tea
and tipping it
I release a maelstrom of heat
and wet
wiping the sugar cube away
leaving brown tea.
Sweet,
sweet brown tea.

The steam rises
from the brown tea,
and the news
comes on CBC.

Musings 1

A small point of light
Shines in the corner of the room.
                                                  The rest of the room is dark.
                              The light is
                                             Yellow
                                           Sharp
                                         Indistinct
                                                  Because I'm not wearing my glasses

It doesn't light up anything else in the room.
It's a solitary light,
A light that is not
Prone to sharing

And I wonder
                                                  Does light
                                                  Go to kindergarten?

Shiraz Cab

From the moment I pop the cork
Smell
And pour the first glass                Love the colour.
I know what to expect from a Shiraz.

Full.
Powerful.
Always a little peppery
Hitting me in the eyes.

You're the same way.
You hit me in the eyes            Love the way you look
And the way you walk
talk
and touch me
are full of power
confidence
and beauty.

But just like a Shiraz
I love you
but I can't stand you.