Who Will Love the Crow

I am delighted to share with you the exciting news of my book release Who Will Love the Crow through Winter Goose Publishing. This is my debut solo collection and features the photography from Olivia MacDonald, my daughter, whose photographs I feature on my blog. Visit my author's page

Selected Amazon Reviews

"the poems speak to us all about intimate, as well as universal moments, both fleeting and permanently etched on our hearts."

"They're gorgeous themes and imagery elegantly packaged into a readable contemporary form that hearkens also back to romanticists. Her work is also rife with sensuality and tension. They're brooding and also hopeful."

"There is a simultaneous sense of integration and distance which invites the reader to thoughtfully consider and develop their own, unique relationship to the subject matter from a place of quiet stillness and peace."

"In Theme, tone, and content, Miriam Dunn's poetry speaks the language of the soul. Her innate gift for rhyming evokes emotional power by its fluid simplicity and seeming effortlessness."

Five Days at the Glace Bay Shore

Day One 

On this day
waves move like lovers
one trying to catch the other
rushing breathless toward to the palm of shore

They join in a tangled dance
a rapturous violence

churned and spun and toppled
upside down and around each other
watery limbs entwined and broken 

They become one. 

Day Two

At noon
two men get out of their truck
as casual as cats
descend the uneven, pathless rocks to water edge

These are not the people I expect to see
strolling shorelines:

Truck people
Men in caps

They are not poets or dreamers or lovers

The older one stops and bends
picks up something small
hunched over with his old back
examines it in his hand
and reaches it out for the other to see

The other
with his younger back and hands without callouses
leans in
(it is an unspoken rule on shores to stop and look at whatever your companion finds and extends to you)

I sit in my car watching
wanting to know what treasure he has found
wanting to join them
as casual as a cat
down on the shoreline

"Nice day! Whatcha got there?"  I could say.
And we could all become friends, eventually,
agree to meet tomorrow.
share our finds.
or a tuna sandwich.

But I am a voyeur
with a pen and a poem to write.

And maybe they are lovers, after all.

Day Three

On this shore 
a group of gulls take off
face the wind
hang in the air, defiant
pressing themselves against the invisible 
then turn and fly
behind the low cliffs

A small blue fishing boat
heads toward the smooth edge of the ocean
and I know it will disappear, as well

A speck swallowed by horizon 

Though the fishers will still feel more part of the world
than I.

Day Four

On this shore
juts a jigsaw of cliffs
counting years in the millions
their jagged face
lets you see what is not there

And I wonder how much
of that cliff wall is now sand

dislodged
rehomed
caught in an endless tumble at the cliff’s feet 
or gone out to sea
alone
where it accounts for nothing

Day Five

How much time have I spent
watching things disappear?

Seeds

At night 

we are seeds

buried in the coal-black of sky

growing

into something beautiful 

and strong

breaking through

the hard shell 

Each morning 

we unearth ourselves

reaching toward the light

Low Tide Days

It is a low tide day.
Words come gently
and linger;
ideas lap in low rumbling trots.

It is a day of slow strolls
and being still along the edge
without turning back.

Nothing old gets returned,
swept up and dropped at our feet.

The other side is that much closer;
we might even touch
on low tide days
like these.

Black Boulevard

 

I look for the place
where we are born

you and I

It is the place where images and sound and rhythm meet
and birth us as twins

a time before the slow
disintegration of unselfconsciousness
when we were pure
and whole
and all things at once
held together by points of view
bonded
through trust 

without understanding
imagination

without interpretation

The place is the black boulevard
between songs
on a scratchy record. 

What Beauty Born

What beauty born

rooting your days
to the dry

spreading your losses
in loosed winds

ugly rivers down in tongues

You arch across the day
from morning to moon

tempting a tremble
tempting a fall


much ado about decay

but what beauty born 

Spring Clean

Olivia Macdonald

Outside, our filth is unearthed

as winter recedes

and everything is a tired shade of brown.

This is the midway

when the pendulum swings

between the purity of dead white winter

and the lusciousness of August. 

The air is not quite fresh

as April's fungi and mold

heave and ho tiny lungfuls of decay.

The sky, soon cornflower blue,

is just recovering from a long bout 

of iron cloud days 

and May's roadsides are lined with our carelessness,

even as eager green sprouts 

push their way through the spiritless fallow 

that covers the garden like brown paper packages 

I Will Disappear

I will disappear, slowly
like a dirt path beneath the falling snow; 
like a small bird in a large sky,
my bird eyes looking straight ahead and never back
until I  am in some other sky far from where I started.

I will disappear 
like the long crest of storm waves rushing 
to the curve of a sandy shore;

like white smoke from a small fire
rising upward into a cloudy day;

I will disappear like the echo of a Sunday bell
that stopped ringing just moments past 
.

not like one drowning
not like one fighting 
not like one falling
for these have no grace

not as a room when a door slams shut
or a voice when the phone is disconnected
for these are too sudden

I will disappear like last week's bruise
the blue beneath my skin, fading. 

The Darkness in Me

The darkness in me was once a daybreak

that forgot to belong
the birth of a star
and the loss of a star

and the loss of a star

which all feel the same

The darkness in me
The darkness in me is the life that we live

and the love that gives life

and goes out in a beat
and the beat that’s in me

is the god and the end

and the no and the full 
The darkness in me is a seed

and a child 

as heat in a drought

the wind in the blue
The darkness in me is a love that is lost

and a day at the park

and a day in the rain

and a day in my bed

and a day walking sideways

and a day in a tub with a stranger

that's you

when there’s a message

when none has been sent

the chase through the snow

the reach for the phone

the close of a book

The darkness in me

is a leaf crushed and blown

fallen and withered

all that I've known

once a sunrise

the unknown life

is a word and a rhyme

and a keeping of time

that falls out of step

The darkness in me

the never and true

given away

wrapped and presented

The darkness in me is the static I hear

the sleep on the floor

not started, not done

returned to the sky

The darkness in me

is all that I've known

and all that I am

the moon and the sun