Posts Tagged ‘bowl’


b o w l

so it was a high mountain stream that
sat beside my thirst.  and two palms that
cupped and drew an answer there.

is it interesting that of so many creatures
god gave us this bowl of our own to drink?


sky is a bowl you wear like a hat.
consider all that is given you.

consider thoughts like light.
consider clouds that souls imply.


consider the word, inside.
consider the illusion, we say, edge.


here, a potters hands imagine a bowl.
clay reflects makingness.

breath is a bowl drinking sky
yet fills only when empty first.


some bowls have names,
some do not.

some bowls are full of words.

a bowl will hold the mosaic
of my doubts, and then

one day I looked and it was aches
and pains.  yet bowls heal simply
by turning rightside upside down.


everything real is inside a bowl.

what’s outside is a mystery disguised
as stars.

all things are held in equal calm.


a bowl will teach, although that’s not
the meaning meant.


a bowl is one half of everything.

bowls don’t care when I’m confused.


your lips are a bowl.
so’s your love.

a bowl is a shape nature adores.


a bowl is known by another word.
the word is choice.


bowls can count to ten.

things that look like a bowl to me.
the pockets in my pants.
my mouth.  yours.  ears.  eyes.
your hand in mine.


neil reid © february 2013

this poem is all over the place. I first imagined something else, but here’s all I got, and the choice is choosing this or nothing. so maybe that’s about right.

oh, and in terms of counts I did a search. the word bowl appears in about 40 of my poems thus far, and now, 41. guess that qualifies.

(Poems is hard.) writing ain’t easy of late.

Written for the We Write Poems prompt #144,  In your own words.
Identify words you use more frequently in your poems, then take a look what one of those words really means for you.

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Tell me what this poem is saying to you

What’s the message do you think?  When leaves
turn autumn bright, fall to an upturned bowl.

Is it fall or flight?

Memories of quenching rain and radiance,
brilliant sap twisting buds and

here, disembodied snow become earthly
fruit, another language feeding roots.

Not all bowls are right being right-side up.

Here’s this phrase, Grandmother made a mistake.
Now, how’d that glyph land inside of you?

Language is immediate.  Either side of that
synapse, swift limb to lace of root.

Stories move like water does.

How far can a voice imagine itself?
Tell me what this poem is saying to you.

Do your fingers trace the words?
Do your lips trace the sounds?

No sense of feeling goes idyl here.
When buddha hand touched the earth

compassion became a bell.

Here’s the rake.  Here’s the dust for your shoes.
Make affection of these leaves.

Tell me what this poem is saying to you.


neil reid © january 2013

This poem began before the prompt, but seemed mostly well enough to be companion to the prompt. Rather “drafty” as it doesn’t go really where the initial image wanted to go, but maybe another day. (busy head thinks too much) (listens less) But doesn’t that actually seem the hardest gradient writing… getting myself out of the way? Does to me. (OR, one might ask… Where’s Waldo?!!)

Written for the We Write Poems prompt #135,  Peas in a pod.  Write a poem from a gathering of “ideas”.

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A little play to do, even if I drop the bowl. A small step away from usual. Disclaimer. Any similarity between this poem and anyone real much less a poet is purely coincidentally amusing. Life is nothing if not associative.

Interview with a poet

Poets mend some words, but only fair
because others they’ve broken apart.

To begin an evening, my feet hurt.
In or out of shoes. Standing for eight
hours a day isn’t very kind.

Labor is not for the timid of feet.

Poets stare sideways. Unnerving,
some have said of them.

It’s like a bowl of fruit after
it’s eaten. Second meanings have
already escaped first glance.

Like socks you wear until
your toe becomes visible.

Like the pear you peal, maybe
that only happens once in a life.
Perfect I mean, till a peach arrives.

All of this is underneath the words.
Like fish contain the lubricant
that makes water flow.

Seven bucks to cross on the ferry.
Nothing to come back except
your shoes. That part you’re
responsible for yourself.

Dad, he gambled away what he
won from the war. Including me.
But what really irked, was
the sister lost.

Just when she might have saved
a life. She had copper skin.

Mom, she just wanted what she
wouldn’t say. Not till two days before
she passed away. That’s why.

Two in the afternoon and all
I have are crumbs. Shouldn’t
I be confident yet? Shouldn’t
love be shouting loud?

Toast with butter would be better.

A bicycle is probably a better
way to write poems that don’t
stand still.

Expression does trust to score
away the stone of life less lived.
And a last breath is only a comma
we seldom perceive.

Holding hands is essential
for getting it right.

That big yellow school bus
and all the kids singing, smiling,
where have all the flowers gone.
I wasn’t pleased.

Not that I wanna be sad.
It was years before I found what
roots have been saying all along.

Faultless is more than starch.

Foreign soils are only an inch
away. Depends where or when
you wanna go. Like when
mother was young.

Would my life have been greener
if the fence was over there instead?
Mother said my diapers froze solid
on the laundry line. Polynesian
tattoos would have been nice.

So poems are like archaeology,
like the best peach, like colors,
like ants in the soil. Just when
a mole comes along.

Everything is more and less
than it has always been.

And broken things are just the
first step toward a mosaic bowl.

Neil Reid © December 2009

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