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Daras photo

Today I shall endeavour not to fix
a single problem more complex than, shall
I place the vase of peonies here, or
fall asleep while re-watching “Princess Bride”?

Today I shall ignore the mental tricks
of trending news that seek to scale my wall
of being well, content, in love. Scores
elsewhere will somehow sort their shame and pride.

Today I choose to dance, to paint and mix
with wanderers and poets. I’ll stand tall
before the mirror, knowing we have more
to reach and master than we’ve ever tried.

One day, a final word, I’ll breathe my last,
then ride the breeze that smiles upon our past.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Today, Oceantics is honoured to feature the extraordinary photography of Dara Hurt.

Of the Swampy Clans, a Tale




I have gone
to rest awhile
in the arms
of the Council
of the Twisted Hairs
to catch my breath
and learn
a better way of walking
the Good Red Road
that remains to me

sprouting overnight
they glare across
the wrinkled patches
of earth
that gives
them space
shaded by
their own caps
they accuse each other
of blindness

the moving spore
that feels no root

the silver birch
once girdled
and breaks
through canopy
to sky


© Elaine Stirling, 2014

We Have No Word In English


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We have no word in English
for corazón
the heorte of Old English
and the kardia of Greek
come nowhere near
the heart
of corazón, that word
the Spanish pulse
holds dear
on this I’d firmly stake
my final versos

While Greco-Roman
arguments and conquests
bleed and leak and drip
through aeons still
to tie and twist
our tongues
lone cor
the whole of courage
pumps and breathes
and flies the power
of archangels winged
by light of paired
and weightless lungs.

Old High Germans
knew this, and the forges
of old Norse drew iron
from the blood of ancient
corazón to gird their
spears with the godlike
spirit of Iberia.

Who can know
the origin of that
which knows no
opposite and no
equivalent, no
beginning and no
end to consonance
and whispers through
the ode to corazón?


While looking for the etymology of the subject of this poem, I wandered into the fantastic word, logaoedic, which comes from the ancient Greek for singing or ode. It is, apparently, a poetic technical term for the mixture of meters; having a rhythm that uses both dactyls and trochees or anapests and iambs. What that means in simpler terms, I believe, is that certain poems sing themselves into being with no rules or limitations, apart from those that the senses inspire.

Since the age of fifteen, I have been a dyed-in-the-wool aficionada of Latino music, particularly the pop stars of the 70s and 80s. If I were to use one word to describe what I love about it…well, it took me an entire poem, but it’s still one word. The beautiful image of a heart on fire comes from

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

The Hibiscus are Calling You Home


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A Rondel

The hibiscus are calling you home
beyond the hurt, beyond the tangled
cords that locked your words in tones
I couldn’t hear, in cells that mangled.

How I wish I could have known
and seen your soul differently angled.
The hibiscus are calling you home
beyond the hurt, beyond the tangled

floating gardens specially grown
by the lords of Xochimilco are spangled
with your name, no more fear to jangle
or confuse. My love accompanies this poem;
the hibiscus are calling you home.


© Elaine Stirling, 2014



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I don’t have time.
I don’t have time
to have time.
I don’t know who
took it, but I’m always
in a rush, feeling
on the verge
of being crushed
by forces colder
and meaner
than I, through
lack of time,
am being
to be.

I do, I try to save
time, so where the hell
has all the time
I’ve saved

It isn’t here,
so where
is it going?

I don’t know.
I don’t have time
to figure that out.

Right now
is our busy season—

it’s always our busy
season, but this one’s
even worse

—so I’m super
strapped for time,
sending stuff out
as fast as I can
send it, scanning
incomming as fast
as I can scan—
what are these
people talking
about? Does
no one know
how to spell

but it’s never
enough. We’re
not making our

and numbers
are everything

numbers seem
to have become
my reason for being

that doesn’t
feel right, but I
don’t have anyone
to ask about it

and anyway,
who would care?
Everyone’s so busy
moaning, I don’t
dare interrupt.

I barely have
time to moan.

I clearly need
a break, but I’m
decades from

and I don’t
have time for

last time
I took a week off
I got so sick when
I got back, I had to
work ten times as hard
to make up for lost time

I don’t know
who keeps
all the saved
time or finds
the lost time

I don’t know
anyone who spends
time responsibly

I think I would like
to know such a person

but they wouldn’t
be real. I don’t think
they exist

they’d probably
be boring. What would
we talk about? All the time
in the world they have…
to do what?

Well, enough
of this. I gotta get
back to what I was
doing. I’m already
past deadline…

no time
no time
no time
no ti—


© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image from

The Perennial Selfie


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Behold, friends, my Auto Icon,
perennial display of nattiness and wit.
Reluctant to move wholly on,
I chose to leave for you my bones and choicest bits.

While you across this mortal coil
still shuffle debts, post shots of self while text-obsessed,
believing in the power of toil,
I offer you a fresher choice in form of quest.

I sought through life utility,
maximizing happiness, minimizing pain,
measuring length of amity.
In five million pages or less, I laid it plain.

My felicific calculus
proves truer than it ever has, though the software
has some bugs, I am serious.
The utility of you runs smooth, everywhere.

To the furthest cosmic reaches
you perceive with unerring possibility
all the swells and sandy beaches
of the best alternatives and most variety.

Every grand success rose first
in the imagination of a quicker mind
as a solution from the worst.
The path of least resistance is your greatest find.

Mistake me not! The borderlands
of what will take you and what will leave you behind
are clearly marked with solid bands,
electrified. In every way, they’re well defined.

What you must learn to navigate
is absolute intolerance toward feeling bad,
coupled with refusal to state
in word or thought all that diminishes the glad.

As your numbed senses come to life,
thinking dumbed by needless loyalties will sharpen
and the instant path will flash, rife
with the next best step, to which all aid will hearken.

Your perennial self lives now
for there is nowhere else to expect and receive
the best. Relax your furrowed brow
and forget the dusty bones of us when you leave…

to meet your great acclaim
and grow into the beauty of your name.


The bones of this poem are inspired by Jeremy Bentham (1748-1832) whose Auto Icon (his coinage) resides to this day at University College, London. Bentham is remembered, somewhat simplistically, as the father of Utilitarianism, its objective being the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people.

The form I’ve employed is called “iambe”, a satirical fixed verse that comes down to us from the Greek poet Archilochus (c. 680-645 BCE). Seventeenth-century French satirists established the meter as octosyllables alternating with alexandrines, eight syllables, then twelve, with a rhyme scheme of abab, cdcd, etc. The quatrains’ awkward swing from long to short works well with a theme intended to stir things up.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

The Economy of 100 Trillion Friendships


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sunflowers_outdoorphotogearA Sonnet Redoublé


All friendship survives. All rivers divert.
Puddles dry up, and I did see the sky
in your eyes for a time, but those notions
of smallness, of rightness and wrongness, can’t
come any further. I’ve worn a hair shirt
and dammed the itch and the dwindling supply
of consent to great things. My emotions
have voted unanimously to grant
full access to prosperity, no dirt
from corruption, regrets, or treachery,
no dreary committees voting motions,
no states to declare, prevent, or pervert.
I am counting by tens the glory days
when the streams that uphold us find new ways.


When the streams that uphold us find new ways
to account for impulses beyond mere
addictions, reactions, ho-hum lazy
factions of issues that go round and round,
the dread that passes for cleverness plays
its last notes. I need no protection here
or anywhere. Your sane is my crazy,
vice versa, no fear. I’m standing my ground
when I say adios to a life of grays.
Opposites do not attract; they adhere
like gum to a shoe, dim love to hazy
retractable hues. Jealousies confound
but will never reach the convivial
to wash over beds of alluvial…


To wash over beds of alluvial
sex—do I have your attention yet?—means
the either/or gasms of yesteryear have to
go. I don’t care what you did, or how they
all squealed. Your past to me is trivial.
It’s how I feel with you now that demeans
or excites or relaxes. Overdue
IOUs spoil the view, though I must say,
your original testimonial
exceeds by hundreds the usual scenes
and confusions. I sometimes perceive you
without the old placards, free of cliché,
Olympian, indifferent to old
hurt, you and I came together, a gold.


Hurt, you and I came together, a gold
standard for originality, if
not quite paragons of harmony. So
much we could have done, we did.
Biologies and shouting matches sold
a few tickets, but yuck! Too many are stiff
with boredom in search of a…NoGoPro,
some safe tech magic to strap on their head.
10 x 10 x 10 lovers with great bold
outlooks surround me. I’m playing the riff
I was born to hear above not below,
dancing me to new melodies amid
a transcendent running of bulls, a flirt,
rush of sorts, divine, eccentric, alert.


Rush of sorts, divine, eccentric, alert,
I’m learning a better kind of hurry,
dawn bursting through the starting gate each day
with gentle laughter and magnificence.
Centrifugal forces who are expert
at throwing off wriggly worms of worry
spy with 10,000 eyes the best array
of what I want with sublime common sense.
An Adriatic villa or a yurt
with you and a few dozen friends, merry
are the possibilities when I say
there’s no end to the good, ladies and gents.
For ecstasy’s sake, I’m launching a phase
to new veins untapped since long ago days.


To new veins untapped since long ago days,
let us raise our glasses and celebrate
who we are: land dwelling, sea diving, sky
flying, fire breathing, fun loving starfish
of the human variety. Unfazed
by grim statistics, let us underrate
death and those who lust for others to die.
Get used to it, friend, that every wish
finds her match, comes home to greet you. Amaze
yourself and me, for once. It’s not too late!
Grow bigger than your grievances. Let lie
the sleeping pups. Be unwilling to dish
anything. Teach love’s grand tutorial,
investing through time immemorial.


Investing through time immemorial,
I’m spending my first million, knowing more
is on its way. You literal thinkers
need to dream subatomic. That sliced pie
of lessening returns is serial
stupidity, so needless and abhorred
by the Mind who imagines you. Blinkers
are for horses and those who never try
to overthrow their own authorial
rebellions. There’s a superior floor
of thought that takes into account stinkers
and lousy worn-out excuses for why
you’re still not rolling in riches untold.
We’re growing sums others scarcely behold.


We’re growing sums others scarcely behold,
which includes greenbackian euro yens.
The buck grows here where wealthy feels at home.
Chuck the shame in all its spots; they’re cheap change.
What use is approval by a glum fold
of disexpectant sheep with their dark lens
and woolly hearts? The CNNs may roam,
but not from here to eternity. Range
expands the instant I choose to uphold
more of the universal market. Friends
who dream of me, we haven’t met…yet. Loam
in the fields of the Lord is rich! Deranged
has always been the mark of a true shirt.
The shell-shocked still wander, rhyming a spurt.


The shell-shocked still wander, rhyming a spurt
when they feel some intestinal upset,
but never ask them to explain—oh, no,
holy writs must not be tampered with! Cheese
and purple prose know their place. Good yogurt
has a culture of its own. I can let
it abso-posi-lutely be, and go
where my gut sings. How lovely not to please
what displeases. It’s easy to subvert
when requirements are nil. A touch of fret,
I know at once that what I used to know
I have outgrown. Sleeker is my new ease
toward life, sweet poetry of these long days,
now and then hints of the epic always.


Now and then, hints of the epic always
startle me in the wee hours, choruses
of dead physicists more frisky than ten
herds of Pan’s demonia. Atheists
arm in arm with Dutch reformers, the blaze
of them is something to behold. Isis,
all the pieces of her son whole again
and eager to re-dismember. New trysts
hatching, old wars stirred to sonnetry. Days
of grief embrace relief. Now, realists,
you’ll find me catching, so beware, and when
we get to who sleeps where, bring lotuses.
I do know your shy smile and its special
unfolding, saturnine droughts, jovial.


Unfolding saturnine droughts, jovial
excesses, conversations that roll us
across the floor, clutching our bellies. More
of this, please, more! Gladly, says Universe,
who delivers in heaps, a merry ole
supersoul is He/She, an omnibus
who’ll drive us anywhere and not keep score.
I’m in the billions now, here to converse
with peers of agreeability. You’ll
know us by our success, so obvious
with markets in our hands while we explore
what lives under the limitless obverse.
Holy moly, sister, we’ve found pure gold
floods of the heart, penny stocks bought and sold.


Floods of the heart, penny stocks bought and sold
like the former wolf of Wall Street knows, brings
the kind of loose and breezy life we came
to live. We came to live, brother! Give up
with the odes to bloody sorrow. They’re old
unwearable hats for shrunken heads. Things
matter as we think, not say them. The fame
you dreaded is a feather bed, so sup
with me tonight. Let’s talk it over. Fold
that army cot; give it some good will. Rings
off the hook clamouring for your name
to spell it right on the victory cup,
enhanced with unforgettable itunes
in the Poets’ Exchange, add to fortunes.


In the Poets’ Exchange, add to fortunes—
go ahead, no one’s counting. (Yes, we are!)
You’ve reached your first trillion of debt-free joy,
and you’re still just beginning. Genesis
is forever. I’m germinating boons,
and so are you. Step up, please, to the bar
of eternal revelation. Enjoy
the view and the grand reviews. Exstasis
runs the show. There are hot sweet air balloons
with gondolas for two, and lots of bare
back riding, if you know what I mean. Oy
vei, that’s Moses over there! His thesis
on Exodus is done. His arc of runes
we’re holding in trust like pirates’ doubloons.


We’re holding in trust like pirates’ doubloons
infinite multiples of circular
stances—that’s circumstance to you and me.
Squared off no more, scared off by even less,
I slip into Creator garb. The loons
outside my bedroom cry in jocular
profusion, while fabulously wealthy
settles on my shoulders in soft caress.
I’m off to tango now, the sultry tunes
that I adore play a particular
rhythm just for me—and that gorgeous he.
We’ve all the time we want for happiness.
Outside our door, I post a true advert:
All friendship survives. All rivers divert.


All friendship survives. All rivers divert
when the streams that uphold us find new ways
to wash over beds of alluvial
hurt. You and I came together, a gold
rush of sorts, divine, eccentric, alert
to new veins untapped since long ago days.
Investing through time immemorial,
we’re growing sums others scarcely behold.
The shell-shocked still wander, rhyming a spurt
now and then, hints of the epic always
unfolding. Saturnine droughts, jovial
floods of the heart, penny stocks bought and sold
in the Poets’ Exchange add to fortunes

we’re holding in trust like pirates’ doubloons.


Once in a while, the urge hits me to write a sonnet redoublé, also known as a crown of sonnets, or the heroic sonnet. It consists of fifteen stanzas of fourteen lines each, “crowned” by the final stanza. Each line of the final stanza opens and ends the previous fourteen, so you have a sort of step-by-step expansion of the heroic theme.

While my style is conversational, I do pay attention to meter. I’m choosing to call this iambish pentameter. The rhyme scheme is a manageable abcdabcdabcdee.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image of sunflowers comes from

The Warring Clans of Not My Job & To Feel Good


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As wars often do,
it began with shopping carts
and two kinds of people:

1. those who see patterns in everything
2. those who wish that pattern observers would get off their lazy butts and unload the dishwasher

Because this is a kind of true story, we’ll call the pattern observer Florence, and the one with the unloaded dishwasher, Seymour. They live on opposite sides of the street and do not know each other.

So, one fine Saturday morning, Florence woke up to see a shopping cart abandoned on Seymour’s side of the street. It reminded her of the cart she’d returned to the grocery store yesterday and how good she’d felt picking up after somebody else’s laziness. That cart had been on Seymour’s side of the street too, but it was okay because the store was on that side, and she had to buy eggs, anyway.

Then Florence went out to water her garden, and that’s when she saw the second cart. On her side of the street. On her patch of grass. Well, not technically hers—it belonged to the city, but it was her job to maintain the grass on which the second abandoned cart now sat.

Seymour woke up happy to see sunshine. While unloading the dishwasher, he noticed the carts through his window and hoped that someone would return them to the store. Then he drove off to play golf. Florence sat down to blog.

Both shopping carts were visible from her study window, which inspired her to write about the good deed she’d performed the day before in returning someone else’s cart. She ended her piece with a tidy little moral: If each of us would just do our part, what a wonderful world this would be!

During her fitness routine of 30 minutes cardio, 30 minutes yoga, Florence received 873 likes, 74 comments, 14 shares, and 6 reblogs. The carts didn’t move.

After playing eighteen holes, two under par, Seymour drove home feeling pretty good. He had a few things to pick up at the store. It was a nice evening, so he decided to walk. He didn’t notice that the shopping carts on both sides of the street were still there, but Florence who’d been at her computer all day, except for that hour of exercise, noticed Seymour ignoring the carts. That’s when patterns started forming:

People don’t pay attention to what’s around them. (I do.)
People used to take pride in their neighbourhoods. (I still do.)
That man who just walked past the cart on his side of the street is typical. (I’m not.)
Why hasn’t anyone on my side of the street returned a cart? (like I did yesterday)

By the time Florence reached “What is this world coming to?”, she felt totally exhausted but knew she wouldn’t sleep. She always had trouble sleeping. To help herself feel better, Florence logged onto Facebook. Half her friends posted about national and world troubles; the other half posted photos of their smiling family and pets. Some did both. Normally, she preferred the photo friends, but after checking for additional likes to her blog (there were none), she glanced out the window and noticed the man across the street remove his groceries from a cart and leave it on the grass, right alongside the other one. Now there were three abandoned carts with no one caring enough to return them. Florence felt the heat rising to her cheeks.

She scrolled through her FB newsfeed and clicked Like on every post where somebody complained. Aches and pains first—sympathy is always easy—then assorted bad news—sad face, boom, done. Finally, she moved on to posts that blamed one political party over another for all that’s going wrong, one religion over another, one nationality over another; and with every hit of dissatisfaction, the man across the street whose name she didn’t know, loomed larger in her imagination as part of the problem.

Seymour and his girlfriend, who’d arrived while Florence was educating herself on watershed issues in Kyrgyzstan, spent a happy night together. Florence needed three glasses of red wine and two pills to fall asleep.

The next morning, first thing Florence did was look out her window. First thing Seymour did was look out his window. The shopping carts were gone. Seymour remembered he’d forgotten to return his cart. His girlfriend had phoned while he was bringing in the steaks he would barbecue that night. He remembered the two other carts and appreciated whoever it was that returned all three. Then he headed to the kitchen where his girlfriend was making pancakes.

Florence had a headache. She imagined a grocery employee on minimum wage driving around all night picking up after people’s laziness. The kid probably had a university degree and debts up to his ears. That was the trouble with today’s economy: the haves and the have-nots drifting further and further apart.

Seymour and his girlfriend spent their Sunday at the beach. Last thing Florence wanted to do on such a beautiful day was write her blog, but readers were expecting it. She got as far as the title:

“Whose Job is it to Feel Good Anyway?”

That evening, after Seymour finished coaching at Big Brothers, Florence, who took three naps, ate burgers and fries for lunch, and skipped exercise, wrote her shortest blog ever, in answer to the question, whose job is it to feel good?



© Elaine Stirling, 2014

It Wouldn’t Be a Love Poem




What if I were
to accidentally write
a poem about you?

One with no
answers, mimicking
the way you ignored
my questions
as if I hadn’t

a poem






It wouldn’t
be a love poem
I don’t ever want
to hear your

but it
be a hate
poem either

if there’s one
thing I’ve learned
hate is not
the opposite
of love, it’s just
a puny little bean
curd of a word

Now that
my book of self
reflection contains
entries more vivid than

a) available
b) can sit for long
periods watching
someone fish

I can’t help
enjoying this
surge of sudden
temporary interest

your bait
and I’m sure
you know this
is way too small
and of the wrong
variety, and I will not
answer a question
you can’t find
words for

but I will
give you this
collision of a poem
set it free into the depths

down the river
what you thought
of it, will wash up
on the bank

and like old
times, it won’t
matter anymore.


© Elaine Stirling, 2014


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