Circadian Poems

A place to celebrate poetry, poets, and the creative spirit.

Monday, April 24, 2006


By Wren Fallon

I talk about compassion

Stridently, passionately.

I deify it in my work.

I adopt stray cats.

I work for charity.

But when the man on the subway

Begs his piece and holds out his hat,

I close my eyes

And put my hands in my pockets.

Wren Fallon has neither blog nor website, and that’s the way she likes it.


By Wren Fallon

I talk about compassion

Stridently, passionately.

I deify it in my work.

I adopt stray cats.

I work for charity.

But when the man on the subway

Begs his piece and holds out his hat,

I close my eyes

And put my hands in my pockets.

Wren Fallon has neither blog nor website, and that’s the way she likes it.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Town Without Pretty

Town Without Pretty
(Being the tale of town that wants to be a city)
by Pisces Iscariot

Citizens bask in glory baptising
in the small town of Tranquillity
in the month of downsizing
to a state of green humility.

And on canine crutches of anguish
tongues wagging with scandal
the dogs of war languish
by the well’s rusty handle

Across from the School of Demolishing
where the headmaster quarrels
Major Smith resumes polishing
his collection of morals,

finding it harder and harder
their tarnishing to allay,
but unable to stop
for fear of public dismay.

After turning her living room
upside down in myopia,
Ms X breaks the loom
of her lost cornucopia,

having found, in disgust:
no cause for concern;
Jesus and lust
And a stick of luscerne.

The last she discards
in the perfumed pink bin
that loiters at her back door
like a dust hungry djinn.

Deep on Parable Street, desolate
With their age at the door
Able & Mandy play games
of control on the floor.

Their children, resigned,
nod their heads in agreement,
knowing no other option,
their thoughts in concealment.

And in this game so erratic
The kids gave up learning
They hide in the attic
Of the school of mild yearning

Mandy clucks like a hen
as her thoughts wildly scatter
Able’s disapproving tone spills
from his lip to besplatter

the green carpet they bought
from the sale of desperate years
with the love that they built
in a back street in Algiers.

I watch from the window,
of this little black tower;
I’m the madman on Main Street
And they expect me to cower

I can hear Pretty laughing
her high pitched bird twitter
in the studio next door
where she creates her art litter

from threads of her hair yellow
and thoughts from head empty.
I imagine her boring
her lover aged seventy

a husk of a man
with a narcissistic fringe;
whom she discovered in her bed
after a choc-latte binge.

She squeaks in deliverance
of how the world works,
her voice like cold helium
in the afternoon ignorance.

The grass has turned blue
on the lawn by the shed,
blue as the thoughts
in Mr Melancholy’s head,

blue as the veins of
bitter distrust
that pollute the lit mind
with calamine rust

blue as the hair
that writhes with unrest
obscuring gay tattoos
on Constable Conservative’s chest.

Copyright Pisces Iscariot 2006

Pisces Iscariot is the madman who loiters in the Far Queue.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006


By Lea Drake

The first time
I came to visit you,
on the big silver bird,
I was nervous.
We spoke on the phone
every day
but had spent less than
eight hours
in person.

You picked me up at the airport
in your big silver car.

It reminded me of
the big silver bird.

We stopped on the way home --
your home --
for breakfast.
As I walked beside you
from the car to the diner,
Inhaling the scent
of your brown leather jacket,
I thought to myself
that I will know
this man's body
before I return to New York.

And I did.

As you knew mine.
As we learned each other's
and minds.

I missed you.
I wanted you.

You flew to see me
In a big silver bird.
I couldn't sleep the night before
From wanting you so much.
Would you want me?


But it was different.
A quieter passion
instead of
a fitful need.
Sometimes I like it.
Sometimes it made me afraid.
I still loved you.
Did you still feel the same way?

Or is the trophy once won
put on the back of the closet shelft
and fresh trophies sought?

I miss you.
I want you.

I prepare to fly to you again
on the big silver bird
and you'll pick me up
in your big silver car.

This time, I won't wonder
about your body
because I know
how to trace the patterns
to make you tingle.
I look forward to the melding,
the molding, the readjustment,
yet a little nervous
to trust in the love
that instinctively I know is there,
but intellectually I doubt.

Lea Drake’s work appeared in several small poetry journals. She is currently working on a book of poems.

Monday, April 17, 2006


By Patricia Gallant

Where would you rather be
if not with me?
boys with
not men at all.

Tears I cry
from weary eyes.
I am alone
wondering why
as time goes by –

January 20, 2006

Patricia Gallant is a mother of two daughters from Ontario, Canada. Her first poem was published in the Toronto Star Newspaper in 1978. She writes poetry when the mood strikes. She meets with a writing group on a weekly basis and is currently working on a novel.

Friday, April 14, 2006

Good Friday

Good Friday
By Brenda Braene

Last Sunday
we left the church
carrying palms
that next year
will bless our skulls
on Ash Wednesday.

Last night
we left the church
in silence
as the altar
stripped bare.

Today we sit
listening at 3 pm
as the bells toll
to signify

I am supposed to feel reverent.
I am supposed to feel
that a
was nailed to a cross
to save

I did not ask
for someone to die
to save me.

I do not feel
I feel

I remember going to
as a little
with my sisters
and grandmother.

Holy Week
meant shifting around
on hard pews
in itchy clothes
until we could go home
Chocolate eggs
which we were not
supposed to find
until Easter morning

But our parents
“hid” some
where we could find them

I do not want
anyone to die
for me.
I want
the world

Brenda Braene is a frequent contributor to Circadian Poems. Her blog is Poet Meets Muse, and she shares a recently sorely neglected websites with her Jane Austen-loving sisters, The Three Braenes.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Poetry News

April is National Poetry Month, here in the US. It’s an exciting time for poetry, and I hope everyone is getting inspired by the poems flying about!

Check out these links to learn more about National Poetry Month:

and, this very exciting site, Poetry Daily:

Poetry Contest
Pamela K. Taylor, one of our Circadian contributors, sent me this information:

Hello and Salaams,

I would like to announce that the Islamic Writers Alliance is holding its second annual poetry contest, in coordination with National Poetry Month, which is, of course, April.

Our theme this year is the Prophet Muhammad, and was chosen because of unfortunate the cartoon incident. It is our intention to publish an e-book chapbook of the best poems, which will be free to the public and hopefully serve to inspire Muslims and non-Muslims alike, as well as edify us all about the true nature of Prophet Muhammad, and exemplify the Qur'anic teaching to reach out to others with the most beautiful of words.

We have three categories: One for youth (ages 6-17), one for adults (18 and older) and one for IWA members, so as to avoid any suggestion of unfair judging.

The contest is open to everyone. All forms of poetry welcome. One poem per author.
Submissions are due by April 30th, and should be emailed to Please include a cover page with the author's name and contact info, subsequent pages should have only the title and page number, with no labels to identify the author, to ensure blind judging.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

The Misuse of Laughter

The Misuse of Laughter
By Adele Swift

Laughter is created
With intent
Of joy
And release.
Good energy flows
Whether a trill
Or an explosion
Or a bray
The receiver feels
When used
To garner
For a self-involved
It is
It is an
To Joy.

Adele Swift is a writer, dammit, who does not suffer fools gladly, if at all. Visit her blog, Swiftian Logic at

Monday, April 10, 2006

Spring Fever

Spring Fever
By Casey Jonquil-Evans


Casey Jonquil-Evans is new to writing and to marriage. She hopes they mix well.

Monday, April 03, 2006


There's a problem in the Circadian email account. It's been flooded with spam pretending to be submissions -- literally thousands of them -- and it's taking time to sort it all out without deleting genuine submissions. I hope to have the site sorted and up and running again properly by the end of the week.

My apologies to all waiting poets and essayists -- as soon as I find your submission in the mess of spam, I will respond immediately.

And yes, I am taking it up with my internet provider.