Archive for December 2015

winter’s eve

December 31, 2015

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winter’s eve

apple frozen on the tree
about as nice as ice can be

you center slice of leafless sky
pupil coiling clouded eye

wine-rued skin–thin as thin
still you hold a flesh within

as soft as face of once-was friend
as tough as any leathered stem

though the knowledge you impart,
may, like sweetness, veer toward rot

oh apple tethering seed to tree,
can you tell the end of me–

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here’s a draft poem just because; no prompt.  Have a wonderful new year and thanks so much for all your support of my writing this year.   

ps: the above pic was taken tonight and the below, a couple of years ago.

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Strangely (Human)

December 31, 2015

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Strangely (human)

Strangely,
the man who raped her
also encouraged her
to pleasure herself.

“I want it to hurt,” he said,
but then slack-jawed, teeth-
gritted, fitted her hand
to her crotch so she could maybe
make it
not hurt.

These are just a couple of ways
shame
plays us.

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Draftish sort of poem, not auto-biographical, for Shay’s (Fireblossom’s) prompt on Real Toads to write something based on the work of Gerda Wegener.  An image of Gerda’s above. 

Field

December 30, 2015

Field

I walk to a far high corner
after dark
to get away from the too long
too short day,
where I hear sharp sharp sharp
at the corner of
my ear,
coyote barks.

I know to walk slowly sharp sharp only
run.

Sharp.

Faster.

Feeling soon enough sharp sharp
sick
with the stupidity of sharp sharp
running, also, sharp
my speed, also sharp
my lack of speed–

how can this sharp sharp
be sharp

me–

until impossibly sharp sharp
I pant sharp
into the (muted sharp sharp) shadow of
the halo (sharp)
of house lights

panting,

and hearing now  (sharp)
that it must really (sharp)
be cornering  (sharp)
some other
creature

panting (sharp sharp)
too.

 

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A draft poem just because.  Linking to Real Toads Open Platform. Yes, it was terrifying. Yes, I should not have run, though all worked out perfectly well.  Pic from beginning of walk, before climb (or run!) 

To:

December 28, 2015

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To:

Whatever there is in me
that sights the moon mornings
is you.

Whatever in me
alights in sun, in winter
yahoos it through
the windows, zesting warmth
like lemons,
is also you.

Whatever would, weirdly, if I were a bird,
hook its orange beak (or maybe its
orange toes)
(in the best of ways) to hold on to you
the way that cold days hold on
to hot tea and unwinding to
a breeze is what in me
holds on
to you,
only handed–

Whatever gives rise–be it green
or unseen–
writ or just
intuited–whatever
there is in me that someone
might care for–
is whatever is tinged
with you–

It sings
your
praises–

And, me, I says,
praise be,
oh, so freely
in the we
hours–

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Here’s another draft poem of sorts and pic.   

 

 

Quiet In-Out (55)

December 27, 2015

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Quiet In-Out

Just as there is a beat
in every moment, there is also
a rest,
nesting in breath’s breast–
It is where the beat goes too, at its best
(where what is blessed
is blessed).
Eyelids dome walls
as well as sky;
hum thrums–
a tuned whole plied.
There, lone has no meaning,
seemingly–

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A draft 55 for Margaret Bednar’s Play it Again, Sam on Real Toads–I am rather tired this time of year so resorted to one of the many wonderful 55 challenges, still held in honor of the wonderful G-Man, Galen Haynes. 

The pic is one I took in Ladakh, India, years ago, at a Buddhist shrine. 

Just In Case

December 26, 2015

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Just in Case

I sneaked a peak
into my pocket,
saved high against
soon lows,
viewed sky against
bluer woes.

Its rock face climbed,
as I moved on,
one Elvis hip,
sometimes softer
than its nestle of pelvis,
other times grinding
a sharp bend
at bone’s end.

I sneaked a peak
into my pocket,
stashed against
the crash–you know,
where mountain
meets ash; self,
aftermath.

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Drafty poem for the wonderful Michael’s “Get Listed” prompt on Real Toads about a change of direction.  

 

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Night Song

December 23, 2015

 Night Song

As I lie, not sleeping,
I find I seek safe-keeping,
handholds in repeating
chipped bits of near-lost prayer.

Our fathering the wake
of mind that won’t forsake
this day’s dark night’s churned lake
for some deeper float in air.

For hours, arts in heaven
plead trespasses forgiven,
against us nothing leaven–
eyelids’ hollowed fare–

all that comes–the kingdom,
phrased arms that, slanted, ring round
this embodied foreground
of me, still lying there

not sleeping,
re-membering safe-keeping,
my father, earth once leaping==
so far now, and so fair–

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Draft poem for no prompt, but will link to Real Toads Open Platform.

Home at last after nearly two weeks away and feeling a bit more seasonal!  (Though this one and the non-sleep night before arrival here!)  Thanks for all!

ps – the pic is mine–of a Christmas window at New York City Saks Fifth Avenue.