Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

The Elephant of the Magi

December 21, 2014

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The Elephant of the Magi

They always give the camels all the credit
(forgetting how they smell and nip and spit at–)
while it was me remembering all day bright
the star that showed our way the prior night.

A hard trip all in all, for kings can be
terribly terribly terribly uppity
and frankincense is not the cup of tea
of those who have a trunkal allergy–

But when I finally got us to the town
where that fledgling family’d gone to ground,
I found the trip was worth the camel stench,
and all the sneezes caused by frankincense.

There’s simply nothing like a newborn babe
to lift us from the suffering of our age,
to take away the sins of this, our world,
and make us hope that peace will still the sword.

So I forgave the Bactrian bite, the snort of king,
as heart and both my flapping ears took wing–
they always give the angels credit too
when (miraculously) it was I who flew,
hovering above that tiny little stable
just as softly as a pachyderm is able.

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A Christmas poem for Kerry O’Connor’s mixed-up titles prompt on With Real Toads.  The above picture is a collaboration of Giotto and MDD (me!)   (The Adoration of the Magi). 

Cheneyed Down (Caught on their Own Tenets)

December 20, 2014

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Cheneyed Down (Caught on their Own Tenets)

They’ve not said the devil made them do it–
but then, they’ve not said a lot–
nothing about the clot
of what jismed through them
at the taking of another apart.

They’ve not said the devil made them do it–
They stick to the pact–
that old trade of soul
for power and largesse–
as well as their wished-for finesse
of a disproven alchemy–
that they might transmute the mess fluxed back
after water is forced through a tract
of head, lung, rectum–
(it didn’t matter up or down
as long as the subject was raped or drowned)–
into some gilded true-point tack
that might be pushed into a chart
where it would stick, smartly,
evolving into an expunged glory–
not, in other words, dissolving
with the rest of the spongy glut
of sputum, gore and gut wrenched up.

No, they’ve never said the devil
made them do it–
and, look, they took no prisoner
on an underworld tour–
one was simply tied down to the floor,
there dying not from fire but from cold–
nothing untoward–
What’s a couple of broken ribs,
dog-collared cardiac fibs?
Water water everywhere
(though not exactly drops to drink.)

They never seem to even think
the devil made them do it,
not able to see through
or past
their prop of big white hat.
How stupid is that?

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A draft–I insist on calling it a draft as I know if I read it again I’ll change it some more–

for Kerry O’ Connor’s With Real Toads prompt on Mephistopheles.   I am also posting to dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.  

Process notes for those who are not familiar with U.S. politics–Richard (Dick) Cheney was Vice President of the U.S. under George W. Bush, and was and is a proponent of the use of torture (although he refuses to call it that) in intelligence activities.  George Tenet was the then head of the CIA. The Senate Intelligence Committee has recently released a bipartisan report, based primarily on direct CIA records particularly extensive CIA emails, that details the systematic administration of torture during the Bush years.  One of the most interesting findings of the report (based upon an undisputed chronology) was that all useful intelligence was gathered from detainees prior to any torture (or in the absence of it).

The photo is taken from the Huffington Post.  No copyright infringement intended. 

Give Us Our Daily

December 19, 2014

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Give Us Our Daily–

Sure, I’d like to earn bread, writing–
but what I write for
is to b-read.

(Well, what I really write for
is to write more.)

But better read
than dead
which is what I would be
not writing.

(Being read is
the better bread
no ifs, ands or butter
about it.)

And so I knead and noodle,
breed words,
shape lines,
give rise to what is sometimes
admittedly half-baked
(always my wry
gets carried away),

feed too
on the b-read
of others, my dear
companions.

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Here’s a very belated and rather silly poem for Grace’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub about bread.  Process note-I think the word “companion” comes from the Latin, meaning someone with whom you break bread.  Thank you for being mine!

Ps slightly edited since first posting.

Slopes

December 18, 2014

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Slopes

In the slope out in the yard,
there is a deeper slope
whose uneven slide
stows eventide.

I would like,
like a child in active play,
to roll down its twilit side,
leaf my hair with strands of grass,
land in a spin of laugh.

But I am the child
who lies down
in that depression,
hiding from those
who would seek her
even as she waits for them to near.

We are who we are.

The house by that hill
that holds a hill
is brick-faced, eyed
with glass that, in the day, looks black
reflecting back.

As night falls, some windows turn,
like the gaze of animals, yellow,
while others glower
a powder

blue, ice floes
above the wine-dark lawn, the ground moon
of stuccoed patio,
and the world becomes a sea,
wave-troughed, while you, me–

what do we
become?  We who are
what we are, we with
the contoured hearts,
the chambered darknesses.

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Hi.  Sorry to be so out of touch!  This is very very much a draft poem.  I am completely unsure of the last half which I wrote many many different ways.  I wrote it for Grace’s prompt about James Wright, posted a few days ago on with real toads.  

For Mr. Know-it-all, The Host With the Most

December 11, 2014

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For Mr. Know-It-All

You beamed a hospitality
that didn’t require proffered tea-
it said, you’re you and I am me
and here’s a place where “we” can be.

Your spot might not suit to a T,
but we fit just fine if some of me–
(with you)–was whittled carefully–
(fifty words worth–no, wait, let’s see

Cause humans tend to err, alive,
why not add another five--)

Oh, gee, man, how I’ll miss your jive.

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Here’s a poem for Galen Haynes, the wonderful G-Man, the host with the most, who came up with the form of Flash 55, posted here for Mama Zen’s prompt on With Real Toads to write something less than 75 words with a homophone.

The Friday Flash 55 prompt was so much fun–Galen’s own post witty and wonderfully irreverent, and his persona a joy.  His comments were invariably kind, thoughtful and affirming.  Godspeed, Galen, as Mama Zen wrote in her own beautiful post, and send his family sincere condolences.

PS — Galen was so kind and funny.  He could always tell if a poster was a bit depressed or under the weather.  The above pic is from a post I did when I just couldn’t squeeze out a 55.  The rest of the pictures can be found here.)

Remembrance (Lessened) Of An Old Suffering

December 7, 2014

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Remembrance (Lessened) Of An Old Suffering

You caress the other’s face,
making love, but some curve
of your knuckle, back
of your hand,
brushes your own eyelid, and
you can’t tell, for an instant, what
has touched you
where–whether hand or eye
felt that stroke, and whose hand,
and whose eye–
remembering too can be
like that,
with luck, time.

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Here are 55 (minus title) that I hope are not too enigmatic for Marian’s Flash 55 prompt on With Real Toads. This poem has been edited since posting so maybe is a bit less enigmatic now. (The earlier version relied on the title more and just referred to remembering as “it” in the poem). 

I appreciate that the photo doesn’t exactly match the poem!  And that it probably is too “short,” cutting off trees. But I took it in my visually-impaired way the other day in upstate New York, and I very much like the crinkled ice at the bottom, the freeze happening on a windy night.

Jane (From Primer Days) Thinking about Events in Staten Island, December 2014

December 6, 2014

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Jane (From Primer Days) Thinking about Events in Staten Island, December 2014

Hi. I’m Jane as in Dick-and.
And I’m a wreck.

Even though the curbs of my world are perfectly
squared off and all my streets have just the right
amount of shade.

This is because the trees here manage always
to maintain
the optimal height for a nice new subdivision–not too tall but also not
too small–sort of like
Goldilock’s porridge, only
with leaves.

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Sometimes, a cat scrambles up one–such fun–
and Mother, who wears high heels
with her apron, calls
the fire department or, if the firemen can’t come,
the police.

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The police, who wear blue jackets with yellow
buttons, always have time
for cats, and if you ever somehow stray
in your play, hopscotch
a square too far,
they walk you back
below those just-right trees,
sometimes touching your hand
but never more than–

Unless you are lost with your baby sister,
in which case, the policeman carries her and showing,
just over the crook
of his dark blue arm, are ruffles.

Even with the ruffles, it’s a world
that’s flat–
pretend pressed onto
a pre-Columbus
page–we, its only
natives.

Yes, I know, some people leaf through
my old world and think it was not
pretend,
because our pages showed stuff like
red balls that are real enough–
the red balls that only Dick tossed, caught, lost–
(Me, I never got to toss
a Dick-lost ball.)

There was also our hard cover,
yellow and blue, just like
our hair/eyes, the policeman’s
buttons,
sky.

But oh, you’ve got to know–
we were pressed
so flat in here–I’ve made myself
as flat as they come
and believe me–that is not a kind of flatness
that comes just from holding
my breath.

Speaking of which–breath, I mean.
You know, breathing–

I mean, here I am speaking–speaking
of which–
and yet I can’t, you know,
breathe.

Because when you are pressed flat, see,
that’s what happens.

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Here’s a drafty poem of sorts for Shay/Fireblossom’s prompt on With Real Toads so write a “mash-up” poem putting some character/ historic figure in an unusual context. I had a hard time thinking of what to write; my mind has been very taken up with the recent events in New York City concerning the death of Eric Garner, and I could not really think of anything else to write about.  That said, I really do not want to seem flippant about these very serious events.  I sincerely hope this doesn’t come across that way. The illustrations are mine, in pencil–so sorry that the erasures show!   

Process Note–Primer here is pronounced “primmer” and is a word for a primary level text-book.  For those who don’t know or remember, the Dick and Jane books were primer reading books, popular in the 50’s and 60’s.  

For those of you who are outside the U.S., or haven’t been following the Garner case within the U.S., here’s a timeline of events around the case, with links to articles–timeline

Gait

December 1, 2014

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Gait

I walk a newly muddy road
with hurting feet.
Birds cheep, relieved
by the thaw–I do not think,
listening to them, of wings–I am not so
grandiose, even in need–but of how,
for the past few days, geese have honked
above cloud cover, braying
like fox hounds, and of how my feet hurt
just like those honks,
invisibly but oh
so loud (if feet in boots in snow could
be but heard)–not like these murmurs
of smaller birds, fading already in the rush
of swollen stream.

And I wonder, weighed down
by the particular gravity of borrowed boots (having despaired
for the moment of my own), whether in all the multitudes
of geese and universes,
there was ever any single one in which–
except I remember that the geese
actually did break through the clouds yesterday,
or the sky did,
and how they jockeyed for position, realigning
their V as they turned
this way and
again–
my feet did not hurt.

I come up with college, picturing my high
metatarsal
rubbing against a bristle of bare leg,
and how (later), my boyfriend used to lean
over my notebook and write, ”Sweet feet,”
and then, “Hi Petie,” though my name holds nothing
of the Apostles–I think he just liked
the rhyme.

Now, I walk a stretch where stones still part
from ice casings, which somehow brings up
bones–
because of the rhyme–
when really it is dust at stake
when it comes to the future–
my foot bones a dust
in the process of being ground–

though they will, I hope, even dusty, carry me
south or north, veer
east, west,
to whatever gate awaits,
even as their own creaks,
whether or not the wind blows,
birds riding
on its wings.

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Here is very much of a draft poem, and belated to boot, for Bjorn Rudberg’s post about time travel on With Real Toads.  He asks us to use a poem with different tenses.

I do have very difficult feet, pictured above, though the picture is not from this week.

I’m sorry to be a bit late returning comments but hope to visit tomorrow, as I wend my way back down to NYC.

Finally, if you want to get yourself a book for Christmas, think of one of mine!  Two on kindle for 99cents, all available also in print on Amazon

 

Walking With Grown Children In Snow

December 1, 2014

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Walking With Grown Children In Snow

We wondered at the whites
of water–
snow on pines,
rapids on rock,
ice in the air–
water in all its falls
around us
who walked uphill
by a mountain vly.

In a lavender later,
as night itself fell,
snow lit the darkness from both below
and above,
glow rising from the ground cover
to the low cloud dome
in a silent overarching hum,
and too, quick darts of it–all those
tiny webs
we leaned into, a beat of slight stings
in the wind.

As we headed back,
the wind behind us,
I felt I could walk forever
in the cold dark pale that overlay earth,
road, tree, sky, me–keeping us all
afloat–
until I said (aloud) how I understood those who freeze thinking
they might just lie down, only
for a little,
and you both laughed, and I could almost make out
your turns towards me–and each of you said, come on,
and held out
an arm,
and I protested that I wasn’t about
to lie down,
and you laughed again, but slowed,
keeping me
in the middle, for
even the cloud mirror
had now disappeared; there was only
there–there–there–
a flash
at every footfall, and even
that hardly lasted
but till the next.

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A foot of snow here this past week, melted now. (I sadly did not take many photos, so this one is from last year.)   I am posting this for With Real Toads Open Link Night, hosted this week by Marian of Runaway Sentence.   Process note–a “vly” is a mountain stream.  

(“Not Sure What I Feel About This… Really”)

November 29, 2014

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Here’s a draft something for Corey’s (Herotomost’s) prompt on With Real Toads, to write something about an experience about which we are uncertain how we feel.  This is a bit longer than I intended–I got carried away with the pictures– They are also done in pencil on paper which makes them hard to edit!  But enough excuses–  Note that the whole picture may not show up on some browsers–if that’s the case click on it.  (Or let me know, as maybe I should reduce them.)  k.