Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

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Opportunity Knocks

July 16, 2017

Opportunity Knocks

Hey, and people thought the corporate law of Delaware was so great.

It aint nothing like Delaware Antarctic!

Hell, your Delaware Antarctic company can do just about any old thing. We calls ‘em “limiteds” but that’s only as it relates to liability, am I right?

And you can keep all your profits on ice!  Not a tax in sight!  Not even capital gains!

‘Course we’re only dealing with short-term gains right now, the whole damn thing so… fresh, you know what I mean?

 

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Diatribe of sorts for Brendan’s much more thoughtful prompt on Real Toads to write something stemming from planetary destruction.  Picture is mine, charcoal, chalk and oil pastels on paper, 2017, all rights reserved. 

Process note–Delaware is famous for the flexibility of its corporate law, making it a favorite jurisdiction in the U.S. and perhaps even the world for incorporation of companies.  Also, historically, there have been different U.S. tax rates for short-term and long-term capital gains.  Finally, of course, there’s that great big piece of ice now floating around.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Fragile Things

July 8, 2017

Fragile Things

Civil rights,
a neck, a spine,
a species.

 

 

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For Magaly Guerrero’s prompt on Real Toads to write to a prompt of pics and phrases; I chose fragile things. Pic is mine; charcoal and pastel on paper; all rights reserved. 

 

 

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What I sometimes fail to notice in my moroseness

July 7, 2017

What I sometimes fail to notice in my moroseness

The corn
in the corner of your eye;
the joke that floats in that blue
trying to rescue me from mine;
the bird song not made by my phone–
actually I do listen to it–but which,
in the absence of the smiles that glisten
on your fingertips, often lures me
into loss;
the sauce that is your teasing
of my bemoan;
your seriousness that says, but we are here now.

 

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Poem of sorts for the wonderful M’s “get listed” challenge on Real Toads.  The drawing (kind of goofy) is mine also; all rights reserved. 

 

 

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River

July 4, 2017

River

Then we went to the river
where everyone who has ever lived
sinks.

It is so silted in parts
that one might seem
to walk on water–
at least to the very young
who do not know better.

There we wept
understanding that those we had loved
were well and truly buried,

even if the sand that time had made of them
washed the flow;
even so.

 

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poem for Real Toads open link, hosted by Kerry O’Connor.  Pic is mine; all rights reserved.  

 

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Aubade

July 2, 2017

Aubade

He died early enough
that there was time
for crying in the room
and listening to crying
before dawn shelled the
blinds, light cracking through the breaks
of tar and brick,
cobblestone and horizon, hill
and blue,
and though they were now done
with the hospital, they went once more
to the cafeteria, remarking as before
on the surprise of the food,
sitting down at a table shined
by window, before truly scrambled eggs,
which are not actually synonymous
with morning yet were
in their sunny warmth some link
to the ongoing availability
of goodness, murmured
about the wonder
of his life,
sad,
grateful.

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Here’s an aubade for Real Toads ‘Play it again, Sam’ prompt, hosted by Margaret Bednar, original post by Grace. 

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The Man Who Flew That He Might Dream

June 29, 2017

The Man Who Flew That He Might Dream

Most of his musings, as a child,
were honestly awake;
then, blue sky alone
bowled him over
and any glow of moonface wowed
his inner space.

But as he grew, his view of sky from ground
ground down;

and it was only when he flew
that he flew,
a window seat beaming him up
to not-sea deeps,
clouds outside the plexiglass crowding him (gently)
into the subconscious.

He shut his eyes
to the passed peanuts
and anything else that might betray that place
where non sequiturs were made to follow,
where desires were grasped,
the dear lost, then found–yet still endlessly sought–
where nothing could be truly sold
or bought–
(he’d gone into international marketing for
the miles)–

where he simply knew things,
as one does in dreams, of great
gravity.

He tried to hold onto these through landings’ thud, against
the brakes, above the flat
of tarmac, the bright blink
of all those phones, the thickening beat
of his own clipped heart.

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Poem for my own prompt on With Real Toads about flight.  Pic is mine; rights reserved.

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When Asked To Write Of What I Am Made

June 11, 2017

When Asked To Write Of What I Am Made

Water mostly,
most in the form
of tea;
a little red wine (read, whine),
and a relentless belief, though quite untrue,
that all that tissue
(both the soft and hard kind)
will endlessly renew–

Why the tea believes that
is hard to say,
though the wine, I think,
has an inkling
of the unsupportability
of such a notion.

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For Magaly Guerrero’s post on Real Toads to write of what one is made of.  Pics are  mine. I didn’t mean to emphasize red wine, but I happen to have done this drawing (separately) of a wine glass last night, so thought I’d use.    (The “read” above, by the way, is supposed to be the imperative tense of the word and not past tense.)

 

 

 

 

Categories: drawings, poetry, Uncategorized
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What

June 6, 2017

What

It’s the questions of the dead
that stop
my throat.

“Tell me, are my mom and dad
still living?”

the calls almost
to prayer;

“I tried to get Daddy to help me,
but he didn’t hear; I don’t know where
he was–”

“They’re gone, right?” Pause. “Long gone?”

I say, yes,
softly.

 

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For Real Toads open link.  I’m not sure pic fits, but mine; all rights reserved. 

 

Categories: drawings, poetry, Uncategorized
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To Either John or Bobby

April 30, 2017

20131124-094654.jpg

To either John or Bobby

His wave left particles
in its wake–it was a smile like that–with teeth and fingers and
photons, that is to say, charged–

And when he let it loose
upon the crowds–actually, it wasn’t like that–
his smile was not an animal
whose bars he lifted,

no, it was more like a plant–a sun flower that turned back and forth
to the crowds
as if each person who gaped
held light, only it was the smile
that held the light,
shining as toothily
as a sun, as if it were the sun
that sought the plants,

it was an odd
bi-photosynthesis that happened so fast
you could see it–as if you could see a tree grow–

can you imagine seeing
a tree grow–
which is why the cutting down
was so cruel,  a tree supposed to grow
its whole life.

 

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For Bjorn Rudberg’s very cool prompt on particle/wave theory on Real Toads.  End of April.  I didn’t fully participate this year, but did get back into blogging poetry.  For this I am very grateful, thanks.

A recycled drawing above from JFK’s funeral.

 

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Competing Versions

April 29, 2017

Competing Versions

A man came out of my closet every night.
He was the vacuum cleaner, wearing
my own clothes and some of my mother’s hung
in that closet whose door was broken, so that he could never
be quite shut out, and even when I knew
his shadow well, I always would cry out,
till one day a girl in my class–her name was Glenda, sort of like
the Good Witch, except more beige, told me of the man in her closet
except he had a ten inch knife, and it was only
when she told me that they chased him all the way to a not-super-near
shopping center, and even then, not till years later
that I began to doubt Glenda with her perfect page boy,
realizing how hard it would be
to run that far, and harder still
for her to watch it, the way my guy watched me,
from the dresses still as ghosts,
the vacuum.

 

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Here’s another belated post for Rommy’s prompt on Real Toads about a childhood bogeyman.  I am trying to catch up a bit on my April (Poetry Month) poems–don’t think I’ll get to 30, but this an extra.  I feel that the better poem I’ve posted today was the previous, Penultimate, so read that before this!  (Yes, I know I’m telling you to late!)  Drawing is mine.  All rights reserved.  

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