Archive for the ‘poetry’ category

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To the G-Man – Friday Flash 55

March 21, 2014

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Re Tempus Fu(Mr.G)it- (It’s Latin, so it’s okay!)

Why does time have to march
even in March?

Why can’t we keep the spring
Springs?

Our hips stay
hip?  Our black clothing only
mean coolness?
Our wrinkles lipsynch
how oooh we are laid-back,
our lovehandles
that we
are love-
handled?

And why, oh why,
are our poems not everlastingly
kick-ass?

*********************

55 for the G-Man!  This is his second-to-last week of hosting Friday Flash 55.  He’s had a long and honorable run and needs to concentrate on his Harley–best to him always.

PS – the photo is outside a plane window.  Yes, I know planes don’t march!  But they do something else that time does — fly!

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 13 Comments

Just Hiding

March 18, 2014

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Just Hiding

Sometimes, I could just hide
in some lined wood,
my fingertips fitting bark prints
as if I were
all fingertip,
a chosen trunk my belly’s back
as if I were only spine,
flattening myself against growth’s bounds
as if vertical were how I always laid me down,
as if hiding turned me into treasure one might seek,
asking, like the mourning dove, who I was–
though you already know that
through and through,
and, like the mourning dove,
ask only because the call sounds
of water,
like a swallow of water,
like the soft swoop/rise of water,
and trees need
water.

*****************************
Here’s a poem of sorts not written for any prompt! Though I will link, belatedly, to With Real toads Open Link Night. The picture is an old one, and doesn’t really go with the poem (as I meant to describe someone hiding behind a tree, not in one.) (I like the picture though!)

P.S. I’m so sorry I’ve been slow to return comments. I’ve been away from home close to two weeks and I’m a bit off-schedule. (And I think I may have posted this poem inadvertently when going to sleep!)

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 13 Comments

To Homer

March 13, 2014


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To Homer

You sang of Achilles
with wingéd words,
which makes me suspect
you knew the sounds of anger
as well as birds.

You sang of the wine dark sea
before many-benched ships,
which makes me feel your lips,
dried out upon long lines,
pining for the tang
of retsina.

You sang of a hero
who, calling himself “nobody”,
seared the Cyclops’ eye,
the giant then crying that he’d been blinded
by nobody–
which makes me sigh
at your sense of humor–

but also makes me sure–
that “man of resource” forced
to wander ten long years
that even the grey-eyed goddess could not
steer him through,
not with her night-sharp owl–
that, yes, you knew a thing
or two
about anger.

*****************

Here’s a draft and possibly cheating poem for Brian Miller’s challenge to write like a “blind poet” on dVerse Poets Pub.  

Process Notes–Homer, the allegedly blind alleged poet of the great Greek epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, wrote of Achilles, the angry hero, of the Iliad.  In the Odyssey, Odysseus, that “man of resource”, blinds Polyphemus, the Cyclops son of Poseidon, the God of the Sea, with a sharpened heated log, then is essentially punished by Poseidon and made to wander years before reaching home, while Athena, the grey-eyed goddess devoted to Odysseus, watches, unable to save him from this fate. 

Retsina is Greek wine, which is, I believe, aged in pine barrels and has a taste of pine resin. Some scholars now say that ancient greek did not have a separate word for blue and that the wine-dark sea should be translated wine-blue sea, and even that there may have been something alkaline in the water that made ancient greek wine blue.  Everyone seems to still like that phrase though–wine-dark sea–which is used many many times in Homeric texts.  I was reminded of it in a recent poem by Joy Ann Jones, Hedgewitch.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 21 Comments

NYC – Late Seventies

March 12, 2014
Old painting by me (supposed to be Broadway in Thick Snow!)

Old painting/collage by me (supposed to be Broadway in Thick Snow!)

New York City – Late 70s

Dear City, you were just so grey
sometimes, sky more sidewalk, building-paved–
how we loved it, the grit,
standing outside
the Pioneer Market,
up to the neck
with the two towers, pomodoro and fowl
on sale proclaimed the peeling
placards–

How great
that anywhere you were,
whatever tiled cavern you climbed out from,
you only need look up
to find out “down”–
downtown where we lived, like the guys
in the Village Voice who hadn’t been above
14th Street sporting beards–

Sleezy Deli to the East, nights, with
its bullet-proof HoHos,
but to the West by day
we could dash into the refracted brass
of the Broken Kilometer, or up a Soho blankfront
to breathe the air of a white room grounded
with the blackest earth–

Of course there was dirt
everywhere, the kind that kvetched in
our pores, even seeped inside the
cupboards as if our dishes too
wanted to wear black–

colanders upturned for star light
on the clothdroop ceilings of Sixth Street India;
“and what else” kippered the Orthodox counterguys
over brined sweetness,
the crash of Chinese opera (we always
thought) at the Lai Gong, some stringed instrument
mimicking struck cat, pork buns 25 cents–

At the bean curd factory on Broome,
the men wore
rubber boots and the guy who retrieved mine
from the blue buckets that smelled
so strongly of soy always smiling eventually
his smooth face lined with creases fine
as a pressed leaf–
when I felt low there was nothing
like that face and the pure
white cakes–

Everyone’s studio worth a visit and time to do it
with the right gig–
men not yet dying
in droves–red lights we could see forever
if we held our heads right–the night never wholly black
except sometimes on a side street
when I tried for my
hands, feet–or when I looked
for your answering gaze–
though when I moved
I could find my swish
sure enough–and sometimes you would
turn back to me–

and we could always just
look up–

*********************

A draft poem about New York in the 70’s posted for the wonderful Margaret Bednar’s prompt on With Real Toads–my computer is iffy so will be brief with process notes, but the Broken Kilometer and the Earth Room are two longterm art installations  by Walter De Maria at the Dia Art Foundation in Soho.  The men dying in droves refers to the onslaught of the AIDS epidemic.   The two towers of course the World Trade Center towers, which being at the very Southern tip of the City provided a directional landmark.   (Painting by me, doesn’t quite fit, sorry.  Margaret has some great photos on the prompt.)

PS – I realize after posting that I have misunderstood all prompts!  My brain is going as well as computer.  I am linking this to Kerry O’Connor’s  prompt on flashbacks–I will try for one with genuine present as well .  (I did at least write this in NYC in 2014, so a bit of a flashback, I guess.) 

Categories: New York City, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 26 Comments

Colony Collapsed

March 11, 2014

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Colony Collapsed

To bee or not to bee?
That’s a question
we seem to have answered here
where there is no sting,
where our victory is
so grave and where
we buzz buzz buzz.

*******************
Sadly my computer is on the blink (or not blink–it’s dark) so posting from iPhone. Luckily, the challenge is to write something with less than 140 characters excluding spaces–micro-poetry for a macro photograph. This is for Shanyn Silinski at dverse poets pub. Shanyn has beautiful pictures of bees which I could not get to load on my phone so I’m using one of my own pics. Check out dverse for Shanyn’s beautiful albums.

PS Poor bees.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 17 Comments

Giving a Minute Its Five Cents Worth

March 7, 2014

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Giving a Minute Its Five Cents Worth

We try so hard to save the day,
might better worry
how to spend it.

Me, I’ve stored too many–
days projected dry
lain away against the rainy;
hours wadded
like the folded storm bonnets
women used to keep
in their snapped-shut bags;

imagine hosts
of halcyon years–sheaves of wheat
that bow beneath warm skies–
freedom still to come, always–
while I’m feeding this here minute
into a slot cold
as a nickel.

Manifesto: roam fingers
over sides
before slotting;
feel for buffalo.

**************************************

Here’s a belated poem for Gay Reiser Cannon’s post on dVerse Poets Pub to write a poetic manifesto–mine is not exactly about poetry, but good, perhaps, for a coin collector.  (Ha.)

For those who are not from the U.S., a buffalo nickel is an old style nickel–with a buffalo on one side–they often tend to be fairly valuable. 

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Comments: 21 Comments

Awake to Mistakes, Post-Midnight (and Friday Flash 55)

March 6, 2014

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Awake to Mistakes, Post-Midnight

I’ve done it
all wrong.
Everything–and that–
and, Jesus–that too–
How could I be
such an idiot–
They will know, see–

Sky and night,
God, ceiling,
just take me now–
You who’ve let me ape
a somehow someone,
make earth my new mask,
its cold clay clods
my cover.

***********************
Here’s a poem for Mama Zen’s Word’s Count on With Real Toads–the prompt to write something under 60 words about insomnia–or what you think of when insomniac– Since this is exactly 55 words, I am also posting for the wonderful G-Man–it is never a mistake to do that–

PS–I appreciate that the drawing/photo is best thing about this post! Poor elephant! (As always, all rights reserved.)

Categories: elephants, poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 13 Comments

On Being Prompted (But Faced With Butter)

March 4, 2014

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On Being Prompted To Write About Poets’ Becoming, But Faced With Butter

Before me sit
two nipples and a cunt,
little pats of molded butter shaped
like daisies (the nipples)
and a rose–

These are not
why I became a poet
for I never had butter
till the 4th grade
when, at the home of a friend whose mother was French,
I woke up, exclaiming the smell.
The woman melted it
in her crepe pan,
remembering how the swirled cast iron
(as big as the world
bred with a daisy)
was the one thing she’d grabbed, running
from under rafters
during an earthquake–

but I just don’t feel a poet,
no matter the mold
of the butter,
poets being people who find,
like a beating pulse,
the interstices along time’s chain,
those blue beads of language imprismed
(though producing nothing so obvious
as a rainbow)
while I tend to get lost in the forest of narrative
(rarely seeing the forest
for the trees–)

I don’t even typically eat butter
having been molded by a childhood
in which I had none till the 4th grade
though I was granted nipples,
all right, and the you-know-what,
and too, a mind willing to bead with sweat
if not able to cast
transcendence,
certainly not into anything that might fit
inside a mouth, much less
not melt in it.

****************************
Here’s a rather odd poem for Anthony Desmond’s prompt on dVerse Poets Pub (http://dversepoets.com) about one’s evolution as a poet. I confess that I do not feel like a poet! I am a prose writer mainly! But I do like poetry. Thanks, Anthony.

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 25 Comments

At the next table

March 3, 2014

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At the next table

At the next table, a woman says,
“If he comes to my funeral,
throw him out–
in the most public
way,”

I think of my luck–how even you
who I dreamed, at the worst,
bathed your hands in my
split torso,
balming your bits
with my blisters–
the wrong we rubbed–

how even all that
has puckered now
to a pin-pricking
of far caught stars, their collective
burn only sort of seen
in the over-arching onyx of age, skinned velvet.

The woman, who sits
with her children, or maybe two children
and one child’s mate, says, “I love you both,
but I do have power.”
Although, then–pause–as their side of the table
shifts back, she reaches out
a hand–“Sweetheart–”

You can see what she wants–
what she wants wholly
but cannot wholly give–
not enough, at least, to not want so much,
which is part of the giving–

Her face, just across
the white linen landscape,
makes me, for an instant,
want to weep for someone–
maybe her,
maybe them,
maybe you–

**************************
A draft poem means just written.  I am posting belatedly for With Real Toads Open Link Night. 

Categories: poetry
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Comments: 9 Comments

Morning Song – Road Not Taken

March 2, 2014

Song below is really a solo.

Morning Song

I woke up this morning
like I wake up most days
wanting to see you
in the worst way.
But what I said then
I cannot unsay
when the road not taken
was washed away.

I think of your fingers.
I think of your hands.
They’re farther now
than the farthest of lands.
A heart that’s forsaken
is here for to stay,
while the road not taken
is washed away.

I scrub at that longing–
treat love like a stain.
Try to rinse out the wanting
those old times again.
But as long as I’m living,
I’ll relive that day
when the road not taken
was washed away.

I woke up this morning
with you on my mind
though it’s long ago now,
reached the end of that line.
Still I wished me so hard–
God help me I prayed–
for the road not taken
to wind back my way.

***********************
Here’s a re-write of an old song/ballad of mine, posted for Kerry O’Connor’s challenge on With Real Toads to write something relating to Robert Frost whose birthday is this month.  This poem is more country western than anything else (I even have sort of a mumbling tune in mind and hence the pic), but there is the Frosting of the road not taken.

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Comments: 28 Comments

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