Posted tagged ‘Brushes App’

Midtown Midsummer (Morning)

July 22, 2015
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This picture is not a true depiction of Central Park in the morning.  The pic was actually taken in the afternoon.

Midtown Midsummer

Morning park feels like yesterday’s
shirt, worn, but rested right now
from a night on the bedroom floor
slumped just below
the blow of your best fan.

(The wood of that imagined floor
has been sanded, by bare soles, soft;
its varnish long
walked away, leaving a cool in its planks
that the weave of the shirt would now seem
to carry,  if, that is, air were linen,
and linen, aged oak.)

And you are conscious,
walking through this day that does not yet
stick
to your body but still supports itself
a breath or so away,
of things you really mean to do sometime,
other days you want to live–like that bright one slightly buzzing
with bug and sun, in which,
beneath a great straw hat,
you will paint landscapes from life
leaning over watercolors
before a spread
of cattails,
and a few in Lake Como, which you know nothing at all about
but whose name connotes blue
misted by wine; and a couple starting with oatmeal
on the Isle of Skye–you add those in just
for the sound–
but mainly days, many days,
before your own wooden table
and your own unwooden
computer, in the company of words that hold hands
to catch a story as if it jumped
from a burning building and those hands supported
a strong round net–

and before you know it,
you’re at 59th Street, a/k/a Central Park South, and tourists,
whose shorts are the color
of street maps, fold over one or the other,
and the curb is cross-hatched
by stain and plastic,
and the light on everything
from buckle to windshield, coffee cart to
door-manned lid, glares
rather than shines,
and you understand
crossing Fifth Avenue at 57th Street,
(just to the front of Tiffany’s where, this early
in the morning, the windows show only
small backdrops of dusky harbors)
that your time must be plotted, alloted–
allocated (which since it has four syllables
must surely be the best term for
this job) if you wish to get
anything done at all–

and you notice, traversing the grid,
how the crosswalks fade in the center
of the tar, and how the words holding the net
for your stories seem to veer slowly,
h’s tripped by d’s, m’s crowding–

Impatient, you dart across the lowering
side streets–
54th now, maybe even 53rd,
even before the light changes,
even when a truck is coming,
in some pretense of saving time, counting
that you can make it.

*******************************
Another draft poem, or maybe little story.  I wasn’t going to  link this up with anything as it is so long, but will try Real Toads open platform very belatedly.   Thanks much for reading!

I am posting with it an old picture of Central Park, actually from a very hot afternoon rather than early morning.

Mask

October 27, 2013

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Mask

When young, they were fitted for the mask,
an age when every question asked
could be answered with because
Pretty is as pretty does,
for children will take on a task

adults won’t swallow without a flask
full of flow as hot as ash
and guaranteed to grant a buzz
of when young.

But though they aged, the mask stuck fast;
it trapped their warmth just like the cask
they tapped now, sipped and sometimes guz-
zled, to scrape off “is,” grate down to “was,”
bare what they’d been by file or rasp
when young.

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

Still playing with Rondeaus — not very well–here’s a draftish one for Grapeling’s prompt on With Real Toads to write a poem about a mask. 

This is also a signing-off for me for now, maybe.  I am trying very hard to get myself to go on an extended blog break, at least for the month of November.  As some readers know, this has been a super busy work period for me.  Blogging poetry and being part of the online poetry community has been a wonderful way to get out of my workaday mode–but it also keeps me from getting to certain larger fiction projects that I’ve put on hold practically forever (and keep talking of going back to.)  I really do want to make one more effort, and November, national noveling month, seems a good time to try.

That said, do check in from time to time, as I am likely to (i) break my resolution, (ii) post pictures; and (iii) miss you terribly!   

Take care, k.  

Mariano Rivera In 55

September 27, 2013

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To Mariano (Rivera)

Mariano, you’ve been our man
pitching better than anyone can.
When you jogged out onto the field,
the batters knew they had to yield.
Your cutters cut them down to size–
New Yorkers, awed, dissolved in sighs!
Good old Mo, we love you, man,
the greatest closer in the land.

****************
Mariano Rivera, beloved by all New York (I love you MO!) retired yesterday after, in typical fashion, striking out all four hitters who stood before him. This is a revised version of a poem first posted after Mariano’s 602nd career save– a record– a couple of years ago. The picture doesn’t do him justice, but since it’s mine, it at least doesn’t infringe on anyone’s copyright!

And because the poem minus a certain last name, included for non-New Yorkers,has only 55 words! Tell it to the G-man (who tends to have very good judgment but may be misguided enough not to be a Yankees fan.)

Also, there is a super sweet posting about me by the wonderful Australian poet, Rosemary Nissen-Wade on Poets United.

Happy Fourth

July 4, 2013

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Happy 4th of  July!  This is a reposting–but then it is also a repeated holiday!  Have a great evening.  Stay safe.

Head Household

February 20, 2013

Brain in Bed (With Dog)

Head Household

My home
is mottled grey; perhaps red/blue would
be better, chambered
rather than lobed–no matter–

Furnishings fuzz
to buzz; occupants (increasingly
occluded) defy
vacancies, sparks fry blinds that tilt
over streaked glass; you try
to knock, I don’t
always answer, rooms fold in
on themselves.

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

This is a very rough draft poem for Real Toads “words matter” (i.e. keep it short) challenge hosted by Mama Zen to write about a toad’s house.  (Toad as in writing participant.)

I am in the midst of moving; much was placed and transported today in an extremely cold truck.   I’m sorry to be slow in responding to people – I wrote this poem, more or less, while standing in the truck bed, guarding stuff.   A reposting of picture too – brain in bed with Pearl!  Not really suited for poem – but really, how often can you post a brain in bed!?  (I am writing of the metaphorical little grey cells = yes, I understand they are pink in pic.)

Note that I’ve edited since first posting.

Autumn Grids (Adventures with iPhone And You Know What)

October 22, 2012

I was on a train this a.m. with an iPhone, which is the devil’s plaything–meaning a very handy tool for wasting time. On this trip, I played with the question of whether to “sharpen” a photo or otherwise alter.  I find this type of decision difficult, especially when working on the tiny screen.  Sometimes I can hardly tell the altered picture from the original.  Can you?   Hmmm….

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Friday Flash 55- Treasure on the Modernist Beach

December 2, 2011

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Sand Currency?

First day on beach, bend to retrieve bleached disc.  Amazing!  Haven’t found one for ages, and its worn radius is barely graded. Central imprint–bifurcated–strikes me as unusual, but my luck-starved mind grasps for ‘rare!’ ‘modernistic’ and I handle with great care.

Takes me a dip in the cold sea to see….styrofoam.

The above is posted for Friday Flash 55 (a story in 55 words, plus, in my case, title) for the G-Man.  Go tell him.
And have a nice weekend.