Posted tagged ‘Elephant painting’

Giving It A Rest

May 4, 2016


 Thanks as always for your support.

Pared Down

August 24, 2014

Pared Down

So, what if, in those days
when Despair walked her like a dog,
heeling her sternly,
one of those cabs she dashed in front of,
not exactly on purpose, but not looking both ways
when faced with any chance to dart away–
to bypass the silver flash of plate glass, to out-dive the splash of yellow
under white-skied sun, to feel, for a moment, lucky–
what if one of them had, in fact, crashed
and Despair smashed
into the tar, and even though lashed
to her same stretcher,
had ended up as hospital offal,

Would she then, after the long recovery,
the fitting of fiberglass or steel, the pairing
of the prosthesis–
would she then, nights,
after its pegged bulk had been unbuckled, bedside,
long for you–
I’m talking to you directly now, Despair–
Would she feel, in the flat vacancy below the sheet, down comforter,
your abscessing absence–
Would she, wakeful
in the ache cast by your phantom, prop herself up,
and not quite able on crutches to feel her way, still search
by window’s glow, 
some bottle of balm or pill–
something that might kill pain
from afar, a heat-seeking missile

And what if, by some strange happenstance, you, Despair–
that limb that is so much a part
of her given form–were restored–
the despaired-of calf reattached, the rank ankle knobs
Would she now dog you? Trot gamely by
your re-joined gait even as you heeled her sternly,
after, that is, you held her close–


Here’s a sort of poem for the “play it again, Sam” prompt on With Real Toads, hosted by Margaret Bednar.  Margaret gives a choice of certain past prompts–the one I chose was by Kerry O’ Connor to write a labyrinthine/mazelike poem (hopefully influence by Borges.)   The picture is another recycled one, I’m afraid–called “between a rock and a hard place. ”  (All rights reserved, as always.) 


January 22, 2013

(Doesn’t completely suit the poem, but you get the idea. And it’s cold!!!!!)


She skidded
along the surface of time.
He dug his heels in.
Either way time flowed, bunching around
his ankles, splashing about
her curves.

Feet flexed, he leaned
into his wake, barely ahead
of inundation, while she, without
suavity of surf or ski, lurched
through her glide. They tried

to hold hands,
but it was difficult.
Even side by side,
a stretch, and when he dug in, and
she swerved, great
elasticity was needed.


Posting the above, a re-write of an older poem for dVerse Poets Open Link Night, and also for Magpie Tales (where Tess Kincaid posts a pictorial prompt.) I don’t think my poem completely fits Tess’s picture, but it did give me the idea of returning to this poem. My awkward rendition below.


Too Late For Blogging

March 2, 2012

All day long I was planning to blog if I could just get a moment, but now….

Mea Culpa. Blown Sestina. (Feels Bad But Could Be Worse.) (No Casualties)

September 28, 2011


In the early years of this millenium, I used to console myself when I made a mistake with the thought that I hadn’t invaded Iraq. (The idea being that if even supposedly “expert” teams of ex-think-tank leaders can make extremely problematic and terribly consequential decisions, I should cut my self-acknowledged dim wits some slack.)

It feels flippant to use such a consolation in the case of a poetic mistake, that is, the omission of a line in a poetic form. I could perhaps look for solace in less bloody, and perhaps more current, comparisons, such as “Hey!  I didn’t invest in credit default swaps.” Or, how about, “I didn’t push Greek debt.”)

A plain old admission of “I blew it” makes a lot more sense.

So here it is–I blew it. My “sestina” posted yesterday is missing a line in the third stanza. This stanza only has five lines rather than the requisite six; the missing repeated word is “air.”

My only excuse is I wrote the poem in such extended scribbles (actually on a big index card while walking) that I scribbled over my little reminders related to the ordering of the end words. (I had posted them in pencil in the margin of my index cards.)

Of course, the poem is salvageable (if such a thing even matters). I can re-work the third stanza. I am also pretty sure that the additional line will make the poem better. My sense is that traditional forms became traditional because they have a certain ring–a kind of innate rightness, charisma.

So far, unfortunately, I haven’t had the time or the strength of mind to make the changes. (Embarrassment takes a certain hold, as in, that elephant up there is blushing.)

My apologies to all who complimented me on the good use of the form!

Hot 2 (with elephant)

July 13, 2011


Amazing Sight Between The Train Cars

July 8, 2011


Seen on a rainy ride. Somehow pink.

Clover Elephant

June 27, 2011


This is sort of an elephant of the fields (not savannah), faerie elephant, yes, done on iPad–a wonderful device for some day illustrating a fairy tale (with elephants.)

The Weekend. (At last!) Time to Reflect? (With Elephant)

June 24, 2011


Very Tired (with elephant)

June 22, 2011