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Simply the way it was (Eclipse of sorts)

August 20, 2017

Simply the way it was (Eclipse of sorts)

At a certain point, she even felt the trees longing
to hold the child she carried,
the sky scrying to espy
the color of his eyes;
all of Nature, she felt sure,
yearned with her
to meet him,
though after he was born,
she kept him close as bark
for some time, letting not wind nor glare make
their acquaintance, any leaving
out of the question,
and whether Nature was peeved
was too complicated a thing
for her to think about, there with the new son
at her side.

 

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For a prompt by the wonderful Kerry O’ Connor on Real Toads to write about a simple  thing.  I should note that this poem is imagined–not meant to express anything about boy or girl babies–I’ve only been thinking about the sun a bit what with the eclipse.

Drawing is mine–pastels and charcoal on paper, 2017.  All rights reserved. 

Categories: poetry, Uncategorized
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Comments: 14 Comments

Not Morse

August 6, 2017

 

 

 

 

Not Morse

They spoke in code, each word a secret agent
of another, so that, “I need more time
for myself,’ meant ‘I’m seeing
someone else.’
And so on.

At first, even uttered letters
delighted in the game, dipthongs preening
at devices, consonants peacocking
about the vowels, but soon language stretched
to strain, silence pained.

 

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55 words for Kerry O’Connor’s prompt on Real Toads, with a special challenge to write something stemming from the art of Erte.  A piece on the letter M by Romain de Tirtoff, known as Erté, above. 

Categories: poetry
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Comments: 8 Comments

Wound (Passed Down)

August 5, 2017

Wound (Passed Down)

My mother didn’t know
the contours of her wound
so had to sculpt mine
by feel
as if she were a blind girl
and I were a piano that she heard
by touch,
only that would have been a deaf girl
and she didn’t honestly
touch much.

At a certain point, I took charge
of my own wound,
but since I also worked by feel at first,
its deepening seemed somewhat haphazard
like the chance radio station
the frequencies always
default to.

It was only as I grew older
when I could see it in the mirror
or when I looked down
at my person
that I became conscious of where
I put in the dirk.

 

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Poem for Margaret Bednar’s lovely quilting challenge on Real Toads.  Not sure this exactly fits but what I have.  The above an image from fabric saved by Margaret.  Process note: dirk is a small knife (probably more properly a small dagger of Scottish Highland origin.)

 

Categories: poetry
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Comments: 12 Comments

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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Comments: 7 Comments

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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Comments: 16 Comments

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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Comments: 11 Comments

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.  

 

Categories: poetry
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Comments: 10 Comments

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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Comments: 12 Comments

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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Comments: 12 Comments

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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Comments: 14 Comments

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