Posted tagged ‘manicddaily’

“Determined” (To Write Visually)

February 23, 2012

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Here’s a poem written for the dVerse Poets Pub Form for All challenge hosted by Blue Flute and Gay Reiser Cannon about writing visually (as inspired by the beautiful imagistic poems of the Chinese and Japanese.)   I am not sure this fits that bill, certainly not on any formal basis, but here goes.

Determined

Heavy-duty aluminum rods stand
steel straight though their coat of
red paint has worn
in places to a fatigued grey.
Staring into angled reflections
of storefront, he rests
against the braces that cup
his forearms, stretching fingers away
from plastic grips, fisting
and re-fisting free air. What he is looking for,
he says, is a coat, a jacket,
long enough to keep hips warm, but not so
long as to hem a stride
mid-hike, the fabric waxed
to shed rain; it should be green
softened by brown (a collar to turn
up against the wind) like a mountainside
mid-November, after the fall
of much leaf, before the fall
of much snow. The display
cuts light into square fluorescent grids
like nothing found in the wild.  A coat,
he says (not going in), that will fend off
brambles.

(As always–all rights reserved.)

Also, please please please check out one of my books: my comic novel,NOSE DIVE,  book of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, or children’s counting book 1 MISSISSIPPI.  Support a blogger!  Okay, let’s not exaggerate.  Make a blogger happy!)

Colvin Contrasted With Candidates (Sad day)

February 23, 2012

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I just turned off the Republican debate to read more about Marie Colvin, one of the journalists killed in Syria today. She was a deeply committed and intrepid war reporter, working at the time of her death for The Sunday Times of London.

I do not know what the U.S. should do in or about Syria.  But I am struck, tonight, by the sharp contrast between Colvin and most of the Republican candidates.   (I actually kind of hate to put them all in the same sentence.)

In November 2010, at a Fleet Street church service in honor of slain journalists, Colvin described the role of the foreign correspondent: “our mission is to report these horrors of war with accuracy and without prejudice.”

Colvin was experienced in the horrors of war, to say the least.  She had reported from scenes of conflict in the West Bank, Sri Lanka, Kosovo, Zimbabwe, East Timor and the recent Arab uprisings in the Middle East.  She bore witness to suffering, injustice, civilian casualty–the direct and indirect consequences of violence.   (She lost her eye, and temporarily her hearing, from a flare blast in Sri Lanka.)

And now, we come to the Republican candidates.  With the exception of Ron Paul (who, despite the occasional castigation of the crowd, expressed an awareness of the truth that war necessarily costs life,) the candidates seem scarily eager to flex military muscle.  Although they talk frequently of grand theoretical horrors (nuclear attacks), they seem cavalier about rather actual and all too commonplace horrors (plain old shells).  I certainly do not mean to diminish the horror of nuclear attack–it’s just that despite the seriousness of the threats, the candidates come across as unconsidered, macho, extremely inexperienced, almost courting confrontation in order to come across as tough.   Rather than viewing the horrors of war with accuracy and without prejudice, in other words, one  senses bravado and fact-avoiding partisanship.

It’s extremely worrisome.  And somehow makes the loss of people like Colvin feel sadder than ever.

Where’s the Pie? (Thinking of George on an Empty Stomach)

February 21, 2012

You Know Who and You Know What

When I was little, you could not get past George Washington’s birthday without at least a sliver of cherry pie.  The crust might not be the flakiest, but the cherries were red, sweet and glutinous enough to get you through the greyest mid-week February.  (We did not herd holidays to the nearest Monday back then.)

The sales ads all had little hatchets on them, not only in honor of chopped prices, but of HONESTLY chopped trees.   (“I cannot tell a lie,” Crazy Eddy burbled maniacally.  Yes, we knew he could probably be undersold, but it was still a good schtick.)

Fast forward to 2012.  We have plenty of sales, plenty of chopped trees, lots of talk about honesty (and lots of flakiness too.) But what about the pie?

That’s what I want to know, and (since I haven’t had dinner yet), the sooner the better:  what happened to all that pie?!???  

End of Era? (Oh no! says a New Yorker.)

February 20, 2012

We are approaching what may be the end of an era.

I am not talking about anybody’s presidential campaign.

Or the Euro as a unified currency.

Or even the U.S. Postal Service.

To some, the era at issue may be more important than any of these others.

I am speaking, of course, of Mariano Rivera’s tenure as a Yankee.

Mariano says he really means this to be the last season. Honestly. This time. For sure.

As a New Yorker, I unequivocably say–Agh!

As a human being, also subject to the depredations of Time, I say, oh dear.

Lavender–“When All Else Fails” (Mag 105)

February 19, 2012

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Here’s my offering for Tess Kincaid’s Mag 105.

(Tess posts a wonderful weekly photographic prompt.  The original photo this week, and basis of my picture above, was by Epic Mahoney.)

I hate to double (or triple) up but, due to onslaught of demands (beside poeticizing), am also linking this to Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.

When All Else Fails

And then there are those times
when one resorts
to lavender–
the scent in a drawer (tempered by cedar),
and folded inside, a kerchief with initials
cross-stitched in bottle blue–
when all has gone wrong, when
there is
no
last minute saving grace.

Even honey
can block a throat, lines cut, engine not
turning over, the days of horseback
gallop like the wind
no more.

Still, one pedals/pushes/pulls
through the pale of night as
across a sea or desert, holding,
in the chest of the mind, that drawer, that
handkerchief, the ghost
of lavender worn at wrists
that worked their way
through all of this before
(or something similar), the
lettered threads, cornered by
sieve edge 
of persistent lace,
signing the possible.

(As always, all rights reserved.  And as always, check out my comic novel, NOSE DIVE,  book of poetry, GOING ON SOMEWHERE, or children’s counting book 1 MISSISSIPPI.)

Making the Best of It – Natural Life In Unnatural World (“They Perch”)

February 18, 2012

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They Perch

They perch
on posts in the Hudson above/
below Canal, by the West Side Highway,
downtown.
Walking, we duck
our heads, bob knees, swish shoulders–as if
our moves will motivate their stretch
or intake of wing.
On a sunny day, their still basking
seems so reasonable that it takes some time
to realize that
they are sculpted–Herons?
Seagulls?
On those same sunny days,
New Yorkers stretch
on the jetties, Adam’s apples towards the
sky–there, by the brick/braille ventilation
tower of the Holland Tunnel, all that
putput
below the tide.

We want to think that our life
is natural, here in this city, country, mindset.
We want to believe
that a place where many building windows
do not even open
can support wild birds.

Apparently, there’s even a raptor
or two, aeries wedged
by cornice.

We want
to believe that they like it
here.  That even untempered
by doses of the more rarified Metroplitan (opera or gallery) (which
we too do not experience enough)
life
can thrive.

We strain–eyes, head, shoulder–
just in case a living one
has gotten confused, just in case
a living one
has landed, perhaps even
settled down.

On the opposite side, cars
rush every green light.

Hi all!  Happy Saturday Night!  The above poem is a draft posted for the wonderful dVerse Poets Pub poetics prompt, hosted by Brian Miller, based on beautiful photographs by Reena Walkling.  I don’t like to post other people’s are work so have done my own drawn version of Reena’s photo above.

(As always, all rights reserved.)

Friday Flash 55 Back To the Days Before GPS

February 17, 2012

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The map was a book. I drove; she navigated, piecing together freeway from one page to the next.

“Should take ya about 35 minutes,” the gas station guy had said.

After two hours, 70 mph, still within LA city limits–“that guy sure has a weird idea of 35 minutes,” I groaned.

“Oops,” she said.

(The above is my offering to the G-Man, Mr. Know-it-all! Have a wonderful weekend, and please please please check out my comic novel NOSE DIVE in paper and on Kindle–for only 99 cents! A great read if you like escape and aren’t completely thrilled with the way you look!)

Vulnerability as Heroic – “My Father (Baby birds)”

February 16, 2012

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dVerse Poets Pub has a “meeting the bar” challenge today, hosted by Victoria C. Slotto, to write about a personal hero.  I thought of an older poem (reposted below) about my father, who, as many of readers know, died recently after a protracted battle with Parkinson’s Disease.

I’m not sure that I thought of my father as much of a hero when I was young.  This may in part be because he was very generous with his time–the generosity of the archetypical hero tends to involve one swift grand swoop,  not a day-to-day slog.  For another, my dad could exhibit both deep tenderness and touching vulnerability–qualities that tends to be  “heeled” in the archetypical hero.  Finally, he was self-effacing, good at bringing out the best in others.  He tended to make us see ourselves as heroes (or at least as competent–which, for the young, is almost as good).

Here’s the poem:

My Father (baby birds)

My father’s voice
when he sang
was deep and cragged and
reminded me of a froggie
gone a’courting.
But this was baby birds.

It was not even a person
who had died.
It was not even a particularly noble dog,
though like all of its species, it was capable
of a self-debasing attachment that could
seem Arthurian.

But after the accident, the rush,
the sad blur home,
my father’s back faced me in my room
with a sound
of birds.
It silenced all gone wrong,
turned me back into a person
who could do things in the world.

(As always all rights reserved.  The drawing in this case was done by my father on an iPad  a few months before his death.)

Late Night Drive

February 16, 2012

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Late night drive. No blogging! Luckily, I wasn’t the one driving. (Poetic license in drawing.)

Lone Poet’s Love Poem -“Castaway (Retrieved)”

February 14, 2012

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Castaway (Retrieved)

When he’s away,
she sleeps sideways, lolling
in a sunken corner of
the bed where
gravity weighs
heavy, computer serving
as splintered
guard rail. Sometimes, in the
sway of blue-light
wavelengths, she’ll send out
messages as if in bottles
that can swim, the words
protruding fins, defined and
sleek, above glassy surfaces.
Other times, the words tie themselves
into knuckled knots, as if
love, stranded by
the fraying self, could weave a net that,
when thrown upon chopped
waters, captured a
salvageable catch. (Not
typically.)
But if, in the end, she can collect
the strands, solitude
takes flight, net acting
as its own safety, the knots points
of engagement, syllables frolicking, the
bed’s entire coverlet
afloat.  She will call him then,
reading aloud, and he will say,
that’s beautiful, and the words–his/hers–
cannot be said to hold her, but will
lap against her brain, a susurrating
companion to the ebbed night’s sleep.

(As always, all rights reserved.)

The above a sort of lone poet’s Valentine’s Day poem–posted here for all of you who have been kind enough to follow and support me throughout the last couple of years, and the wonderful dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night.