Writers' Archive
poetry
  • It takes a river along side a town

    to show the way either up or down.

    It takes a bridge to the other side

    to visit those who there abide.

    coral atlas

  • I Let spiders walk on me.............................................-

    talk on me

    draw chalk on me,

     

    I don't mind their creepy crawl

    no, not at all

    would you apall

    my person 

    a mountain tall,

     

    I don't do that shiver shake

    no lips that quake

    for my sake

    don't let

    your heart ache,

     

    These are just some little friends

    when mind depends

    on thoughts that wend

    down darker bend,

     

    I just like their pitter pat

    tiny shoes that whap

    on my skin they slap

    sometimes

    it ain't crap,

     

    Light can be their tiny song

    stuff don't go wrong

    I stay strong

    sharp as a prong,

     

    They bring me their little pills

    that ease some ills

    without the chills

    and stuff that kills,

     

    tiny spiders walk on me

    can't you see

    Now let me be.

    A poem for manic depressives everywhere.

     

  • I have never tried or put together anything like a vine meet or retreat but I got to thinking. We have a nice size group in the lodge and I thought maybe it would be fun to get together on a weekend and hold a meet. My area is located pretty much in the middle of the country......we are right on the Mississippi River and about 45 minutes from Memphis. The town where I would like to for us to gather has plenty of motels and is right off of interstate 55. Here is what I was thinking.

    To have a southern BBQ at The Cherokee Rose band's manager's private club.

    Have a field trip to Wilson Arkansas to the Native American museum

    Return to the club for a time of reading some of our creative writing and poems

    A time of Native American story telling

    A Jam session for any of you that play.

    Cocktails

    Dance with music provided by the Cherokee Rose band.

    Those are some idea, but I would like to get your input would you be willing to come We could keep the cost to a around twenty or twenty five dollars to cover the meal and field trip. The motels if we do it in the off season would be very inexpensive. So give me some Idea's and let's see if we can't do a Vine Pow wow.....Wado.

  • Precipice

    It was like finally falling over the flank
       of the mountain's trail.
    Bouncing like a rock upon every rough root
       of every tree brave enough to live
    on the steep side of that mountain, a killer, mother
       of frozen nights, beasts and falling boulders.
    There was no way of knowing, beforehand,
       how that would feel, the distance
    between freedom and pain, the fear, paralysis, insomnia
       and then staring at the empty sky,
    the sky in the morning, the sky at dusk, empty,
       blue and frigid like polar ice, so old.

    There, you see, I could say it, how you
       had struck me dumb like unforgiving sky.
    I would not have known how to kill
       the olden heart of me, to take the step
    the back of my mind screams into my ears
       so loud that my shoulders tremble, ache.
    I would not have known coming out
       of the empty sky on my sleepless journey.
    This cruel dome that lines the end of my
       very sight, that horizon that I can almost,
    almost touch, but not the sky, not the very
       top of my breath when one's breath runs out.

    There has to be that step, you see,
       even as the corners of what I can see darken
    as the edge of the killer mountain's trail
       crumbles beneath my shaking knees,
    even as the the mountain's skin dissolves
       into gravel and dust and propels me
    down to the mountain lake and the valley green
       by the virtue and the weight of my desire.

    p.m.

  • My face has a few wrinkles
    Body parts have sagged
    My skin tone in places limp as a rag
    The color in my hair the result of a dye
    Imperfections unveiled yet with you I'm not shy
    You see me forever the young girl I was
    When we met and locked eyes 
    And knew it was love

    Whether eighteen or eighty
    In your eyes I remain
    That beautiful woman whose devotion you claimed
    With the touch of your hand and encouraging smiles
    Together we've traveled down life's many aisles
    And this one thing I know forever to be true
    Through the years I have always been blessed to have you

     

  • Each morning with the lightening sky
    A cardinal comes as if to spy
    He perches on the window ledge
    And peers upon my rumpled bed

    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. He beckons me, “Rise.”
    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Can’t he sense his demise?
    Propped on my elbow, I level a glare
    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Back at me he stares

    His flaming beauty unsurpassed
    Reflected in the sunlit glass
    Black blazing eyes into me seer
    Head cocked he shows no hint of fear

    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Awake. Arise.”
    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Open up your eyes.”
    His message is clear. He will not be swayed
    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Just go away!

    Persistent as the summer rain
    He pecks upon my windowpane
    Determination in his stance
    Posture conferring, “You don’t stand a chance!”

    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. My unwelcomed guest
    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Please give it a rest!
    Silently I plead for one hour more
    Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. My pleas he ignores.

    Obstinate he proves to be
    As from slumbers depths he rouses me
    I must concede defeat. He wins
    I swear. I’m sure. I saw him grin!

    No sooner do my feet touch floor
    Then above the trees he dips and soars
    No fool am I to celebrate retreat
    For tomorrow we again shall meet

  • On a long hemp rope, tattered and frayed
    A bucket hangs on constant display
    Except for the times it descends down the well
    Into darkened depths no light can dispel

    With wooden crank to lower it down
    Between moss covered walls below the ground
    This bucket symbolic of dreams unfulfilled
    Aspirations unrealized, lost sense of will

    Empty of effort, weathered and cracked
    It takes great strength to draw it back
    Its heaviness comes not from what is within
    But from the weight of grief surrounding the rim

    To the bottom and back, the cycle repeats
    From darkness to light ever the feat
    Once more must be gathered the strength and desire
    To dwell in the present with all that transpires

    On a long hemp rope, tattered and frayed
    A bucket hangs on constant display
    In its worn weathered wood a flower does bloom
    The start of a garden once lost in the gloom

    It takes but one seed for a bouquet to grow
    Each blossom a wish that gently unfolds
    The bucket symbolic of life and of hope
    Held securely by dreams to the end of a rope

     

     

  • Horses t' feed n' books to read

    a you mans wurk is ne'er done

    a wind blows today n water spills 'morrow

    womb mans wurk is ne'er done

    unheeded warnings n' chillen in need

    a you mans wurk is ne'er done

    prayers that t'morrow willn't bring more sorrow

    a pour mans wurk is ne'er done

    what's right n what's wrong a tired worn song

    a womans day is just' begun

    coralatlas

     

  • Sometime a man, because we are of the male species can be such a fool. We are big boys and still picking our noses and trying to find a frog to put down the back of an unsuspecting girl. But I am man enough to admit I was wrong and am not to proud to eat crow for the one I love.

    After being separated for a while I realized that I was still in love with the woman I had been seeing for two years. I tried to date but it just didn't happen, no interest. Why because she fits me, and I fit her we were made for each other. I have spent these several months waiting and wondering and pondering the things that she told me when we split up. In a nut shell, I tried to be everything for everybody, friends, distant family and sometimes complete strangers. In doing so, I took my love for granted and had my priorities out of whack. Everything that she told would happen did. Talk about an eye opener, It hit me hard as to what I wanted and needed in my life. It was her and a warm home and family that consist of a tight knit bond of Children, step children.....ah scratch that let's just say.....our children and grand children. When it comes down to the end that is all that matters, being with the ones you love.

    Well Good news I received a text about 2 weeks ago and it was her, and she said she missed me. I was quick to text back and let her know I missed her also. We have been texting back and forth, she brought her youngest son to see me last week and it was great. She and I decided that we needed to get together and talk. Well we did, we talked for a long time, we still love each other and we both miss. So we are going to work this all out. I have to be patient because at this time she is seeing someone but not at all happy. I understand, I put her in that position and I can live with that and I told her. I will wait until she has that part of her life taken care of (which will be shortly) The best is worth waiting for.

     I am excited because I have made some big changes. First of all, I have moved everybody that needed a place to stay but didn't have a job out of the house. I am not a hotel, it is a home(some people take in stray cats, me it's distant cousins and friends going through relationship problems). No more weekend parties with rowdy friends and neighbors I have stopped drinking completely. NO more counseling friends on their relationship problems, they are big boys and girls they can figure it out on their own. Change in priorities The loves in my life my lady and children will come first, second and last. They are the ones that I am here for, their provider, protector, refuge and comfort. Not to say I am withdrawing from society but the family is first and foremost.

    Just a few more things I want to share : I have almost always in the past sent a special rose to the girls I have dated over the years growing up and even when I married my first wife in 1984. Each Valentines day I would send a miniature rose plant and every year the damn rose plant would die, we would try planting it in a bigger planter, outside didn't matter the damn thing died. In 2008 (we started seeing each other in July)when I met Linda that year for Valentines day 2009 I gave her a miniature red rose plant along with roses. That spring we transferred the plant outside and do you know FOR THE FIRST TIME that plant survived The first year it bloomed it had the number of her children my children and she and I in blooms. This year it has over 38 roses on it right now. I Told Linda that this is a sign that our love was to grow and if every rose means something then we have 38 years together and we shouldn't let them go to waste. She agreed so Keep us in your thoughts that we will make this relationship work, because guys and gals I am in love with this woman and I believe I always will be.  In closing I want to include a poem that I wrote in July on my birthday when I lost her. I hope she comes home soon.

    THE WALL OF STONE

    I set out many years ago to build a wall of stone

    one that would protect and harbor this heart I own

    The first time it was broken and kicked around

    There was no safe haven to place it, no, no haven to be found

    So brick by brick mortar and mud, quickly

    I built a wall of stone to keep out that evil thing called love

    Oh I had windows so my friends I could see

    Just no door to allow someone in to hurt me

    Then one day as through the window I gazed

    I caught a glimpse, was it a fairy, an angel

    Either or I was captivated and amazed

    Her voice sounded as wind chimes singing in the wind

    as she tapped on that wall of stone saying, please, please let me in

    I exclaim let you in, I can't do that you will have to stay outside

    For there is only room for me and my heart here to abide

    She replied but I have searched for you for such a long time

    I can heal your heart and I will give you mine

    So tear down that awful wall of stone

    Life is too short to spend it alone

    I listened to her words that was music to my ears

    As I began to chisel away at the bricks placed there for so many years.

    A year went by and the stone wall has been torn down

    Free at last to embrace the new love that I have found

    like the fog that rolls through the mountains and clings to the waters bay

    Her words and love vanished with the heat of the day

    Written by Knowlton's Rangers

    July 27,2010

    For a lost love Linda...may you find happiness and peace....I miss you.

  •  After joining the Newsvine Summer Writer's Club, my mind was filled with words, thoughts, ideas, re-forming old ideas and making new ones from the old. Viki's Club again stirred that writing muse that really bites at me now. So, is this a project for me, a challenge, a whim or fancy, something to add to my repetoire or is it more?

    When I was young, a stub of pencil and a blue lined notebook were like Christmas gifts for me. We had very little to amuse ourselves as children back then, but if I could sit down at the aluminum and formica table in the kitchen and write a story, I was happy and with-in a world of my own choosing. I spent rainy hours, nights and mornings sitting at that table teaching myself how to write stories, poems and plots. Then I discovered drawing and painting and soon lost time to even write a short poem. I was hooked on the visual world and it took me, and shook me and created the life I soon followed. I have not looked back since I made my choice and followed that path.

    I have always combined the two art forms I dabble with, I write thoughts, ideas for paintings, sketch out diagrams with very descriptive notes and I would even sit and try automatic writing once in a while (which is not as easy as it would seem). Words and images are the two things that we use to develop understand, survival techniques, lessons are learned and new thoughts arrise, life goes on and we watch and record. Since all humans do this, I wonder if it is a need for all humans to try and do this, record thoughts, write words, paint pictures and carve sculptures to form images and thoughts for others to see. What makes us do this?

    I cannot wait to see and read the other members work, this interchange and sharing is so important for us all. It gives us 'other eyes' that analyze different things than our eyes do. That is so re-freshing and 'eye opening' that the discovery process becomes exilerating. But there is a small aspect to this I would like to bring up, Critical analysis or Critiques from others. Critiscism and critical analysis is not easy. we all know we are our own worst critics, it is our nature to do that I think. As an art teacher, this has been the rockiest road I traveled on, art is personal, so personal that people get emotional about it.

    Learning to critique another person's work is very tricky so I wanted to mention this and suggest we think about this issue. Good insight is important for us so we can develop our skills of communication. We want others to enjoy our work so outside critique is important then. So here are some ideas I use when I have to critique another person's work.

    1. Try to be objective when writing a critical analysis of the art. Be clear with your thoughts and talk about what is working first. Build the positive first. Show how some parts may not be helping the stronger parts. The idea is to talk about the whole of the work while looking at the pieces.

    2. When trying to point out a structural problem give a good example to show the artist or writer what you mean. Example- "Your descriptive words do not seem to make your character a likable fellow, Is that what you are going for?"

    3. If you ask a question after your statement you then engage them in dialogue. This is the most important part of the critique, you are creating dialogue, that is where the analysis comes into play, it is not just criticism you are doing, you are creating dialogue.

    4. Be less forceful in your thoughts, instead of just saying "this doesn't work right", say something like "What if you tried it this way", this again is engagment and not forceful submission for either party.

    5. Both sides are trying to communcate so in order for that to go well we need to think about what is being said, take the time to really do that. Time is an important factor and we do have that here more than a face to face critique. If you want to critique a work don't just read and start picking it apart, take your time, read it, walk away and think, read it again and see if you still feel the same way about it, then write your thoughts. All art is not fast food, it is a gourmet dinner with courses to digest, take your time, have a glass of wine and think about it more. :)

    One of the projects I want to do is combine my writing with my photo images. I want to create a specific image for each written piece. See what you got started Viki! LOL

    Ghost fish words

    go swimming through the trees

    they branch out

    and about

    and I see the writing in the leaves

    Cryptic calligraphy

    gossamer weaves.

     

    Joining Newsvine has opened up my writing demon again. It is not just a whim or fancy for me, it is another art form  to play with, to delve into the world and my mind. I hope to meet many more and new writers here this summer. Happy Summer Of Writing gang.

  • New rain sprinkles down

    on her earthen crown

    creating rainbows and dreams

    spring peeper streams

    a water force

    that runs its course,

     

    New seed sown

    by strong

    winds blown

    dance till stuck on the world stage

    a growing outrage

    of rich blossoms

    and

    leaves grow

    like a yellow green page,

     

    Salamander sliding summers

    then harmonious cicada hummers

    the constant beat of

    bullfrog drummers

    a rich background

    its chorus profound

    those long summers of sound,

     

    Breezes then blows

    on hilltops

    carved by their ancestors

    windy jesters

    black crow molesters

    '...snow....'

    it whispers

    to warm resters,

     

    Brown leaves appear

    where green was so dear

    rattling our cages

    then wind again rages

    the Fall seer

    bites at our ear,

     

    Freezing rain pelts

    sideways

    and it stays and stays and stays

    till change plays

    a wicked stage

    and whitens

    our cage

    but we know it well

    this white wolf that fell

    is just an old friend

    and old sage.

     

    A poem to Kavika

     

     

  • All From Love

    All from a height the string tightens
       and tugs, pulling on the walls of my heart,
    how its different to fly into clouds with wings
       yet wishing your bare feet on dewy grass
    while tracing the flight of a cumulo-nimbus,
       this cloud I am in, formless and ghostly.
    I am lost inside of it, not seeing the wind
       that has been stilled by jet engine roar.

    All from a distance, your thighs aching from the climb,
       the valley and its life like a page to be read.
    Spoken aloud because it is not enough to watch,
       that somehow your voice carries down the hill
    to rush among the treetops, the tall grass,
       the low swirling swallows in the grain
    rolling like ripples in a pond into streets
       into homes and the dinner tables waiting.

    All from a depth, the stark deep night of a new moon
       giving birth to stars that fall out of the sky.
    The throats of creatures unknown and imagined
       floating their calls of hunger and restlessness.
    Lying on a warm car hood, wide eyed awake,
       as still as the North Star is unmoving,
    hearing her breath and every word it might contain
       as easily as the pillow of her hand fits mine.

    All from a past that will not stop at morning's door,
       reaching, as want and need, evermore
    into the simple acts of living, turning a key,
       hearing the click of a bolt, opening a faucet.

    All from love that arrived and never left,
       strings tugging, thighs aching, stars falling out of the sky.

    p.m.

  • Today President Obama will visit the 9/11 memorial at NYC. This poem By Galway Kinnell was first published by the New Yorker Magazine on the first anniversary of that tragedy. I find it an epic and moving affirmation of humanity across all borders, religions and race. May all those who perished that sunny morning rest remembered.

  • Petit Danseur

    You landed on the mark because your stride
        had measured that distance many times,
    but I was startled, as earthbound as I am,
       as one who when caught in the rain looks up
    at least once, wondering how clouds can be rivers
       of water separated by spaces, pauses of pure air.

    Unblessed by the understanding in your bones,
       your sinewed stance and how it breaks
    the space about it, that I worry over the flight
       of a drop of rain, changing its shape as it curls
    like your turns in its choreography of fulfillment,
       its surrender to its heart's wish.

    I don't know how you hold this surrender hidden,
       masked in the everyday trot to the deli,
    the awful, it must be awful for you, amble
       up or down stairs, the sheer utility of that,
    as the drop of rain labors its way to the sea,
       waiting to be rescued by the heat of the sun,
    waiting, as you wait, for that moment of release
       when your heart's surrender becomes dance.

    p.m.

  • Hey all my viner friends, for those of you have been keeping up with me and my music, I have shared that I am co-writing with the bass player for the Marshall Tucker Band. I also have another writing partner and I have shared with you about her love for her Native American background. I have been helping her along with learning her Choctaw heritage...Well I say all that to say this, we have been writing for the last couple of months and have turned out about four new songs that we have recorded in the studio.....I would like to share this one with you...I only have the words to share but later I will put up the music video. This tune is called blame. We got the idea from watching a man pushing a grocery cart down the street. so I hope you enjoy and when you read the words I think that it will be clear as to why we call the song BLAME. Please give me feed back, I want to know what you all think.......

    BLAME words and music by Next Phase, Jeff Knowlton and Cheryl Edgin copy-write 2011 all rights reserved.

    The sun rises over New York City

    He wakes from his concrete bed

    He walks three blocks down to the mission

    A friendly place......where he is fed.

    But it' all just a game

    Win or lose it's all the same

    When it comes down to the end.....

    You only got yourself to Blame....

    Well he pushes his grocery cart

    All through central park

    A dollar a day buys his way

    A little soup, a little smoke, and good warm place to stay

    But it' all just a game

    Win or lose it's all the same

    When it comes down to the end.....

    You only got yourself to Blame....

    Years ago he was a big man

    yeah Wall Street was his game

    But he made one bad decision

    Left him busted....and oh so full of shame.

    But it' all just a game

    Win or lose it's all the same

    When it comes down to the end.....

    You only got yourself to Blame....

    But it' all just a game

    Win or lose it's all the same

    When it comes down to the end.....

    You only got yourself to Blame....

    When it comes down to the end..............You are the one to Blame.......Blame......Blame.

  • My days on Mother earth are growing to a close

    But we are all born to die, so let me live with the decisions I have chose

    The old warrior is not young any more

    But my spirit is at peace like I have never felt before.

    I have laid my bow and arrows aside

    And picked up the story stick with honor and pride.

    To tell the story of our people, stories to the children to pass down to their own.

    Of the Great spirit, Mother earth, Father sky and sneaky ole rabbit and the fox so sly.

    Stories of the powers given to creatures great and small

    And why a hunter should give thanks when he causes our brother the deer to fall.

    Stories of the creation, and how things came to be

    How we depend on Mother earth and she depends on you and me.

    The old warrior's hearing is becoming dull just like my scalping knife

    So I have laid it aside, and started my next circle of life.

    To give council to those who are young but growing strong

    To teach them the ways of the old ones and to know right from wrong.

    For they must be good stewards to this precious land we live upon

    For if we take for need, we must give back to Mother earth, these words young ones you must heed.

    The old warriors eyes are cloudy but in my old age I see more clearly now

    For time and the Great Spirit has given me knowledge of why and how.

    The spirit of my heart is still strong though its beat is growing weak

    I hope I can give joy, by the stories I speak.

    Gather around this old warrior and listen my friend

    We all must cross over west to the spirit land in the end

    Be not afraid, for loved ones will joyously gather around

    And with open arms will welcome us to the happy hunting ground.

    Written by Knowlton's Rangers 4/15/11

  • Smash and grab life

    your askin' for strife,

    Push and push and never pull

    what a fool,

    Always swimming up those streams

    ends with screams,

    Never bend with the wind

    some where you probably sinned,

    Life flight

    life light and

    air currents flow

    wings just know

    how to go

    the course,

    Winds do blow

    and streams may slow

    but life does know

    how to grow,

    Follow the path

    and go with the flow.

  • Stay

    The water in the bowl had turned red
       (the hand of Christ passing over amphorae).
    I was amazed, in my sickness, my fragility,
       the poison still in my humor, caustic,
    punching a hole in my gut, I wish I could see
       the glassy membrane surface break
    like when I cut my face shaving near the lips,
       the alarm in counting drops, how deep,
    how deep does it go, the haunting idea of limits,
       how much does one have to give or lose?
    Walking back to the sick bed, ungainly
       as a new born foal, the stumble of not knowing
    and into the white sheets that have caught
       the ash fallen off my shrunken skin,
    as wan as the afternoon sunlight was bright,
       looking at my toes and waiting for them to grey,
    to darken, telling myself what to feel,
       the wonder of it all arriving, all together.
    Thinking, if all of that leaves with me, I will sleep
       and if I stay, then there is more to lose or give.

    p.m.

  • Just before National Poetry Month kicked off last week, word began to spread about a major new poetry prize out of Canada. The fifty-thousand-dollar Montreal International Poetry Prize, funded by an anonymous donor, isn't honoring a poet's lifetime achievement or a major new book, but a single poem.

  • Hey all you vine writers, do you sometimes need an excuse to write, gotta put some words down before you explode, can't go a day with out putting an article up but have nothing to really complain about? Well if you do say yes, or even maybe to any of these questions then you are ripe to become a rhyming rascal and we are looking for you!

    The World Seen Through Poetry group is looking for new members who love words, word play and are looking to be creative and who want to share that creativity with others.

    But wait, you never thought you had poetry in you, never thought creativity was "in your bones", always thought poetry was for sissies and girls, think poetry is a dead art form? WRONG!

    Poetry is easier and simpler than you think, in fact your probably wrote some poetry when you were younger, Didn't You?

    Words float your boat, rhymes make fun times, poetry makes you glow-ity. Then join the fun, glow-ity and float with us rhyming boatsters of rhyming words.

    I'll even get you started, here is a list of rhyming words to get you brain juiced up with rhyme time, all you gotta do is provide a few words to create the poem, don't just gloam, write a poem!

    boat, coat, emote, goat, gloat, moat, note, rote, tote, vote.

    bling, ding, fling, king, ling, ming, ping, ring, sing, sling, thing, wing, zing.

    blast, cast, fast, gassed, last, mast, past, sassed, vast.

    So, leave a comment and or a poem and let us see what you got in your reason to rhyme. You will have fun, we will enjoy it all with you and you will help your writing skills tremendously with word play.

    Today is a wonderful dark and dreay day

    I will sit and read Alexandere Dumas and wait for you to play

    the book I have appears

    to be The Three Musketeers.

    Don't wait, participate!

  • I love you, Mama.
    It's hard to let you go
    It's been eight years already
    It has and I should know.

    I miss the sparkle in your eye
    your laughter and your voice
    You left us all too early
    though that was not your choice.

    I'll ne'er forget that Wednesday
    I gently closed your eyes
    and bid you fond farewell
    and happiness in paradise.

    RIP, now Mama, RIP
    the fight you fought is o'er
    You'll always be alive
    within my heart forevermore.

    ~~~

    Nat King Cole - "Autumn Leaves"

    Floyd Cramer - "Last Date"

    Blake Shelton - "The Baby"

  • Well, I went walking just the other day
    yep, I took me a little stroll
    down to the old swimming hole
    and I dove right in.

    It was colder than I remembered
    but it still felt good.

    It must have seemed odd
    to see an old man there
    they all stopped and stared
    as I dove right in.

    And, yes, it was colder than I remembered
    but it still felt good.

    ~~~

    As I swam there it was still yesterday
    I was eighteen and a fool in love
    with a young girl who was sweet sixteen
    and who loved me too.

    We didn't know then it would end in tears
    with a separation of so many years
    and with a lifetime of memories
    holding us worlds apart.

    Beneath the surface it all seemed the same
    all the old feelings felt still they remained
    though we both understand what was then
    is now forever gone.

    Though older now we still carry on
    playing our innocent foolish little games
    until again we end up calling each other names
    and it just breaks my heart.

    ~~~

    Then, I went walking just the other day
    yep, I took me a little stroll
    down to the old swimming hole
    and I dove right in.

    It was colder than I remembered
    but it still felt good.

    It must have seemed odd
    to see an old man there
    they all stopped and stared
    as I dove right in.

    And, yes, it was colder than I remembered
    but it still felt good.

    ~~~

    "Colder Than I Remembered" © 2011 by Mic Hudson

  • What follows is a sampler of literary catastrophe. Don't run away. It's not as depressing as it sounds. One of the enduring paradoxes of great apocalyptic writing is that it consoles even as it alarms.

    This has been, in fact, one of the enduring "social" functions of literature — specifically, of poetry. Narrative prose is less well suited to the task. This isn't surprising: narrative implies continuity and order — events that flow forth in comprehensible sequence, driven by motive forces of cause and effect.

  • The signs of the coming apocalypse are many, but none are starker than this Web headline in the April issue of O: The Oprah Magazine: "Spring Fashion Modeled by Rising Young Poets." Yes. Spring fashion. Modeled. By rising young poets. There follows a photomontage of attractive younger women — some of whom are rising poets mostly in the "I get up in the morning" sense, but all of whom certainly look poetic — in outfits costing from $472 to $5,003. This is all part of O's special issue celebrating National Poetry Month, edited by the noted verse aficionado Maria Shriver and including interviews with "all-star readers" like Bono, Ashton Kutcher, the gossip columnist Liz Smith and someone named James Franco, who is apparently an actor.

  • My cat is just not just a cat

    and even more special

    than that one with a hat

    he is much more than that

    so let's not go and spat,

    He does have such a walrus face

    it is not really so out of place

    the whiskers go from ear to ear

    it does appear

    he is a walrus my dear,

    That nose of his says bunnie face

    or just in case

    it's a rabbit face

    he twitches it with much more grace

    than some of the rodents that he would chase,

    His ears are of a special breed

    they look just like a real fine tweed

    he twists them round much like a reed

    they are after all made to heed,

    his mouth is like a Budda smile

    double bowed like chinese running tile

    it shows his deepest hawk like wile

    almost like a movie style,

    he is all this and that you see

    he makes it all known

    just to me,

    He is not just a cat you see

    he apes my life

    which gives me glee.

  • The Vilcek Foundation has selected poet Charles Simic and fiction writer Dinaw Mengestu as recipients of the sixth annual Vilcek Prizes honoring foreign-born writers, artists, and scientists now living in the United States. Former U.S. poet laureate and recent Robert Frost Medal–winner Simic, born in the former Yugoslavia, received the one-hundred-thousand-dollar prize for lifetime achievement, and Mengestu, born in Ethiopia, won the twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize for creative promise.

  • But there's evidence that the literary flowering of Twitter may actually be taking place. The Twitter haiku movement — "twaiku" to its initiates — is well under way. Science fiction and mystery enthusiasts especially have gravitated to its communal immediacy. And even litterateurs, with a capital L, seem to be warming to it.

  • Kansas-born poet Ben Lerner, author of Mean Free Path (2010), Angle of Yaw (2006), and The Lichtenberg Figures (2004), has become the first American poet to win the Preis für International Poesie der Stadt Münster, a poetry translation award given biennially by the city of Münster, Germany.

  • Shade of a man

    Time degrades our body,

    In every way it can,

    And life takes it’s toll,

    On each and every man.

    Perception of who we were,

    Seems to never be,

    What we’ve become,

    In this sick reality.

    We become what we fear,

    And wonder why,

    We are born to suffer,

    To ultimately die.

    To die repeatedly,

    In one way or another,

    To lose friends, family,

    To lose your brothers.

    We live in the past,

    Where happiness dwells,

    With a grim future,

    Suffering, it swells.

    We don’t realize now,

    The enjoyment of today,

    And soon it’ll be to late,

    We live lives of disarray.

    Tomorrow we will live,

    Today’s happiness and joy,

    Today we suffer,

    Living yesterdays Ploy.

    We try to break free,

    In everyway we can,

    To end up becoming,

    A shade of a man.

    3-21-11

    Kyle Craig

    Dreadspydr

  •    

    Flowing river, driftless time,

    put our feet on solid ground.

    We’ll color reason, shape the rhyme,

    as the substance hoped for comes around.

     

    Put asunder-cast aside,

    yet vision speaks in whispers clear.

    The ship must turn to take the tide,

    to bring us home...to bring us here.

     

    For now, we’ve opened tired eyes

    and will not let our voice be stilled.

    For you may see an empty cup,

    we see a promise unfulfilled.

     

    Stepping back, we’ll move ahead,

    to speak the lines and take the stage,

    the substance seen-the secret said,

    captives freed to turn the page,

     

    we sow our seeds and gather in,

    with hoping hands, from fertile ground,

    renew...restore, begin again-the

    great year’s wheel to turn around.

     

    The city’s eyes will open wide

    and never will this song be stilled.

    It’s not an empty cup you see,

    but one more promise unfulfilled.

     

    When we’ve been gone ten thousand years,

    will streets of stone have turned to gold,

    our fondest words once set adrift,

    come drifting back to be retold...

     

    and cast about with stranger’s eyes,

    to speak our words in unknown tongues

    under skies more blue and wise,

    remembering the old songs sung?

     

    We’ll know then what the world will be...

    our chain of dreams remains unstilled.

    That empty cup you think you see

    is yet a promise unfulfilled.

     

     

    This Poem was inspired jointly by a

    comment to a friend at Jerry's, my favorite

    "watering hole" here in Belmond, and helped

    along by several quaffs of Rochart's Potent Potable.

    'DeX'

     

     

  • If mouths traded places with butt-holes, let's say,
    why, we'd all become such filthy yappers!
    Cell phones would be miniature toilets we'd carry,
    forever talking into our crappers!

    : O

  • Touch

    Tell me again how far we have come,
       what we've worked for and what we've done.
    I forget those things, you know, the garden path,
       the cabin and evergreens,
    pieces that come and leave with dreams,
       as few as they seem to be sometimes.
    When there were terrible and unpredictable
       separations, the suffocating dark.
    The mornings that were a blur of hurry ups
       and the line of shoes I had shined.
    When I first saw you come down the stairs over
       at your parents', my heart in your hands.
    How doubt would creep up my back in the heat
       of words, of weakness, the aching in my head.
    I would pull your voice out of the air
       if I needed to, need to smile and rest.
    There would be something there you see,
       an object, something with weight, proportions,
    the circumference of the world as it had become
       and continues to be when you are close
    or close enough for me to smile and rest,
       a radius if you will, beyond which is dark.
    And the heavens have moved, as the heavens
       will move in a lifetime through the four winds
    while we watch in our cabin amid evergreens,
       counting and forgetting in our dance,
    closing our eyes in the starlight,
       and with our hands touch and remember.

    p.m.

  • Happiness at 81st and Amsterdam on a Sunny February Afternoon

    The woman stood with her jaw clenched
       into her scarf and arms folded across her chest.
    She was looking down at the bare curb,
       standing in the shadow of a walk-up, sunny.
    It was a sunny day in February,
       afternoon, lazy and beautiful and light.
    I heard a child's pleading wail, a ball of wool
       on a low stoop with a scarlet knitted cap,
    her face looking up into the sunshine,
       her cheeks damp with tears, hands clasped,
    the way I clasped mine together long ago,
       wishing as hard as wishing can possibly be.
    The woman did not flinch, considered the child,
       her gaze final, breaths equally spaced
    even as the child drew in the cool, clear air
       in wondering depth, her throat catching
    at every start and end, pausing, helplessly,
       at the very middle, dipping her head to a side,
    the sunlight caught and reflected in the brine
       of her eyes (how can tears be so clear?).
    I can imagine a place where there would be
       an orderly happiness, when it is there
    without all the wishing and your spirit would
       lift, as sunlight lifts color,
    as easily as one breathes inside a weightless dream,
       cattails in a warm breeze, songbirds calling.
    "Carry me!", the child cries, "No.", the firm, crushing
       reply, the ending of all that child had known,
    rainbows in the sky, cattails in a warm breeze,
       an embrace, happiness on a lazy February afternoon.

    p.m.

  • The weeds are coming back.

    They stand defiant in the grass with blooms

    like tiny pastel flags.

    They push their way through

    mulch and fence, unfurling glossy leaves

    as if to taunt.

    They wind and grasp and climb their way

    to light and life.

    The weeds are coming back.

    Tomorrow perhaps

    I will search out where it was

    I may have left those garden gloves,

    perhaps pull up a few and pile their weedy selves

    in little heaps around the yard,

    making refuge for the bugs and suchlike things

    to find.

    Today I’ll settle back, soak up the sinking sun,

    tip my glass a time or two

    and celebrate the loss

    of control.

  • Throat

       "...all the words that got us this far,
       not very far, but here."

          - Elizabeth Wiltsee

    That narrow balcony where the young man
      had sat on the floor, head down,
    his right hand on the balustrade tight,
      his face buried in his left
    listening to the trumpet player emptying his soul
      out into the theater's ceiling and walls.
    That's what I remember because it made me smile
      and nod as if I understood.

    I could shut my eyes now and I would be
      there, because I closed them then as I nodded,
    allowing the trumpet's arms to hold me,
      to sway me to and fro closer to the ceiling.
    Time stopped, at least that on my watch,
      the snare drum marking phrases instead,
    the splash of cymbals like the sand 'neath Bojangles,
      the piano chords like the surface of a lake
    in the dead of a starburst night's hush,
      bass notes like the pulse of a breeze,
    I am here, my breath in and out
      not just my chest but through my skin.

    Bereft of words, nodding my head along to a breeze
      from the throat of a horn,
    I wonder about every word I have spoken
      and how I wish my throat was a horn.

    p.m.

  • I heard you knock…”come in”…says I, “the door is open” I said with a sigh. It’s dark, it’s late…I looked at the time. One AM and I was wide awake.

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  • We all live in prisons
    here of our own makin'
    and yet we deserve them
    for all that we've done
    and for all that we've taken.

    Yes, we all wear chains
    we're in shackles, it's certain;
    locked up in our minds
    with our lies and alibis
    where we never stop hurtin'.

    ~~~

    Been a while since I lay here
    and thought all night
    over what I should've said
    or might have done
    to set things right.

    When you left I thought
    I'd be better off this way.
    It's sort of funny how
    things have turned out now
    where either one of us could say....

    ~~~

    We all live in prisons
    here of our own makin',
    and, yes, we deserve them
    for all that we've done
    and.for all we keep takin'.

    Yes, we're all in chains
    and there's one thing that's certain
    we must all pay the price
    for our lies and alibis
    and all the people we keep hurtin'.

    ~~~

    Sitting here alone tonight
    I think back when,
    you were all I needed
    my whole world
    both my soul mate and best friend.

    Times have changed though
    now we both have moved along.
    Love's undying flame
    became how who's to blame
    who was right and who was wrong.

    ~~~

    We all live in prisons
    here of our own makin'.
    And, yes, we deserve them
    for all that we've done
    there should be no mistakin'....

    Yes, we're all in chains
    and there's one thing that's certain
    we must all pay the price
    for our lies and alibis
    and all the people we keep hurtin'.

    ~~~

    Oh, yes....

    We must live in our prisons
    til the last bow and curtain.
    So let us thank the good Lord now
    for the freedom yet to come
    where there'll be no pain or hurtin'.

  •  

     

    Echoes

    I would cleave the mirror in front of me
       like the photograph of me and you.
    It seems so easy, so literal, I've seen it,
       as facile as paper colored with crayon.
    If it were so, I could then feel some
       ripping sound next to me, something breaking,
    a rush of cold air down my back maybe,
       robbing me of what is essential heat,
    or maybe I could burn you and I into ashes,
       starting with the corner nearest you, then mine,
    the flames like our lips and tongues were
       in the beginning, blue at the edges, red beneath.
    There would be a scent, yes a scent, under
       the sheets, mingled like our bodies
    and finally ashes, soft, like talcum, chalk,
       the portrait of you drawn in the park.
    Crumple it, grind it down with the heel of my boot,
       it must be something physical, final,
    as final as the bottom of a sea where even
       sunlight ventures not, it must be so,
    it cannot be like a piano chord fading
       into an evening's perfume, to forever,
    it cannot be like the sound of a bird's wings
       taking flight, beckoning to your eyes and ears,
    it cannot be like the aura of a scented candle's
       light snuffed out between thumb and finger,
    it cannot be like the echoes of us whispering
       so long, goodbye.

    p.m.

  • There was a young man in Kettering,
    Northamptonshire, U.K.
    A window licker extraordinaire
    regardless of what people say.

    Macdermid licked windows all of his days
    of repute he was quite well spoken,
    from Inverness clear out to Southend-on-Sea
    licking windows (clean, dirty, or broken).

    Comes a time though for every window licker
    when he's licked his last and can lick no more
    For the tongue gets weak as the mind grows feeble
    so he sits on his arse til his crack gets sore.

  • By David Jeremy Hudson I don’t understand Why we allow poverty to exist Why we allow suffering to take place In this world I really don’t I don’t understand How millions can be allowed to live without food and shelter

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  • Assassin

    When they found his body it was angry
       with bullet holes.
    Skinny and young, his long fingers clean
       and wan, perhaps in the middle of a gesture,
    as he would gently gesture when he spoke,
       even when his voice rose
    like a viper's head poised to strike,
       barely seen in the waving tall grass.

    He was danger, electric with vision,
       the compelling stillness of his center
    anchoring him as we took him whole
       into our thoughts, embarrassed by our skin,
    by the filling and draining of color as we
       confronted injustice, hooded and hiding
    in the precincts of our daily lives,
       recognized but unacknowledged. Numbing.

    Prophets speak what is already known,
       it's the tide of their conviction that carry us on,
    the roiling uprooting of us all into action,
       when it is possible, not hope, not faith,
    but a leap, one foot in front of the other,
       exhilarated, a blinding blur of wills,
    what he would do when we gathered
       and told us what we already knew.

    Impossibly young and angry with bullet holes.
    In our hearts, the silence was deafening.

    p.m.

  • Ultraviolet

    In the first spinning place when forces
    apart came together in cadence,
    when a center formed surrounded
    by everything once nothing
    I sat looking everywhere at once
    before my eyes had formed and
    found a tongue to name and act,
    I heard the groan of celestial weight
    and felt heat, its absence in the void
    and tasted a rainbow's every bar
    and just before I had had my fill
    the forces could hold no longer
    and the spinning place tore into light.

    p.m.

  • Feathers slicing air

    up there

    sailing along the currents

    and white glare

    birds on the wing,

    swooping like racing bicycles

    circling and cool as icicles

    up there

    in the air

    birds on the wing,

    I stand and watch

    stranded on earth

    always waiting

    to be a bird on the wing.

  • He was the hard-living, fast-driving, pill-popping womaniser who was immortalised in Jack Kerouac's On the Road. But what was it like to be married to Neal Cassady? As the Beats revival gathers pace, his wife explodes a few myths.

    When you think of the Beats, you think of free sex and flaming sunsets, of bulbous '49 Hudsons easing towards the horizon on dusty highways that seem to go on for ever. You don't think about roundabouts, recycling centres and Rover estates. But that's what you get in Bracknell and it's in Bracknell, near Windsor, that one of the last surviving members of the Beat generation lives.

    Carolyn Cassady opens the door to her pretty green cottage with a lipsticked grin and a shy handshake. She's 87, but looks a decade younger, dressed neatly in a lavender fleece with matching moccasins. The second wife of Beat muse Neal Cassady – the man immortalised as Dean Moriarty in Jack Kerouac's 1957 classic On the Road – Carolyn moved to London in 1983, and relocated here 10 years later. "I was brought up English," she says. "My parents were anglophiles and we had a whole lot of English customs at home. I made the break and I much prefer it."

  • Totality (December 20, 2010)

    If I were the man on the moon
    I would have seen every sunrise
    and every sunset as they rolled
    across the blue face of home.

    I could imagine every waking,
    every sigh into sleep,
    omnipresent, everywhere
    when it matters most.

    The wide eyed challenge of morning
    and the evening flight of dreams,
    nothing in between, nothing that stops.

    I would be a King of the heavens,
    my bed the sky, my heart light on her breasts
    and she would share secrets
    and whisper the eons into my ear,
    celebrating the blue afloat on the eternal black.

    p.m.

  • With Holidays dogged by unyielding recession, a fat man is here to relieve your depression. He’s round and he’s jolly and brings you good cheer and he’s pulling in 12mil in ad rev each year.

    He doesn’t make toys, that would not be sufficient- the labor is costly, the elves inefficient. Insurance and unions and tight labor laws were not in the favor of dear Santa Claus.

    The industrial age was a time of good news, with lots of cheap labor to make low-cost shoes. And it wasn’t a hitch to replace slowpoke elves who stood far too near shaky overstocked shelves.

    But soon Santa found himself in quite a bungle when the elves started reading and quoting “The Jungle”. The picketing munchkins went on quite a romp for limited workdays and good workers’ comp. But dear old Saint Nick gave the deer’s reins a tug, pulled out some scotch and the book Atlas Shrug. He said “I’ve been doing this all the wrong way, there’s really no profit to filling my sleigh”.

    So with a bright twinkle he chugged down a drink, and wrote down a plan in his red and green ink. And after he planned it, he took off his boots, his hat and the tinsel and bought some new suits. A real fancy number that’s all tailor made, then grinned and said “now Santa’s gonna get paid”.

    He sold all the toys (marked up nicely of course) to Sears, and to Wal-Mart, and FAO Schwartz. And then Mr. Claus very lovingly sent a bill to each elf for a century’s rent. And once he expelled all those freeloading dwarves he sold them to China to make hats and scarves.

    The North Pole was empty, the workshop was still except for one office on Candy Cane Hill where Santa was meeting with men of great standing to discuss the matter of corporate rebranding.

    Now “Dasher’s a good solid brand” the men said “for selling new cars that are shiny and red”. “And Cupid and Vixen I’m willing to say would be good types of reindeer to pitch lingerie”. “Comet sells cleaner and Blitzen and Donder can sell high end ice-cream but now we must ponder... for Prancer… well Prancer would do very well as celebrity spokesman for “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell.

    And Rudolph, oh Rudolph with nose bright and red, will be stuffed and preserved, sir, right next to your sled”

    Now Santa was clapping and said with great zeal “and I will sell ‘Santa’s Good Housekeeping Seal’ a wholesome endorsement that parents can trust (for a sizeable fee or this deal is a bust). Or better yet in each impressionable ear I’ll whisper the brand names that they should hold dear ‘On Xbox, on Ipod, on Nike, and Gap on Crocs and Nintendo, and “bling bling” based rap, and designer cell phone and acrumb and fitch’, each parent who buys one will make me quite rich.

    And as for each child who isn’t quite good, I’ll tell mom and pop that they’re misunderstood and kindly suggest that the tot on my knee that fusses and fidgets has ADHD. And if you’ll admit (and I’m sure that you will) that Cindy Lou Who needs a slow-me-down pill I’ll kindly deliver the pills by the batch, along with new shoes and a nicotine patch.”

    “And Pop, if you suffer from holiday stress it may end up making you very depressed. And mamma in her kerchief should watch my new show on crow’s feet and wrinkles and mom 2.0.”

    ‘On Botox, on ritlan, on Zoloft on schnapps, on therapy sessions for mom and for pops. If there’s so many cures that you just want to snap, well never you worry there’s an ap for that’.”

    But on one cloudy evening the old Saint’s dividends began to experience bad downward trends.

    Poor Santa was shaking for all the bad news as Frosty and friends exchanged blank IOU’s. But nevertheless on the evening report, Santa proudly proclaimed that we’re not falling short. “All of this foul hubbub’s a communist plot to make all think we’ve got less than we got”

    “We can sell all this debt, that will do in a pinch” so he made his proposal to Scrooge and the Grinch. But both of these fellows were shrewd and astute and after awhile gave Santa the boot.

    Then Santa cried out with a shriek and a wail. You can’t let this happen, I’m too big to fail If I’m going down, then you’re going down too. Then who will sell Ritlan to Cindy Loo Who?” YES, If Santa Claus suddenly took a great fall it would read fiscal doom for them one and them all.

    And where there was resentment- and there would be tons, he’d cry revolution and pitch gold and guns. He’d distract them with fears of a socialist elf who preaches for redistribution of wealth.

    Now before you all wander away from this tale, there one final piece once last closing detail. For Santa and all of his minions today now work for the prez of the US of A . They’re on a committee against corporate greed and will gladly provide all the help that we need and if that doesn’t work friend, well Santa’s no quitter you can read all his postings on Facebook and Twitter.

  • Type Your Poem Here....

    To live a life

    without strife

    is only but a dream

    a poltician's scheme

    a madman's spleen,

    For in the weave

    the shadow sleeves

    hide those we do abhor

    the makers of war

    and thier money door

    on the indelicate floor

    gelded by the Babylonian Whore,

    But peace my friend is here today

    it has not gone astray

    the smell of Darjeeling on a winters day

    the bird on the branch that is here to stay

    a smile of a spouse who says

    "have you had a good day"

    the breast where a child's head do lay

    it is our way

    to seek

    The quiet interludes

    and happy moods

    these are gifts we take from life

    no thieves can steal

    your inner feel

    no lose of goods

    that cannot be sold

    your inner life is gold.

    Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, give some of your time as a gift to someone else and thus to us all.

  • Joe walked ahead
    of both ass and Mary
    for he had quite a lot on his mind.
    The carpentry trade
    had been piss-poor this year,
    a fact to which Romans were blind.

    Yes, the taxes were due
    and his wife Mary too
    though inside he so wished either weren't.
    He knew better than bother though
    the baby's real father, so
    being silent is better than burnt!

    Then finally all three
    (yes) ass, Mary and he
    ended up at a stable in town,
    where Mary dilated
    so, poor Joe, he waited
    for the whole birth routine to go down.

    Soon the baby was born
    and Joe sat forlorn
    with his head in his hands as he mumbled,
    with the smell of fresh sheep @!$%#
    on the sole of his shoes,
    "What a merry first Christmas," he grumbled!

    As he stood by the manger
    a crowd bustled in
    some kings, some shepherds and peasants,
    and though slightly disturbed
    Joe was hardly perturbed
    for they all brought some hellacious presents.

    So, yes, the place smelt
    but this cave where they dwelt
    sure saved on the price of the birth,
    And as the crowd petered out
    he heard Mary shout,
    "Without Pampers there's no peace on earth!"

  • A vista is like flight off the ground

    everything is seen all around

    eagles and hawks

    know all of your talks

    because they always see what you mean,

    The range of far off humped ground

    echos that make a wonderful sound

    that bulls know and found

    When ya' holler top of your lungs,

    A long vista to me

    is a grand sight to see

    and to live on a hill

    is more than a pill

    it makes my heart full of glee,

    The silence of sound

    is Oh so profound

    the hills that go for miles

    are sharp Matisse styles

    that it make my soul leave from the ground.

  • We mustn't forget about the importance of arts. I personally write poetry.

  • Oh bird! Why dost thou sit on yonder tree? Everyday that comes forth, Everyday You're sitting on yonder tree, never flitting Day after day, The bird still is sitting Sitting on yonder pear tree Morning come, singing, are you not?

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  • Soon, We Will Be Gone

    The quiet places we have visited occur
    as easily as calling out to a friend
    long absent, as we are drawn into a gaze,
    a conversation so familiar that it falls,
    as water falls into a welcome space,
    a multitude of voices really, murmuring
    wonder and contentment in a gaggle of tongues,
    clouds of souls on a voyage together.

    That blue water sinkhole in the middle of a swamp
    jumping out into view, as blue as her eyes,
    as I in the car flashed by on the viaduct
    no more than a few seconds,
    taking my breath away, how deep and sweet
    it took me, the noise of the wind hushed
    in the pause of an embrace
    listening to voices in clouds drifting by.

    Those days of gentle rain, the grief
    of burials, farewells, that betrayal
    soaking into your hair and shoes
    while hearing drops of water strike life,
    and even in rooms, looking out streaked
    windows, the occasion painting
    the landscape outside, once clear,
    now filtered by a liquid knowing.

    The near silent snowfall that moonlit night
    informing you of beauty coming
    in the dawn of untouched grace fallen
    on the ground, the earth, the ordinary,
    how all that beckons to your feet,
    to your squinting, grateful gaze
    as the quiet is ridden with voices murmuring
    welcome, welcome, soon we will be gone.

    p.m.

  • Type your Poem Here........:)

    life is like a long great forest as we take photographs

    We walk through its shadow and its light

    A sing song morning bright

    and then a dark moon night,

    Bottom land so deep and old

    with leaf covered floor of gold

    is blanketed by a fog so cold

    that makes the leaf mold,

    Streams of water run deep and fast

    and will slow with broken grass

    and freeze at last,

    Trees standing straight and tall

    will age and bend

    eventually to fall

    and weep into the land

    Making new light and shadow to walk through

    Again.

    A snapshot of who and what we are.

    Newsvine Photographers Group.

  • "The most revolutionary consciousness is to be found among the most ruthlessly exploited classes: animals, trees, water, air, grasses." -- Gary Snyder

  • The librarian wheels out the box on a little wooden trolley that reminds me of a dim-sum cart or a hospital gurney.

  • Mountain Top

    Up high in the mountains where the stars
    are so close that they are dreams
    and even in the still air the cold finds your
    chest and within it your heart
    would be a good place to die of a bleeding
    wound, the blood escaped warming
    your shirt, the chill numbing your wound,
    just an ache really (like when she left),
    a knot inside of you tightening, something
    to keep to yourself for yourself become part
    of what you are now, killer, drifter,
    unmoored yet held fast onto by what is beyond
    your control, things that became and stayed
    bidden or not, their course through your veins
    like that river of your childhood that
    reminded you, you are but clay in her hands
    and as that river leaves your body
    there is only that sweet sleep coming
    so close to the sky and all its stars
    that you could not tell it from a dream.

    p.m.

  • From the hoarfrost of Father Winter's spittle
    I sprang into being, fresh and alive
    and rode upon the North Wind
    as far as my muse would allow me to traverse.

    Far and wide, I traveled with my fellows
    the air a playground, we ever explored
    in search of the respite due us til it came
    and our death throes were violent

    Valiantly at first we struggled together
    in fear of the unknown, below us so vast
    then silently, in the painless agony of knowing
    we fell quietly to our fate.

    The earth was soft and accepting
    our presence allowed with humility
    we gladly attached our new found appendages
    and made for one final defiant stand.

    The battle commenced and we were sore losers
    biting faces and fingers, tormentors thus tormented
    our lines held as we gravely stood our ground
    a battle won though the war lost.

    They piled our dead one upon the other
    no respect shown, no remorse given
    We, the fallen snowmen of Father Winter
    displayed for their amusement.

    Original © 21 January, 2009 by mic Hudson, slowrivermic.newsvine.com

  • The profound sound of the snowbound

    white covered ground

    by the pound

    It can make a heck of a mound,

    Cars creep past

    not so fast

    crunching the white stuff down

    as they go to town,

    Quiet flights of crows

    dot the grey myriad

    like moving periods

    across old paper

    through the water vapor

    they chart their course

    home,

    My home is covered in a blanket

    I want to thank it

    for holding in the flame

    of our hearts

    I hear them beat

    because

    the sound

    of the snowbound

    is

    so profound.

  • My father's footsteps
    were nearly twice in size
    compared with mine
    so also his stride
    for that was long
    both strong and sure
    and in my heart certain
    would always endure.

    The day that they faltered
    I could not understand
    I'd followed in earnest
    so sure of the man.
    At his bedside I lingered
    so aware of each breath
    then in fear there I trembled
    at the presence of death.

    I took off his shoes
    and beheld both the feet
    of this person most cherished
    a man gentle and sweet
    who had lived, by example
    a life honest and good
    and promised to fill those shoes
    best as I could.

    Now many years later
    small feet follow mine
    so with patience and pride, yes
    I walk the straight line
    with sureness and certainty
    ever kind, never froward
    my father's footsteps
    are still leading me forward.

  • I don't often share things likes this but was so moved by the message poet Katie Makkai presented in such a powerful way, I feel an obligation to pass it along in honor of my pretty incredible daughter and my pretty amazing granddaughter. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6wJl37N9C0

     

     

  • The dusk can shatter a day

    like a glass falling to the floor

    With light so harsh

    to blind

    fools that look that way,

    Dusk can be the carnaval of clouds

    that drown

    out the blues of the day

    and dance across your view

    with a glare and flare

    of loud skirts,

    Dusk can sing you to sleep

    like a soft blanket of night

    wrapped in slow time

    lay down

    on the soft moonlit grass

    a bed of dreams as quiet

    as a field of young sheep,

    Dusk gives us all the time to stop

    a chance

    in Fall

    to see the warmth of the end of the day

    and the feel cool breeze

    that calls to our winter

    to come

    and make dusk

    have a shorter stay,

    dusk says goobye

    and then it goes away

    and returns

    after a long

    and hard

    day.

  • The Street

    Dark and brooding,

    alley cat feral,

    feeding on the

    under-belly of

    the savage city-a

    face no one remembers,

    a heavy metal ghost, an

    exhaled breath of primal force,

    evil feeding on evil, a

    relative exchange of dark on

    the event horizon of

    sudden death, takes his trophy,

    leaving what remains,

    no thought of what was,

    he's not looking for

    anything special-a circling

    shark feeding and passing

    like the lightest glimmer

    of cold steel.

    The shadow passes on,

    leaving only the loose

    debris blowing down the

    deserted street.

    Iron And Steel

    The man in the high castle

    watching the masses wax and wane,

    chases the divine, but capture

    the profane.

    He watches the boundaries move,

    as the idols fall, and the

    throne room's rearranged.

    His allies unseen, watch him

    crow and preen, yet no one

    truly knows his name,

    or face, or cause, but are just

    faceless players in the

    self-same game.

    Heavy the head that bears the crown,

    even iron and steel shall rust.

    He who shakes the nations is

    another son of dust.

    Lost In The Rain

    It's an efficiency-that's what they say,

    from this single chair I can survey,

    thirty-five years comes down to this,

    the dream is over-no more bliss.

    I can't conceive the wrong I did,

    the memories wane in tints of pain.

    I haven't the heart to go

    through this all again, so here

    I've come, another face, who's

    lost in rain.

    Vigil

    The child stares speculatively down the dusty lane

    a mile distant where the gravel drive begins.

    The cupola is cooling now that the sun has begun

    to lower in the west.

    Late afternoon breezes shifts the windchimes as

    she sips water from the fruit jar and nibbles on

    her bread and cheese, listening to the furtive

    scratching and scolding of a squirrel, accompanied

    by the lazy drone of insects, the cooing of a dove,

    and the rustle of the leaves from the grove.

    Her eyes capture the sudden rise of dust

    billowing at the road entrance to the farm.

    As it moves closer, she can see the tell-tale

    red globe on the top of the second of two

    identical Model A Fords speeding her way.

    She smiles and tugs on the string at her side,

    knowing her father, hidden below, will be warned,

    then takes another sip of her water, as

    she patiently continues her vigil.

  • 
    High Plains Hudson was his name
    and with guitar in his hand
    He rode the Western prairies
    singing, "Wish I had a band."  
    
    He warbled a tale of Pecos Bill
    sang a ballad about Judge Bean.
    A harder riding guitar player
    the West had never seen.  
    
    He wasn't the faster picker known
    hell, he could barely carry a tune
    So the Troubadour challenged him to play
    the next day at High Noon!  
    
    So High Plains Hudson met Troubadour
    In the middle of the street
    Both had their instruments in hand
    And their guitars sounded sweet.  
    
    As the clock struck noon they began to jam
    and a crowd soon gathered roun'
    Dancing jigs and square danced too
    until the sun went down.  
    
    At nine they played some Western Swing
    At Midnight they played the Blues
    They played all night til sunrise
    and by then they'd paid their dues.  
    
    Both parted ways quite satisfied
    for both their hats were full
    Thus was born the street musician.
    Do you believe this load of bull?
    
  • Solstice

    There is the quiet where the words tumble about,
    not dark nor gray nor hued but a blank screen.
    Snow on the ground in the morning
    inviting trodden tracks towards the low hill.
    Who calls to me when I am taut and empty?
    When I am about to fall rapt and wanting?

    That I should also do these when others speak
    from that same silent hill, promontory
    to visions, the lilt of phrases spoken so,
    lifting you by your chest to breathe in rhyme.

    When did I see that low hill first?

    My grandmother singing to my open face,
    the clear even tones of the story over candle flame
    calling forth spirits, clinging to what is near
    as time cleaves into the measure of lines,
    a breath in between strokes in cool water,
    the space between counting each starlight point,.
    how anguish divides into drops of tears..

    This steady cadenza.
    This ferocious dance of brush strokes.
    This thundering glissando through octaves.

    This trodden morning snow behind me
    here on the low promontory.

    p.m.

  • Slamming into voodoo dolls

    with all my hair undone

    jungle sounds

    are all around

    I don't think this is fun,

    Shrunken heads seem to appear

    wih alacrity and lust

    I am not alone when I say

    I think this trip went bust,

    Images of snakes and tails

    of monkeys

    on the wall

    I wish I had not come here

    oh I wish I did not at all,

    Spiders do crawl up and down

    upon my bed and rug

    We had no sleep for many night

    because of things that bug,

    The heat and sand

    get out of hand

    the meat and wine atrocious

    I wish we spent our time

    picking a trip

    that was less

    precocious,

    I will not come here

    the next year or the next

    we better get this over with

    I think I hear a pest,

    Our clothes are stiff

    are breath is too

    we board the bus

    to get home

    and I will not miss

    the muss,

    The plane it takes off fast and quick

    I do not see me getting sick

    but I do on ething

    I do know this

    I will need to take off a few days

    away from taking holidays.

    Vacations and travel are good and bad. We have not had a vacation in many years. I don't think I miss them very much at all.

  • "MISCREANTS"

    of mendacious merchandise,

    You think you are like the Medici's

    selling me your mysterious

    foreign wares that cross the waters of the hidden world,

    Where do you truly hide your snare

    where is the trap line that runs straight to your door

    you moneyed whore

    of misbegotten shoes

    and sunglasses that Cruise

    down the Boulevard of Industry,

    What do you eat

    as you sit at your seat

    plying all day

    those words and images

    that say

    "buy me and be complete",

    What do YOU wear

    as we stare

    at your invasion

    of our ware

    our home of words is not your store

    you moneyed whore,

    go away

    and sully my door

    no more

    WHORE!

    We are here

    not so near

    but we have things to sell too

    freedom of words

    to those who have heard

    that commerce aint

    all.

    The dog wants you off his plot of words

    he leaves you this little turd

    of poetry.

  • The Fall sun burns with less concerns

    it seem less able

    to put shine on a table

    and reflections are a lost art

    of greyed and graveled memories,

    Water speaks of escape without refute

    it sweeps and ssssswhooshes

    with great repute

    And drips

    with drops

    and ends up back at the start,

    Earth is deep and old

    it shelters

    silver and also gold

    it feeds the trees

    thus birds and bees

    and makes us all

    stand tall,

    The air is everywhere

    from tunnel deep

    to highest peak

    it sings in our ears

    and drops rain in our beers

    and makes us breath

    unrestarined.

  • Lotus

    It is as plain as plain can get,
    what we really are, though it escapes us often.
    Like the heart of the lotus by mid-day
    shall surely be hidden half into the night.
    Were we so watch-like, that minute
    would not be twisted into hours
    by thoughts, and then the instant of action,
    the sudden tug of imperative,
    the collapse of surrender.
    Our to and fro
    and the in between of wonder or sorrow allowed.

    Is this why a tree seems so resolute to me,
    mystically so, repose and action at once,
    the living coral that is the carpet of a lagoon,
    lichen that cling to the timeless?
    And what of creatures of a lightless ocean abyss?
    The dust of the dead falling eternally about them
    like manna, what do tides, sun and moon mean to them
    in perpetual stolid stoic motion, an endless path
    through their cold and dark ether?

    In the start and stop of my life, I wait
    for moments when time and space fold,
    when the to and fro, seasons and tides fail.
    And when I sleep, search for dreams.

    p.m.

  • She paints the world everyday

    from spring green days so fresh with life

    that you can see it in a horse's eye,

    she paints the growth

    of tiny impressionist spots of bright

    on the warming earth

    creating bowers

    she paints for hours,

    She paints the world like butterfly wings

    patterns repeated as she sings

    like birds,

    Her warming brush

    creates the sprays of yellow and red

    against blue sky

    the kind of blue

    that looks far away

    She paints those days

    with length of light and warming depth

    of thunder clouds

    she paints them loud,

    She paints the evening too

    with violet rich with scarlet

    and the deepest blue,

    and then she springs forth late

    at night

    with shiny moon light

    so pale white

    she paints all night with star so bright,

    and then she paints as color fades

    she goes to paints in water shades

    sweeps of green and grey

    she weeps

    with colors that seem less each day,

    She paints her lose

    deep carpets fused with hail

    you hear her wail

    but whites are used to purge the paint

    from too much build up

    it is a wake

    she is a saint

    and it cools are eyes

    and makes us ache

    for a new born day

    when she decides to paint.

  • A skate of water sweeps from underneath

    ringing letters on the surface of a mirror,

    A brush so soft it has no ear

    signals attention

    with the depth of silk

    moving over skin,

    they want me to come in

    and write with them

    on water

    on silk

    with invincible brushes

    so soft.

  • Sei Shonagon was born sometime in 965 and she was a Lady in Waiting to the Empress Sadako. There are few female writers from this time period anywhere and it was interesting to find this book which was translated and edited by Ivan Morris. It was published by Columbia University Press in 1991. I found this book in a University book store in Pittsburgh Pa.

    This pillow book is filled with everyday experiences, poems and many insights into the workings of the Imperial Palace of late 10th century Japan.

    A pillow book was really just a notebook of things men and woman wrote after retiring to their room at night. This book is full of anecdotes, personal impressions and daily notes that really bring the reader closer to the life of upper-class life in the classic age called the Heian period.

    There are poems, stories and thoughts from Shonagon that really make one see a life that many never knew or could imagine. She describes dress and costume, little stories of persons who were major and minor players in the Court. She is not without some negative aspects, her views of the lower-class are probably the way many upper-class people saw those beneath their station in life. And even this creates a knowledge for the reader that may not be prevelent in other writing of the period.

    This was a very interesting book to read and it is set up in small chapters that can be picked up and read from begining to end or just picked up and opened to any page and read. I will leave you with a little of her writing and a poem.

    24. "It Is So Stifling Hot", page 60- "It is so stifling hot in the Seventh Month that even at night one keeps all the doors and lattices open. At such times it is delightful to wake up when the moon is shining and to look outside. I enjoy it even when there is no moon. But to wake up at dawn and see a pale sliver of a moon in the sky-well, I need hardly say how perfect that is."

    85. "On The Sixth of the Month, page 149

    "Pluck them or pinch them as you may,

    Indifferent they may remain,

    These earless plants who hear not what I say,

    Yet, since there are so many blossoms here,

    surely some chrysanthemums must hear."

    Any one intersted in Japanese culture of the ealy period of Japanese history would enjoy this book. With a lack of female writers of this time she provides us with a look in side the mind of a woman during that peroid also. We have very few places and books to find these insights, history and knowledge of earlier times. A very good book and easy to read.

  • First let me thank dmlane for reminding me of this poet and his book.

    Rainer Maria Rilke started writing his Letters to a Young Poet in 1903. It was later published as a book.

    In Graduate school one of my professors saw I was struggling with my work and suggested I get Letters to a Young Poet and read it and then come back and talk to her. After reading it I went back to her and told her there was no reason to discuss anything now, I was OK. Rilke's book opend up a lot for me and answered many questions about my art, why I make it and what to do with my life. I wish to leave just a little of his writing for you, the artist, the writer, the poet the actor or any person struggling to ask "WHY".

    RANIER MARIA RILKE- first letter Paris, Feb. 1903 "You ask whether your verses are good. You ask me. You have asked others before. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are disturbed when certain editors reject your efforts. Now, (since you have allowed me to advise you) I beg you to give up all that. You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all--ask yourself in the stillness of your hour of night; must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple "I must", then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it."

    This is just one passage from one letter. it continues and goes beyond this into all the questions creative people have about what they do. My copy stayed in my back pocket for almost two years and is now rounded and formed like my rear end. I pulled it out of the bookcase and it simply curved into my shape.

    I believe this book can help those who struggle with many aspects of their life, it is a small book but its message is large and timeless.

    I must read it more often.

  • It rains today

    this way

    from west to east

    it rains

    and beats,

    The rain this way

    has patterns to it

    the slant of wind

    has done its bit,

    The ground today

    is wet

    of course

    I do not have

    that grey remorse,

    because it rains today

    for you

    and I

    You may be dry

    so I'll give you

    my sky,

    it rains today

    I leave you

    to it.

  • debauchery

    The playground of

    the scarlet line

    that travels back

    to olden time,

    red fire bright

    and glowing in the

    night,

    a dance of ember and spark

    speak to me

    oh blood harvester

    king slayer

    field layer,

    She rises in all

    pale mists

    that hot dances

    from the

    cooling twists,

    At full dance she

    is so high

    the color of life

    and death

    her eye,

    we look up and

    see the

    red within

    and dance the night

    with toothy

    grin,

    as we debauch

    till dawn awakes

    and scatters ghosts

    that we all make

    and opens eyes

    for heavens sake,

    I see my ancestors

    right next to me

    they dance in

    moonlight

    can't you see

    and ever after

    they are in me

    as I walk with them

    down the path

    of destiny.

    A poem to Homecoming Weekend and friends, family and fire and beer.

    See you on monday, I think. ;)

  • I speak to you good friend

    sharp eyed and finger

    nimble

    Painter of sin

    and symbol,

    shade caster of

    HELL

    you are

    seated just so

    in black hat

    and

    blood red

    winding sheet,

    I see you as you

    sketch

    the village

    of the doomed

    all

    mutifaced and

    faceted

    like demonic

    jewels,

    You place yourself in Hades

    in oils

    on the wood

    did you see

    or hear something

    that said

    you should?

  • Oh garden of love

    thy sweet trimmed trees

    are but a welcome

    short forest

    view

    to

    fruits yet to come,

    Alabaster walls

    curved in

    supple

    details

    that makes

    water flow down and

    stop,

    pools of ice and fire

    old

    Norse

    and cold as a volcano

    that yet

    still lives in lore

    with a thirst for more,

    I climb the stairs

    and go and look

    and I uncover

    my own best book

    she does that all

    for me,

    No fence

    for me

    this garden be

    I cannot tell you

    more

    she is waiting by

    the door.

  • I have a little spider

    no a tiny one

    you see,

    It sits right over there

    and it

    watches me,

    Its web connects the wall

    to my monitor

    I don't think

    its a HE,

    The thing showed up this morning

    a rainy day

    for we,

    She came right in

    and set up shop

    and I really

    think

    she did it

    with glee.

  • After a long hiatus, I am back with a new feature for Newsvine: interviewing people in the world of publishing and writing. In my first installment, I have an incredible guest—

    Claire McQuerry is the contest editor for The Missouri Review, a literary journal based in Columbia, MO. She is a poet and nonfiction writer and she teaches literature and writing at the University of Missouri.

    WWL: Can you tell us a little bit about the Missouri Review for those readers that are not familiar with it?

    CM: The Missouri Review has been around since 1978. Larry Levis, one of my favorite poets, was one of the original editors. We're based at the University of Missouri, and we publish four issues per year, each of which contain beautiful artwork and new fiction, poetry and essays. The journal also runs interviews with famous authors, and a really unique found-text feature where we print never before published works.

    WWL: The Missouri Review is also well known for its writing contests. Can anyone enter those? If so, how would they go about do so & what kind of work are you looking for?

    CM: Yes! The contests are open to everyone, and we're open to a range of styles. We're best known for the Jeffrey E. Smith Editor's Prize, which is celebrating its 20th anniversary this year. The deadline for this contest is coming up on October 1st, and we're looking for unpublished poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. The first-place awards in each category include $5,000, a featured publication in the journal, and a paid trip out to Missouri for a reading and reception. It's exciting to me that oftentimes the winners are relatively unknown writers--people just beginning their careers. Finding and publishing their work feels like a discovery, and I know the award has helped several people launch their careers. Writers can enter their work online through our website: http://www.missourireview.com/contest/editors_prize.php

    WWL: How is the Missouri Review different from other literary journals?

    CM: One of the journal's most unique features is the found-text section. I think one of the most interesting found texts we printed was The Book of Jubilees, which appeared in a1992 issue. The Book is a translated fragment from one of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and we were able to publish it at a time when most of the Dead Sea texts hadn't yet been released to the public.

    Just recently we've added an online subscription option, so that subscribers are able to download the journal to their computers. The great thing about the electronic version of The Missouri Review is that it also comes with an audio file that has the journal's entire content read aloud. We're one of the first literary magazines in the world to publish in print, digital, and audio format.

    WWL: Can you speak a little about your job at the review and your work as a writer?

    CM: Sure. At the review I'm responsible for publicizing our contests, and, during peak submission times, for reading the work that comes in from around the world. Reading submissions is my favorite part of the job. I wish we had more room to print all the strong work we get. As a writer myself, I find that reading submissions provides creative fuel. All writing is a conversation--whether it's a response to a piece of music, a work of art, or another piece of writing. Other writers' work often inspires me to go out and write new poems.

    WWL: What can we expect from the Missouri Review in the near future?

    CM: Right now we're working on a project to archive all of our past issues online. It's strange to think that work that gets published in literary journals may never appear in book form, that a year or two after its publication that work more or less disappears. The archives will keep a lot of that older work alive.

    Thank you for taking the time to address the Newsvine community, Ms. McQuerry. Best of luck to you and the journal in the future. If there are any questions, please put them in the comments below and I will try to get follow up answers.

  • Here is a pair of poems more familiar than many I've presented here in the monthly "Classic Poem" feature—familiar, maybe, yet with an unsettling quality that seems inexhaustible. As in much of William Blake's writing, what I may think I know, he manages to make me wonder if I really do know.

    "Blake's poetry has the unpleasantness of great poetry," says T.S. Eliot (who has a way of parodying himself even while making wise observations). The truth in Eliot's remark, for me, has to do not simply with Blake's indictment of conventional churches, governments, artists but with his general, metaphysical defiance toward customary ways of understanding the universe.

    The "unpleasantness of great poetry," as exemplified by Blake, is rooted in a seductively beautiful process of unbalancing and disrupting. Great poetry gives us elaborately attractive constructions of architecture or music or landscape—while preventing us from settling comfortably into this new and engaging structure, cadence, or terrain. In his Songs of Innocence and Experience, Shewing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul, Blake achieves a binary, deceptively simple version of that splendid "unpleasantness."

  • (WOOF)

    My Mayan brethren

    speak to me

    they say

    that things

    don't look good,

    Their ace in the hole

    2012

    has them

    comin'

    outta da wood,

    The spirits say

    we didn't think that way

    when we planned the circle stone

    that day,

    Our scanning skills

    were not about

    total kills

    or

    burned suns

    and burnout pills,

    we only wished

    to celebrate

    a great renewal gift,

    Oh mother dear

    your latest children

    do appear

    to love the blood

    like we,

    They kill

    and sacrifice

    with glee,

    Give them

    good cheer

    so they may revere

    you mother dear,

    please smother their fear

    dearest of seers

    with your moonlit

    molten eyeeeeesssss.

  • I play the bones all day

    I have to

    I lay in this box

    and hear what all

    the others say,

    I play them in and out

    I have to

    some of them just

    shout

    and others pout,

    I play my ribs like

    xylophones

    With them

    skinny bones

    that drown out

    other moans,

    These dirty bones

    are mine to play

    all the live long day

    got no other one to hear

    what I have to say.

  • My cat

    he is so creeeeeeeepppppy!

    He sees both

    day and night

    his ears go flat

    his eyes go wide

    and he

    cause's such a fright,

    My cat

    he is so

    spoooookkkky

    He checks out all the sights

    the ceiling bare

    the walls

    just there

    and sometimes

    he just

    bites,

    My cat he is so

    queeeeeeer

    he grins from

    ear to ear

    and stops and stares

    at

    underwear

    and other

    stuff

    not right.

    My cat he is a horse

    of shaaaaaddddddy

    fashion of course

    his suit is black

    and

    white so bright

    A flash of tail

    means he is

    'waiting'

    for me in the kitchen,

    dinner

    must be

    served.

  • I dream of her most

    everynight

    She is dark and sharp and

    has inner light

    A severe cut

    of her black hair

    bangs straight

    but split

    a pair

    of swirls that

    show off

    narrow eyes

    violet

    and violent

    a shadow falls

    across my face,

    she bites and I

    dream of all

    things

    in the universe

    completion

    darkness

    then inner light.

  • A dead suit talks

    while lying on the satin bed

    A voice is there

    but I don't see a head

    It creeps me out

    but I don't pout

    its in my head.

    .....

    .....

    A dead flower lies

    on side the suit,

    it was dropped

    with sobs

    that were, at best,

    astute,

    .....

    .....

    The box lay on gold

    my, that was so

    bold,

    the ghost that was inside all our

    heads

    was just a man who never

    went to bed.

  • The Ghost is transparent

    it is so apparent

    that it

    is less white

    than the cloth

    that makes sails,

    Its diet is meager

    fear is the perceiver

    and so it beleagure's

    us

    as we lay,

    The ghost is a spirit

    that groans at us purists

    that believe only

    that

    which we sense,

    but ghosts can't deny it

    and I will not try it

    to disbelieve

    spirits that way.

  • The sun comes up

    Like a new orange pup

    Playing behind the tree

    making us get on our knees

    to please,

    The sun comes up

    my eyes

    still corrupt

    from sleeping

    a strange disease,

    The sun comes up

    my body stiff

    and abrupt

    to see it in all the glory,

    The sun comes up

    my breafast to sup

    with it

    and the new day,

    to meet it

    I have to eat of it

    and gain my life in all ways.

    The sun goes down

    cause it must go round

    and we must go

    and sleep,

    to greet it

    we must leave it

    to decay,

    To meet it

    we must

    see it

    and live another day.

  • The dog sleeps on the window seat

    just before the dawn,

    his feet are pointed fast and neat,

    The moon shines down

    through clouds that show the beat

    of his heart

    as he slips into the dreams that dogs

    do slip

    when they sleep that doggie sleep.

    A cat is no were good at that as he

    He sweeps the blanket all around with glee,

    he noses into folds

    and then circles so it holds

    and catches that cloth of wave and sea

    And then hurrumphs and closes eyes

    that sees only what doggies see

    and drifts off to the shining shore and then you hear

    the smallest

    kind of snore,

    He is then into the dreams that doggies

    don't want to ignore.

    His toes do move and then he wags his tail

    as if his body holds

    a special kind of tale,

    I look and watch and see his dream

    and know exactly what is his scheme

    as he runs after bunnies hoppin'

    down the bunny trail.

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