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.

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

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?

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.