No poems todayno reflectionon how lightinevitablyfollows darknesshow the sky feelshow a body openslike a flowerhow I love youno wordsthough still trueit doesI do
There’s a thronein this morning’s cloudsfrom which I imagineAthena observesskirmishes with no purposeolive trees rot roots upwar with no end
She knowsthere’s no slowing this marchno wings can lift usabove inevitable despairThe mind of God is blankand no blue remainseven above the clouds
We breathethe same aircologne & sweatrippling-roundtil fear seeps inadrenalineblood & deathhorrordespairin the endwe breathe sweet air
*Monday note: I've edited this and like this version much better!
Kerry called for short poems on the subject of Death and Night. This is also responsive to Izy’s prompt to write from a recently received text message (my first line here).
Am thrilled to have a poem in the inaugural issue of Nice Cage, a new, gorgeous, very cool literary magazine. Fairly prescient that the issue's theme is Predator/Prey and the magazine's tagline is "Enjoy Being Human." It's awesome to be published alongside comrades Kerry O'Connor, W.K. Kortas, and many others excitingly new to me. Hearty congratulations and thanks to editor and co-founder Isadora Gruye.Take a look: Nice Cage
I’m thinkingof demanding spousal rightsto your gallbladderwhen the surgeon takes it out,bringing it home in my purse,one stone for an earring,one stashedin the locket you gave me,the last one under my pillowfor dreamkeeping,your name bile-tattooedacross my heart,flesh of the precious organburied deep in the dirtof the old angel-wing begoniathat’s flowered our marriage,spindly reaching for the sun.
Sometimes I feel likesome sad old goddamn songthat everyone knows the words tobut just won’t sing along--Charlie Chesterman, "Mister Blue"
Laughing girltugs her beater over her bellyoversharesearns a stage shout-outis easily amusedseemingly cheerfullike baby’s breathin a carnation bouquetShe is rain on Sundaybag of kittens in the rivercalliopelast call banjoat Nico’s Recovery Roomstumbling down Highland Avethree flights upto an empty bed
Flash 55 for Real Toads!
Baskin the marvelousincongruity of Maywith her ragesand jewelsjoysmixed with catastropheShe is a rare giftnonpareilcreamon hemorrhaged lipstaciturn yet stylishblueirresistiblesyncopated and swanlikeBest make tracksor tumble headlongmaybe both
|(OOAK ART doll by Lina Macijauskiene.)|
I learned about the fantastic art dolls of Lithuanian artist Lina Macijauskiene from my friend Jori, who owns the one in this photograph. Isn’t this doll wonderful? I love her.
More dolls at Lina Macijauskiene’s Etsy store: LinaMacijauskieneART
Jori’s cool blog: Shivers of Delight
Sharing this at the Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden.
P.S. I turned FIFTY on Sunday. What!?!
The happy chartreuseof early spring on Mt. TomI missed this yearwhile not paying attention.
Your moanyearning forward in many shadesof red, then blue,then bloodiest-red again.
Everything vaguelydistressed Polaroidthrough rose sunglasses.
Mourning doves,oatmeal with honey,when your eyes look green.
Sharing with The Tuesday Platform in the Imaginary Garden today.
Tickled & quite humbled that a little missive by yours truly is included in the tremendous cacophony that is THE ROAR SESSIONS, curated by Poet, Promptress, & Coach Jena Schwartz. Read it here:
The artistwho really knew how to ballslammed his last dunkposthumously orchestratingan exultant waveof humanityslanging it all skywardlooney-tunes constellationsraining his name earthwardwhile wecontinue marvelingon the free throw lineat the exquisite contradictionour petite giantof arrogant humilitybestowed upon uswith purpose and accidentallystumbling it all back home
Sharing in the Imaginary Garden today.
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,Such seems your beauty still.
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 104
I recognize myselfin the epigraphto your book of poemswide-eyedwishing to be rememberedas beautifullike you areGone more than twenty years nowwhile I am feelingpainfully mortalI was that girl tooattracting gazestaking literally the admonishmentWhat you gonna do just sit there and watch?Lately I’ve softenedlet gofallen into bedabandoning grudgesbecause somehowI know you(and Prince)would have wanted me toThe violets are up in the backyardtheir faces to morning sunI am thinking of youwishing for rain
I’ve completely lost my way in April, but this poem was prompted by Kerry’s prompt to the Real Toads recognizing Shakespeare’s birthday.
Also, today the runaway sentence turns six years old! Thank you, gentle readers, for encouraging me in this space for all these years.
Thank goodness it’s International Haiku Poetry Day. Here are a few seasonal snippets:mild uncertaintyturns in springtime airto wild insecurity* * * * *windows wide to springcat fur smells like open airbury your face there* * * * *spring air reminderwhat happens to us is trueand discernible
And this one from last night, demonstrating my frame of mind:
cold medicineon Saturday nightI know how to get down
Soon comesthe implosionwhen distancefinally digests itselfsecreting apprehensionlike so much fertilizerand I will be leftlooking backtending the fragile thingthat once(or was it a dream)was a firecracker
|Photo by Karin Gustafson|
Lucky (?) #13 in April, for Karin’s prompt to the Real Toads: REMAINS OF THIS MONTH
Editing to add this little haiku I scribbled last night and promptly forgot. You know, it helps with my goal for April!
wild, wild Friday nightnew battery in her book-lightfinds her own delight
He saidabout Aprilwhat anybody would sayabout such a monththat it breeds colorto beat back shadowsscent to tempteven the most staid merchantto hookyThat is what April doesand we all know itWhy else songscelebrating winter’s endin the muddy throes of AprilWhy else a new signignoring an otherwiseportentous horoscopein favor of new bloomOnly in Aprilis lilac-breath acceptableeven encouragedSo when he says Aprilis for loversApril carries my tunein its gutI shall wait until thento sow my seedsit is April’s gardenof which he singsWe all know the wordsand sing along
Poem #12 for April, for Angie’s prompt to the Real Toads using a word list from The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot.
I’ve been so sick! Seems I’m turning a corner and starting to feel better, but catching up to produce 30 poems in April? We shall see.