Hello friends. I wanted to post a note. I am moving. I am changing up some things and refocusing and revamping and therefore I am moving my blog, actually I am doing more than that, but that said, I am going over to blogger.
For now I am going to make this friend only and once I have everything in place, I am will post the URL.
Hope this message finds you all well.
On the label of the amber glass bottle,
It says in bold graphic type face:
“Real, genuine, Chicago’s World Fair style,
Imitation bourbon vanilla extract.”
A fact which seemed both
Startling and somehow reassuringly
Old-fashioned, in the way that
Walking up hill both ways to school seemed
Both possible and utter nonsense,
Or as strange as the actors
In black and white movies,
Wearing brightly colored clothing
And the brightest
Of red lipstick, knowing,
Full well, their audiences
Would only see them in shades of gray
So seemed the notion that the liquid
In the amber bottle could be both
Real & genuine and in the style
Of the Chicago’s World’s Fair
And somehow imitation bourbon
But beyond the moment’s thoughtful
Pause, I poured the liquid into the silver spoon
And into the mixture of farm fresh eggs and
Sparkling white sugar and real dairy butter,
Which would soon be, what
I hoped a really good cake.
Enterprise
He takes pigments and turns
them into expressions of sadness,
landscapes of beauty,
storms of rage,
portraits of artists as young men
and seductive views of ladies and their finery
or
majestic, fantastical scenes from a land far from home;
the need to record less,
than the desire to shape
or inspire,
the pigments arranged the same,
but the judgment modern
and not sentimental
and the point of view more defined.
Hollow
Dark eyes staring down the ski slope nose,
judging the book by its cover,
knowing that the life blood
of his craft is life
and knowing that his life
is lacking
but he remains too wrapped
in his cloak of superiority
to seek or to accept
the influence of others, easier—
better to create road blocks and walls,
to judge without thought,
to rewind & recycle
the cold hollowness,
instead of breaking free,
free to experience the buffet
before his own dark eyes
because it is easier
to judge from his safe tower
than experience
the rich earthly delights seeped in mud.
Din
Lanky, sophisticated pose,
but bland beyond compare,
he walks into the room,
delighting in the sighs and cries,
confusing the din with admiration,
when really
it is a cloud of critical malaise;
a boredom or
perhaps something more sinister,
for long is the memory
of the wronged and scorned compatriot,
as long as the horizon,
which taunts the sailor
adrift in the wide ocean,
because as the days increase,
so does the list of grievances
until one day,
the din is replaced with silence,
which fills the room,
creating a fog,
which even the most self absorbed,
cannot help but comprehend.
Balloon
Sitting hunched over a scotch and soda,
shoulders curving like the Alps,
he sits, stone still,
dim blue eyes,
unfocused and cloudy
as if his physical being
is rooted like a tree;
while his mind, has floated
off like a child’s lost balloon,
drifting further and further
into the distance,
far above the trees,
until it is but a dot in the sea of blue,
and somehow,
in time with the drifting,
the slope deepens and his empty head
sinks closer and closer to the glass in his hand,
until his forehead rests on the bar,
upon his hands,
glass to his right and
soon he snores,
counting time until his mind
returns and he walks out of the bar,
crumpled like a deflated balloon.
http://www.nakedsunfish.com/
On the roof of the impossibly tall building,
peering over the ledge,
watching the cars
move on the street below,
like ants at a summer picnic,
he paused
and contemplated the ache in his heart,
which today overshadowed the one,
which resided
behind his eyes and pulsed,
but as he peered over the edge,
he wondered
was it truly heart ache,
merely indigestion or
a heart attack, the constriction
of blood flow causing
a series of Charlie horse
seizures of the muscle,
the muscle which pumped
in time to his breath,
or was this ache,
born of the knife,
the knife which pieced
his heart at the same time
he wielded
just such a knife,
only it had not been a knife,
it had been a boomerang,
which was sharp on both ends,
knifelike, but foreign to his eyes,
which had inflicted a knifes
damage all the same,
but then turned point and plunged
into his heart,
cutting deeper than he ever imagined
and leaving a wound,
which never seemed to heal,
even when he sought
to douse the burn
or exchange it
with the burn in his gut,
the one not purchased
with water or milk
nor soothed by their
cooling properties,
this new burn the product
of the empty bottles,
and the exchange seemed
to pacify, if only for a time,
until now, as
he stood
stock still and peered over
the edge at the ant path below,
only then did the throbbing
and pounding cease,
for a moment,
as he gulped his final breath
and flew.
For R
Rushing to the bathroom, clutching my towel
Fitfully commanding & embracing now
My chance, my shot
A half hour between sisters is all I’ve got
Bolting the door
Sliding the vanity chair across the floor
So ready to give chase
Untold agony, epiphany, ecstasy at the end of this race
Do you think, did you hear
I am sure he does, I bet he has
Ew, man how could that be
That will never be me
Now safely hidden
I will my flesh to rise as bidden
Quick, fast, slow
On, and, on, an On I go
Red palms, pursed lips
Rushing, grasping finger tips
Stark cold, sterile whiteness
The mirror my silent knowing witness
Do you think, did you hear
I am sure he does, I bet he has
Ew, man how could that be
That will never be me
Heart beat up in my throat
Ragging current, rocking my boat
Fighting, seeking, reach that goal
They said it would steel my soul
Gasping in surprise & relief
Time steals moments, like a thief
Shaken, looking at my unfamiliar reflection
Oh my, broken but claiming the insurrection
Do you think, have they heard?
I am sure HE does, I know he has
Oh man how could it be
Today that HE became me…
This poem was written for my daughter, in response to a writing prompt at a workshop I attended. I turned in another poem at the workshop, but this one is not less special...
******
Beneath the waning twilight, returns
a soft music, a soothing lullaby,
sung by crickets and other night creatures,
filling the pastel pink princess room,
complete with fairy wings, gliding butterflies
and jeweled tiaras, gems in the
crown of the rich lacy canopy,
which sheltered the sleeping cherub
and her most treasured friend,
a bear with a worn nose
and bruised ears,
whose fierce plushness
chased the bogey man
from the room
Night, after night, after night.
I am not dead, although that might make me more famous, or infamous!
No I have been busy, having spent a week at a writers workshop and on vacation with the family. I have also been taking a blog vacation, considering my options and where I want to take my poetry and writing.
The freelance side of things has been a challenge of late also and I think I have resolved some issues in my mind there also.
So look for some new material to appear soon and rest assured, I am still alive and kicking.
Another wonderful issue of the Naked Sunfish is out. Go check it out. I wrote about my issues with food, after a recent bout of feeling poorly.
Little bits of broken glass
glitter like diamonds upon the path
sparkling in a moonlight bath
Across the clearing - a figure comes into view
Hidden in shadows - and an eerie blue hue
Saluting the night birds and the moon on cue
Removing her cloak, bending low
She scoops up a handful, clutching the glittering bits like snow
Allowing the crimson tears to flow
Tight in her grasp, crystal rubies gleam
Crystalline rivers down her cheeks stream
Diamonds in the moonlight, rubies in hands, such is the scene
Speckles of crimson, dot her once snowy dress
Wide eyed she is obvious to the mess
The wind in her hair, a welcome lovers caress
To the clearing, drawn by her anguished cry
appears a mysterious creature, with a soulful eye
As if drawn by the moon, so willing to comply
Running towards the center of the clearing
The creature nearing
In the moonlight the surface a mirror appearing
First her cloak and now her dress removed
Hands drag a red river down her arms, soothed
The wolf, this creature, his cleaver eyes confused
Mirror of the moon smooth & calm
Its waters an icy balm
Ripples with the touch of stained palms
Then in the blink of an eye
Water reaches her creamy thigh
Her cries now an inaudible sigh
Deeper, Deeper she propels forward
The water drinks its reward
Grace, she sinks as a thrusting sword
The center of the mirrored surface
Ripples stilled, the restoration's slow purpose
Waters deep and calm become her peace purchased
thank you Anju. read more
on Poem #28 - Come Back to Me