Wednesday, May 4, 2016

Of a May Morning Found

sits in the light of nine o'clock morning
listening to pearl jam in her mind
blue jay calls outside the window
open to the southwest wind
no one knows of the truth that binds her
no one knows her quiet fears
just him

moves through her day with intent abiding
moves to the shadow of the sun
bends to the smells of the glisten & mallow
leans upon no one
no one hears the song that keeps her dancing
nudges the borders of her dreams
just him

paused & perched like a bird on a silver limb
tentative feathers brush her mind
rising from embers dedication lost
found open to vast-sky sunshine
no one reaches to the marrow
no one scraps the hollow
just him




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Tuesday, May 3, 2016

lost becomes found




divinity exposed in chameleon waking
as tannins pool from the crack of this tangerine morning 
somewhere in 1972, self was tucked behind a ethan allen sofa 
lost to dust motes & decay 
remembered not at all
until 
bounce 
of 
light 
widens the crack 
days & nights ....brushed to being 
removed & remarked upon 
as
dust is polished to a shine replete with diamonds
matter transformed settles and becomes her heart
becomes 
her.
no mask, no chameleon shifting 
bowling green to evergreen to sapphire blue 
her
throw the chameleon to the fire 
and 
hold-fast to this tenuous thread of now 
hello cherry-amaranth heart, hello. 











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Monday, May 2, 2016

copeland cowslip

winds out of the west at 14mph
on the second day in May
2 degrees shy of 60
with both hands firmly upon the dark maple's branches
tenderly throw the porcelain cup
- copeland cowslip -
from no greater height than 18 feet
aiming for the grass
just there ,,,
where the sun shines the softest
given these factors
and
with the
the moon waning crescent
the cup will not shatter

though a small crack
will appear

when it rains


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May Day

the upheaval surprises
did not see the knot of this tangle
threaded of nettle & pine
able to hold the two strands apart
sand-bar in a stream
two strands not touching
contentment
and
the slightest cut of grief
as if we buried something precious & young
in a sand-bar .... in a stream
this upheaval
this tale
how weathered & unrequited
this is what it is like
this side
of the knot 
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bending













shadows linger
along
the
baseboards of this sequined desert
whispering of turquoise disillusionment
brandishing the cut-glass bottle of regret & doubt
as
circle skirts twirl unheeded against this purple dusk-sky
dust disturbed in determined driven movement
unable to ignore the call
unable to remain unbent
bend
kick it up & dig that boot deep to earth
kick it up & dance away from surrender's bitter-root
nod to the shadow & grab it's gnarled ancient hand
take it to your chest to beat alongside .....
is there another word for heart?
red, bloody pumping thing
muscle of soul & life
beating madly present on this purple-sky day ...
bring in the charcoal shadow & outline the tap tap tap . . .
bend--accept
bend--accept
as fire crackles & leaps calling shadows to light
circle
burning
bending

until
it is only about
the
dancing in the dust
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Sunday, May 1, 2016

poetry and then some ....

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH SPOTLIGHT from DiANNE ... Poets I Know ....

Heartfelt Thank you to DiAnne
poetry and then some ..... 


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Saturday, April 30, 2016

Day Thirty: Le vase brisé

The broken vase 

The vase where these verbena die 
from the softest blow to crack 
the stroke but a whisper of a brush 
no sound no revealing 
but a slight wound crept 
small crystal death of this day 
a slow marching line 
made always heavy this path
how her cream drips out 
of ancient flowers drained 
if you should doubt 
do not touch, it is broken 
often how the hand of my love
would softly caress my heart, that wound 
then that heart is split to all 
the flower of my love's departing 
always my eyes will see the world 
how it grows and weeps with sorrow 
this wound so precise and deep 
do not touch, it is broken 


Le vase brisé   by   
Sully Prudhomme

Le vase où meurt cette vervaine
D'un coup d'éventail fut fêlé ;
Le coup dut effleurer à peine,
Aucun bruit ne l'a révélé.

Mais la plus légère meurtrissure,
Mordant le cristal chaque jour,
D'une marche invisible et sûre
En a fait lentement le tour.

Son eau fraîche a fui goutte à goutte,
Le suc des fleurs s'est épuisé ;
Personne encore ne s'en doute,
N'y touchez pas, il est brisé.

Souvent aussi la main qu'on aime,
Effleurant le coeur, le meurtrit ;
Puis le coeur se fend de lui-même,
La fleur de son amour périt ;


Toujours intact aux yeux du monde,
Il sent croître et pleurer tout bas
Sa blessure fine et profonde ;
Il est brisé, n'y touchez pas.


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