Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Mag 236 — Moth at Mindfulness Camp



Buncha meditators, Buddhists, and
free spirits, we walked in the sand,
danced in waves, sang fireside,
worked side by side
in happy labor, sat side by side
in locked silence needing no key
but that of returning to our
breath, to that one moment, the
only breath, the only moment.

Buncha kids there too, the cutest
things, sweet groundling sprites
with dirty faces and spirits so
pure, who warmed in friendship
and made plays for us, whose bows
to us in the great hall made me cry,
they caught the first light of dawn to
find low tide where the caves told
them secrets, maybe only one secret.

The youngest, age five, caught me
walking one day to the lodge, ran
to me, said I could see her moth -
Come, come - her eyes all alight,
she led me to a corner of the deck
then reverently lifted the moth
and put it in my hand, and I said I
hoped it had had a happy life, and
she whispered It never knew winter.


Written for The Mag: Mag 236 that inspired with the above image prompt.
My picture of the child in the poem is below.

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Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Poetics: Reno


A homecoming

Everything, everything I saw while driving
there was enveloped in beauty.
Besotted with three great forests, I
had haiku in my head, celebrations
transferred to scrappy notes at stops along
the way and later simply written on
paper with the steering wheel for support
as I drove. Everything, everything so
sublimely crystal real had full appeal
until, seemingly surreal,
The Biggest Little City came into view.

How now brown cow town,
with your bawdy teats suckling the masses
who build on your dry rolling hills, sucking
the life out of my memories of the place
where my mother breastfed me
in a room near the Truckee River, the
place where my haiku stream ran dry.....

But some love the town I left long
ago and left again, this time feeling
somehow renewed in spite of the disjunction
as, in spite of myself, a part of me
functions there still: a little blessing part that
whispers "please stop growing" - all the while
knowing it won't, and guessing it does not
mind that my mind was fresh with haiku
once I reached the next timber line
where everything was everything.

~~~

Written for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics, where this week Abhra shares beautiful thoughts about frequent moving, and returning home, then asks us to compose a poem about a homecoming: "what it is to stay away and the coming back after a long time – have you been worried that the place you call home has changed all the time you have been away?"

~~~
This scene seems necessary to me. RIP, Robin Williams.


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Monday, August 11, 2014

Mag 232 — describe that art, name that tune


That song has a familiar ring to it,

a don't ever forget I can't-get-

no-satisfaction, put-your-hand-in-the-

hand-of-the-man-who-stilled-the-water,

lucy-in-the-sky-with-diamonds, you're

watching the-Rocky-and-Bullwinkle-Show,

by-the-time-we-got-to-Woodstock-we-

were-half-a-million-strong, eight-miles-

high, ebony-and-ivory kind of feel to it.

My X the rocker used to play it. But,

damn, I just cannot name that tune.



Written for The Mag: Mag 232 that inspired with the above image prompt
(Keith Haring).

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Saturday, August 2, 2014

55 — for Bobbb

Photo of his beloved Bandingo Farm by Robert Butkereit
September 2, 2012

In stillness now,
the beloved farm manifests the
lovely seasons of observation
and reverence that he

       Soft summer is still soft,
       but lonely for the reflections
       written and photographed
       that only he

              The bear snores in the woods,
              blossoms are full and lazy, birds
              ready for migration in autumn,
              and he

will be remembered here.

~~~

My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.

Sorrowfully, this poem is not fiction and is written to honor a friend and fellow blogger who died suddenly this week, alone, on his farm in a remote part of New York.

Known as Citizen of Earth and also as Bobbb, Robert Butkereit authored one of the best blogs out there and I can hardly believe how few followers he had. Robert and I became friends via our blogs, a friendship that extended to Facebook, which is where I learned of his death. Please do yourself a favor and visit his blog, Zenspace to read some, or many, of his deep posts. I have chosen to reprint his post from February 10, 2014. The photo and writing are pure Citizen of Earth.
RIP, dear friend.




In Passing

This long road I never expected to see
Past the vanishing point milestone markers melt slowly
A billion billion drops of rain never counted and the wind
Working overtime to the same conclusion
The silent stars stand witness
They alone hold the key
For the road begins and ends by their good grace
Time and space
And the secrets they share
Be they particle
Or wave


Saturday, July 5, 2014

Flash Fiction 55 — Llama

Aymara the Llama by Migy Blanco


Dark blond and übersoft,
my winter coat
gained a magical air when the
babysitter showed me the label,
pronouncing the word — Llama
telling me about the animal, its
mountain home, its prized wool.

I spent the remainder of the day
coat across my lap, an
encyclopedia opened atop it,
lost in discovery and wonder.


My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads.
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Friday, June 27, 2014

Meeting the Bar — DaDa, Daddy



Dada will not
be home for dinner.
The mess hall is a
mess. Actually
unrecognizable, but
so is Dada.
Your father,
if,
he returns
home,
will be
ravin' mad. PTSD-frightful,
this once-
delightful man.
Like a raven
with feathers
oiled, spoiled
forever for
flight.
Wandering in the
fucking muck.
Duck
and
cover. The sky's
falling
and heaven
with it under
Dada's decaying boots.


Written for MeetingTheBar—DaDa Daddy, at dVerse Poets Pub, hosted this week by Victoria C. Slotto. Her prompt concerned Dadism, with several ideas to let "that perhaps dormant revolutionary that lurks in your subconscious and write a poem that takes you and the reader outside of that well-defined comfort zone." I chose to write ekphrasis using the work of a Dadaist artist, specifically George Grosz's The Wanderer.
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Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Flash Fiction 55 — There in my dreams



In one ray of light a dust particle sparkles in flight.
I ride on it.
In the gondolier's melody my name is sung.
I cling to a building as a speck of
cardinal red paint,
then am a thread freed from an awning
of bright aquamarine
floating in heady air
into this canal of dreams

~~~

My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads
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Thursday, May 29, 2014

What is happening to me


 Photo courtesy of Unsplash

“What is happening to me happens to all fruits that grow ripe.
It is the honey in my veins that makes my blood thicker, and my soul quieter.”
— Friedrich Nietzsche


That which does not make our souls quieter
makes us stronger, honey.
And you, and you, my love, still disquieted,
I know what makes your blood boil. I know
what you see as strange or funny, that your
favorite fruit is the pear (substitute the 'p'
for a 't' and you have tear -same shape-
a familiar fluid we've shared).
You know veins in bodies and in rocks, and
how to rock a baby to sleep. You are deep.

Yet, that which makes me stronger
has ultimately quieted my soul:

accepting that blood is thicker than
water, that water can turn to wine (and
forgetting that could kill me), that
fruits need their chosen place in the sun
and soil to ripen; they need their
own happening place in time and space --
that we may always be thick as thieves,
but fragile and endangered as honey bees.
As for me -oh me- my love, you know I know
where to grow old and where my soul to keep.


Written for Write on Edge (I absolutely love that title!), who supplied the above photo and quote by Nietzsche as this week's writing prompt. I also incorporated another Nietzsche quote into my poem: "That which does not kill us makes us stronger."

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