Monday, November 10, 2014

Flash Fiction 55 — impressions

The Waning Honeymoon, 1878 (oil on canvas) by George Henry Boughton

        Old Woman by Suzanne Marie LeClair

When she was a child, Jacqueline’s aunt Lily made two pronouncements that left lifelong impressions.
“Paul is crazy."
"Sex is incidental." 

Auntie truisms warped and wrapped together, even decades after Lily and Paul passed. Paul died first, screaming mad he was at the end, leaving Lily to years of no longing with shortbread and tea.

My post written in exactly 55 words for Flash Fiction 55, now hosted by the lovelies over at imaginary garden with read toads. In searching for images to accompany this prose I could not decide which of the two above most suited the fiction. The mood seems to change with each, yet each touches the I kept them both!

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Sobriety: 29 years

Ich komme aus meinen Schwingen heim -by Rainier Maria Rilke

I come home from the soaring in which I lost myself.
I was song, and the refrain which is God
is still roaring in my ears.

Now I am still
and plain:
no more words.

To the others I was like a wind:
I made them shake.
I’d gone very far, as far as the angels,
and high, where light thins into nothing.

But deep in the darkness is God.

                                            -from Rilke's Book of Hours – Love Poems to God

As I have since this blog's inception, on the day of my sobriety anniversary I publish this treasured Rilke poem, but with a new image each year.

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 to return 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.


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.


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-


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

watching the-Rocky-and-Bullwinkle-Show,


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).


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.

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,
he returns
will be
ravin' mad. PTSD-frightful,
this once-
delightful man.
Like a raven
with feathers
oiled, spoiled
forever for
Wandering in the
fucking muck.
cover. The sky's
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.



Related Posts with Thumbnails