The music of how we feel as the sun falls.
Aka celestial spectacles
Words flow freely from my pen
Without discipline or purpose
After getting prompted from the muse I find
Structure and logic falling into the words on the page
Much like the music I feel as I witness the sun fall at the end of day
The reds, yellows, and mauve shades
Listen to the global sigh
In anticipation of the approaching blanket of night
With my mind trained on the memory of this spectacle of light and color
I abandon myself to the darkness of the night
Knowing, as I have learned to know
That tomorrow the light will return
Faith is like that...
Knowing that the light will return
And my artistic spirit will wait further
For the return of the falling sun
With new celestial spectacles
Ever changing
Yet always faithful to return
Return new
Always new
Can we be prescribed
Such spectacles from our optometrist?
Thankfully no
This is a gift for the living
Given freely by the Great Creator
Faithfully orchestrated on a daily basis
For all that care to witness it's splendor
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Fathers and Sons, Rodney Warren
Fathers and Sons
The word cahoots comes to mind regarding this relationship.
These two strong male figures stand side by side with with secret memories of fishing and hunting campaigns.
Fears and excitements held in a common experience.
Each remembering the details of their own sights and smells from times together.
And even though there may be conflict in the retelling of the tales
Thay are in cahoots
Thay have their secret understandings, and allowances, for embellishment.
For this is the soil of their relationship.
They can allow the tales to grow in this fertile trust.
And know that their vision of the past will not be questioned
No conflict will rise from their inaccuracies
Only joy and laughter will come from their conversation
Because they are in cahoots
With a language all their own.
The word cahoots comes to mind regarding this relationship.
These two strong male figures stand side by side with with secret memories of fishing and hunting campaigns.
Fears and excitements held in a common experience.
Each remembering the details of their own sights and smells from times together.
And even though there may be conflict in the retelling of the tales
Thay are in cahoots
Thay have their secret understandings, and allowances, for embellishment.
For this is the soil of their relationship.
They can allow the tales to grow in this fertile trust.
And know that their vision of the past will not be questioned
No conflict will rise from their inaccuracies
Only joy and laughter will come from their conversation
Because they are in cahoots
With a language all their own.
Secrets as Images, Rodney Warren
Secrets as images....
Life is filled with secrets
Moments tucked away from the sight and earshot of others
Often I find these memories and events
Colored in shades of deep brown and sap green
Varnished with a yellowed and aging film
Not allowing the full image to be revealed
Due to the reflection of light upon the surface of their support
This is often an important aspect of the secret
The fact that it is not clearly discernable by the casual observer
One needs to examine and live with a secret to truly know all of the hidden bits discussed behind the glare of external light
And then that same light
Obscuring the image over time allows the holders of the secret to forget, forgive, and remember differently the events that made up the images
Put to the support of time
Life is filled with secrets
Moments tucked away from the sight and earshot of others
Often I find these memories and events
Colored in shades of deep brown and sap green
Varnished with a yellowed and aging film
Not allowing the full image to be revealed
Due to the reflection of light upon the surface of their support
This is often an important aspect of the secret
The fact that it is not clearly discernable by the casual observer
One needs to examine and live with a secret to truly know all of the hidden bits discussed behind the glare of external light
And then that same light
Obscuring the image over time allows the holders of the secret to forget, forgive, and remember differently the events that made up the images
Put to the support of time
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Go Home, by Tru Dillon, 4/13/11
You can never go home
I tried and Failed and was Flayed and Faltered
Forgot myself, My name, Who I had become
Daddy you mean old Bastard Can you never change
Who used to untie your shoes (those giant black work boots)
When you came home from work, dirt caked and crusty
Who did you beat with your belt
and try to beat some more with your words
though she is now a grandmother twice over
See, verbal abuse still counts in California
still hurts in California
You can never go home
I tried and died and was buried
in my postage stamp backyard
No one came to visit My grave sat empty of flowers
My sisters forgot to grieve
or they had to go shopping for the boys
or pick up cheap beer for some other dead people.
One was busy One was drunk
We are not close now Not even in death
can we cross the bridge of understanding to The Land of Love
You can never go Home
And if you do
You will meet your ghost (weeping and wailing)
On every street corner
and every overpass
at every high school parking lot
and forgotten rose garden
and the one you used to love
and the ones you will never love
You will see the Failure of Family
as you will not be able to escape to Arizona or Colorado or New Mexico
You have sealed you fate
So when The Tsunami Strikes
you will all float together yet separately
to some island off the coast of Alaska
Frozen in fate Separate not equal
Lost to each other Forever
I tried and Failed and was Flayed and Faltered
Forgot myself, My name, Who I had become
Daddy you mean old Bastard Can you never change
Who used to untie your shoes (those giant black work boots)
When you came home from work, dirt caked and crusty
Who did you beat with your belt
and try to beat some more with your words
though she is now a grandmother twice over
See, verbal abuse still counts in California
still hurts in California
You can never go home
I tried and died and was buried
in my postage stamp backyard
No one came to visit My grave sat empty of flowers
My sisters forgot to grieve
or they had to go shopping for the boys
or pick up cheap beer for some other dead people.
One was busy One was drunk
We are not close now Not even in death
can we cross the bridge of understanding to The Land of Love
You can never go Home
And if you do
You will meet your ghost (weeping and wailing)
On every street corner
and every overpass
at every high school parking lot
and forgotten rose garden
and the one you used to love
and the ones you will never love
You will see the Failure of Family
as you will not be able to escape to Arizona or Colorado or New Mexico
You have sealed you fate
So when The Tsunami Strikes
you will all float together yet separately
to some island off the coast of Alaska
Frozen in fate Separate not equal
Lost to each other Forever
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Emily Bording's Chance Rendezvous poem
Chance Rendezvous
With fresh eyes I begin to see
ink slides like warm sap down a maple’s trunk
I use my pen to draw you closer to me
Feathered quill in hand
soft breezes tremble it’s delicate tuft
weaving in and out like thoughts between brows
Watching the first to rise
second stomps right on top
both wrestle to page
Pushing and shoving not one sits idle
flexing and posing
each competing for style
facts refashioned with subtle catches
threadbare memories
mended with pretty patches
lacking in vogue and devoid of all swagger
they waddle along the catwalk
wearing a secondhand wardrobe
Let them hang on the line to dry
so the wind can blow them
a sweet kiss goodbye
No longer amused
white bellied page rolls over
waiting to be scratched
No longer swayed
by double entendres whipping out of control
then falling intoxicated off their fancy runway
Come closer into the lights
my fingers rub the tine warm
wishing a maverick spark ignites
Suddenly a rogue wave crashes
swirls of ink pour out like magma
truth anchored - between dots and dashes
Poised like a mighty leviathan
whose round button eyes
eclipse the genius within
One eye flashes as mermaids go swooshing by
across the universe - the other’s marvels
as stars brush the sky
A salty spray sticks to my pen’s metal nib
I stuff it back into it’s porcupine crib
then pull the shades of my lash covered lid
Awareness settles down into a quiet dream
where silence silhouettes each sound
by chance you pull me into this moment supreme
no bias, no seams, no memories spin
Awake or asleep
you meet me, like silk on moist skin
The hollow basin of my mind
welcomes all of you, as infinitely new
like a dewdrop cradled by a petal - as it holds the sky.
With fresh eyes I begin to see
ink slides like warm sap down a maple’s trunk
I use my pen to draw you closer to me
Feathered quill in hand
soft breezes tremble it’s delicate tuft
weaving in and out like thoughts between brows
Watching the first to rise
second stomps right on top
both wrestle to page
Pushing and shoving not one sits idle
flexing and posing
each competing for style
facts refashioned with subtle catches
threadbare memories
mended with pretty patches
lacking in vogue and devoid of all swagger
they waddle along the catwalk
wearing a secondhand wardrobe
Let them hang on the line to dry
so the wind can blow them
a sweet kiss goodbye
No longer amused
white bellied page rolls over
waiting to be scratched
No longer swayed
by double entendres whipping out of control
then falling intoxicated off their fancy runway
Come closer into the lights
my fingers rub the tine warm
wishing a maverick spark ignites
Suddenly a rogue wave crashes
swirls of ink pour out like magma
truth anchored - between dots and dashes
Poised like a mighty leviathan
whose round button eyes
eclipse the genius within
One eye flashes as mermaids go swooshing by
across the universe - the other’s marvels
as stars brush the sky
A salty spray sticks to my pen’s metal nib
I stuff it back into it’s porcupine crib
then pull the shades of my lash covered lid
Awareness settles down into a quiet dream
where silence silhouettes each sound
by chance you pull me into this moment supreme
no bias, no seams, no memories spin
Awake or asleep
you meet me, like silk on moist skin
The hollow basin of my mind
welcomes all of you, as infinitely new
like a dewdrop cradled by a petal - as it holds the sky.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Love Poem with help from W.S. Merwin
Comet of stillness princess of what is over
Come into my orbit, thrill me with your substance
Titillate my senses
Without motion, without announcing
A free fall of thoughts, words
Because I can't live without your touch.
--Group poem from Community Poetry Circle at the Santa Cruz Public Library, March 19, Jerilyn, Suzie, Juanita, Whitney and Magdalena
Come into my orbit, thrill me with your substance
Titillate my senses
Without motion, without announcing
A free fall of thoughts, words
Because I can't live without your touch.
--Group poem from Community Poetry Circle at the Santa Cruz Public Library, March 19, Jerilyn, Suzie, Juanita, Whitney and Magdalena
Kay Clark: "A poem about home" on 3-12-11
I couldn’t wait to leave my home
In Kansas, where tornadoes and other
Strong winds sweep the vast
Empty plains even emptier.
The whole country of Germany is the same
Square-mile wise as Kansas is
Except instead of space they have moss
Covered bridges around every country curve.
Some Kansans I know would object
That miles full of nothing but flat
Rolling dirt provides residents with little
Save the strong urge to escape and search the
World for safer and pleasanter abodes.
This Midwest refugee roamed around for
Twenty years seeking water, grass, trees,
Hills if not Mountains, and a happier place where
People grant wider worlds for living.
In Kansas, where tornadoes and other
Strong winds sweep the vast
Empty plains even emptier.
The whole country of Germany is the same
Square-mile wise as Kansas is
Except instead of space they have moss
Covered bridges around every country curve.
Some Kansans I know would object
That miles full of nothing but flat
Rolling dirt provides residents with little
Save the strong urge to escape and search the
World for safer and pleasanter abodes.
This Midwest refugee roamed around for
Twenty years seeking water, grass, trees,
Hills if not Mountains, and a happier place where
People grant wider worlds for living.
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