Tuesday, July 28, 2015

A Few Words For The Visitor In The Parlor by Olena K. Davis

A Few Words For the Visitor in the Parlor
By Olena Kalytiak Davis

Every time you wish the sky was something happening to your heart, you lose twice.

Mother kept sending me back to the kiosk. Where they wrapped the paper in fish. Pivovarov and the other artists, they were worried. The blood was Ukrainian and it was all over the place. Go and wash your face. No, no one said anything about auto-workers. I am simply saying to you what my mother said. I am simply saying what Pivovarov painted: Go and wash your face. People are coming soon. It is not good for them to see you looking like this.

I slept the afternoon, but you know what Breton says: I was not in the mood for visitors. Picture yourself inside that word. And yes, my house is a word, but my words, aren’t they words also? Today, the sky just wouldn’t happen. Today, I was blind sided. Neither pain, nor its powdered absence. Like most days, I became the kitchen sill. I’m simply saying what I always say: what is lace-winged cannot be strong.

My wedding dress hangs at the end of things. It’s the kind of thing you think while sitting on someone else’s couch. There is something elegant implied by length. Or: So this is a living room, what was I thinking. Grass stains where the peach-colored silk drank in the ground. But when I get home the urge to clean immediately leaves me. Alone, I can only think of visiting those plain and exotic places. Oh, my cloud covered heart.

She was a branch covered in hoarfrost. I must forgive myself. Something clings to the whore’s hem. Dear visitor: you divide your age in two then square it by a dying mother. I am always gathering her up in my arms. Believe me, you never forget someone that thin. You start remembering the way that summer lay differently on top of that year. The hood burns you. I tried driving as gently as I could, but you know, the road had last winter inside it, the winter before. That drive was painful, just look at her face. You remember because someone starts talking about time. Someone says time, time is like water. Someone says: There was once a living room made entirely of death.

Today, the sky was white. And the ground was white, too. Yet, I could tell them apart. They were that easy to distinguish.

From: "And Her Soul Out of Nothing" by Olena Kalytiak Davis

Monday, July 27, 2015

Embracing Death, A Mam Poem By Marion

By Marion

Cicadas were a singin' in the wild, dry
Summer heat the day Mam
told me the facts o'life.

Baby, she rasped as she blew
out smoke from her Pall Mall
filterless ciggie, Baby, when
Mr. Death comes a struttin' His
shit down that empty,
baked dirt road fer me,
I'm a'gonna
run like a ole bitch dog in heat
right into His open arms.
Me & Mr. Death'll be like the
Willow tree yonder in a 
hurricane, the way she's
one with the wind with
every cell in every
leaf & branch.

Young'uns caint wrap their
heads 'round it, greetin' Death
eager-like. Not all can do it.
Yer poor auntie, she fought him
like a Tiger
an He give her up to her own fool self.
Fer three long, bone-weary years she
lay a'bed & rotted away,
real slow-like.
You don't want that...

Listen to yer Mam
and recall this when it's yer time & mine:
when Mr. Death comes,
run straight-on to Him---

like a long lost lover.


Thursday, July 23, 2015

The Garden By Moonlight By Amy Lowell

        Moonflower at Sunset, July 2015

       Sky-Wonder During A Magical Sunshower

        Rain-wet Zinnias After Sun-Shower

          Passionflowers After Watering



By Amy Lowell

A black cat among roses, 
Phlox, lilac-misted under a first-quarter moon, 
The sweet smells of heliotrope and night-scented stock. 
The garden is very still,   
It is dazed with moonlight, 
Contented with perfume, 
Dreaming the opium dreams of its folded poppies. 
Firefly lights open and vanish   
High as the tip buds of the golden glow 
Low as the sweet alyssum flowers at my feet. 
Moon-shimmer on leaves and trellises, 
Moon-spikes shafting through the snow ball bush.   
Only the little faces of the ladies’ delight are alert and staring, 
Only the cat, padding between the roses, 
Shakes a branch and breaks the chequered pattern 
As water is broken by the falling of a leaf. 
Then you come, 
And you are quiet like the garden, 
And white like the alyssum flowers,   
And beautiful as the silent sparks of the fireflies. 
Ah, Beloved, do you see those orange lilies? 
They knew my mother, 
But who belonging to me will they know 
When I am gone.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

Hurricane Child, A Mam Poem By Marion

                                         Hurricane Audrey

By Marion

I were born a hurricane child
strong 'n furious, dark 'n wild.
Come here ass first, bloody & gleamin'
not cryin' but laughin'; Mam were screamin'.

Windows imploded, spewin' glass,
wind was howlin', (it wouldn't last).
Rain was peltin' like fallin' knives
cuttin' out ditches & stealin' lives.

My face were masked with a glistenin' caul,
Mam's was faded a peculiar pall
She be a special one, the midwife said---
Shut yore hole, cried Mam from the bed,

Ain't no gift, it's a burdensome curse
a'knowin' most things & havin' no thirst
fer mystery. Havin' the sight can be a fright
and thieve the best years from yore life!

And a'top all this the moon she's full
so my babe here daily will feel her pull.
She'll be called crazy, lunatic, insane
oftener than folks say her given name.

Hurricane Audrey, she blowed outside
a whippin' & a shriekin'---were we safe inside?
The floor were sparklin' with glass & rain
& I were birthed in the Hurricane's pain...

Friday, July 17, 2015

Never, ever, ever grow up!

Never, ever, ever grow up. I collect & still play with dolls. 

This is a Pullip Steampunk doll. She's quite Alice in Wonderlandish.

Little sister Pullip doll. I love that purse. :-)

Both girls together. They were a birthday gift from my hubby yesterday. 

Sunday, July 5, 2015


"If a woman wants to be a poet,
she must dwell in the house of the Tomato." ~ Erica Jong

Saturday, July 4, 2015

Ocean By Olav H. Hauge

by Olav H. Hauge

This is the ocean.
Vast and gray,
gravity itself.
Yet just as the mind
in solitary moments
suddenly opens
its shifting reflections
to secret depths---
so the ocean
one blue morning
can open itself
to sky and solitude.
See, the ocean gleams,
I, too, have stars
and blue depths.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Don't Come to Me With the Entire Truth
by Olav H. Hauge

Don't come to me with the entire truth.
Don't bring the ocean if I feel thirsty,
nor heaven if I ask for light;
but bring a hint, some dew, a particle,
as birds carry drops away from a lake,
and the wind a grain of salt.

From: "The Dream We Carry" Selected and Last Poems of Olav H. Hauge
Translated by Robert Bly and Robert Hedin

Friday, June 26, 2015

My Sky Thoughts

Every day we walk through miles of sky
with our heads to the ground
not knowing or caring
that sky touches (us) earth
as tenderly as
clouds caress the

The darkness is as real as night
and as painful as a bleeding wound
and lingers long after
the passing of the storm's
copious tears.

That bit of blue
against the green trees
and the gray clouds
restores lightness
and hope

Friday, June 19, 2015

Swamp Rising, Etc.

Normally, a neighbor's yard down the block, now a fast-rising swamp, gators included!

I found a Toad hiding in my baby Hibiscus plants. See her?

My Tomatoes are thriving, even the ones in small pots.

Moonflowers slowly climbing my rusty wrought iron posts & Jasmine blooming!


Saturday, June 13, 2015

The Clock By Marion

The Clock
By Marion

...is very important when in chronic pain
because, of course,
the clock, the clock, the fucking CLOCK
is Master, Ruler, Tyrant, God.

God tells me, whispers (tic-toc) into my aching 
bones, marrow, muscles & tissue
that it's time to swallow
poison to ease the torment for a few (very few)
blissful hours. Tic-toc, unlock those neurons
that bind to the ravenous receptors
in my brain that carry
this vicious/exquisite venom
to my constantly tired, 
cotton-wrapped/warped brain.

Tic-toc SCREAMS the clock, the clock
which no amount of sound will block---
an hour's gone (one, NOT two) but it's too soon
(too late) &
the pain refrain is endlessly
ringing, tolling in my ears: 
more, more, (no more!), MORE, M-O-R-E...

Never enough, time's too short, too long.
Too much pain, too many/few pills
never enough relief---
thief, stealing my life
killing me slowly & for what?
One hour of relief, seldom two,
four times a day.
Forget sleep or counting sheep
they're bleeding, bleating & hurting

Death will be the
only escape
from this throbbing, robbing hell.
Only death can
stop the damned
screeching tyranny of the ticking,
sickening clock.

Tic-toc it mocks, it mocks, it mocks