Saturday, August 19, 2017

all that by Charles Bukowski

all that

the only things I remember about
New York City
in the summer
are the fire escapes
and how the people go
out on the fire escapes
in the evening
when the sun is setting
on the other side
of the buildings
and some stretch out
and sleep there
while others sit quietly
where it’s cool.
and on many
of the window sills
sit pots of geraniums or
planters filled with red
and the half-dressed people
rest there
on the fire escapes
and there are
red geraniums
this is really
something to see rather
than to talk about.
it’s like a great colorful
and surprising painting
not hanging anywhere
“all that” by Charles Bukowski from Open All Night

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Broken-hearted Haiku

All my plants have died
except for the Bleeding Heart---
Mocking me, it thrives.


Saturday, July 22, 2017

Life Slips By...

And The Days Are Not Full Enough by Ezra Pound

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

Not shaking the grass

Embracing Death

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
hopeful-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:
when Mr. Death comes,

run straight-on to Him---
like a long lost lover.


Monday, July 10, 2017


I am broken
beyond repair,
my heart pummeled beneath
cruel fists.
Life is black & bleak.
Nothingness looks attainable.
Emptiness is beckoning to me
like a lost lover found...
---the desolate, sweet call of the
Mourning Dove.
How to be alone?
Where to find strength?

July 2017

Monday, June 26, 2017

The Scaffolding Inside You

The Scaffolding Inside You
By Olena Kalytiak Davis

Your thoughts have hung themselves from nails
like workshirts.

The sky has stopped
offering you reasons to live and your heart is the rock
you threw through each window
of what's deserted you, so you turn
to the burnt out building inside you: the scaffolding
overhead, the fallen beams,
the unsound framework;

according to the blue that's printed on the inside of your arms
you have no plans, no plans
uncovered, or uncovering: the offing is emptying,

the horizon empty

now that your sanity is
a tarp or a bedsheet
in the rough hands of the wind,

now that everything is hooded
in drop cloth.

It didn't happen
overnight. Or maybe it did:

your heart, the rock;
your soul, the Gothic barn.

You've even started envying the flowers their stems.

Will the Norther let up?

Will the moon ever again be so full of itself
that that ragged barn will fill with light, through its tin-covered roof?

You should bury more than the dead.
You should try harder.

You should give up.

From:  "And Her Soul Out of Nothing"


Never think tomorrow will ever remotely resemble today...


Thursday, May 4, 2017

His Wife by Andrew Hudgins

His Wife
by Andrew Hudgins

My wife is not afraid of dirt.
She spends each morning gardening,
stooped over, watering, pulling weeds,

removing insects from her plants
and pinching them until they burst.
She won't grow marigolds or hollyhocks,
just onions, eggplants, peppers, peas –
things we can eat. And while she sweats
I'm working on my poetry and flute.
Then growing tired of all that art,
I've strolled out to the garden plot
and seen her pull a tomato from the vine
and bite into the unwashed fruit
like a soft, hot apple in her hand.
The juice streams down her dirty chin
and tiny seeds stick to her lips.
Her eye is clear, her body full of light,
and when, at night, I hold her close,
she smells of mint and lemon balm.

From:  American Rendering: New and Selected Poems

Monday, May 1, 2017

Like That by Kim Addonizio

We all want to be lit on fire & burned to that... xo

By Kim Addonizio

Love me like a wrong turn on a bad road late at night, 
with no moon and no town anywhere
and a large hungry animal moving heavily through the brush in the ditch.
Love me with a blindfold over your eyes and the sound of rusty water
blurting from the faucet in the kitchen, 
leaking down through the floorboards to hot cement. 
Do it without asking,
without wondering or thinking anything, while the machinery’s
shut down and the watchman’s slumped asleep before his small TV
showing the empty garage, the deserted hallways, 
while the thieves slice through the fence with steel clippers. 
Love me when you can’t find a decent restaurant open anywhere, 
when you’re alone in a glaring diner
with two nuns arguing in the back booth, when your eggs are greasy
and your hash browns underdone. 
Snick the buttons off the front of my dress
and toss them one by one into the pond where carp lurk just
beneath the surface,
their cold fins waving. 
Love me on the hood of a truck no one’s driven
in years, sunk to its fenders in weeds and dead sunflowers;
and in the lilies, your mouth on my white throat, 
while turtles drag their bellies through slick mud, 
through the footprints of coots and ducks.
Do it when no one’s looking, when the riots begin and the planes open up,
when the bus leaps the curb and the driver hits the brakes and the pedal sinks to the floor,
while someone hurls a plate against the wall and picks up another...

Love me like a freezing shot of vodka, like pure agave, love me
when you’re lonely, when we’re both too tired to speak, 
when you don’t believe in anything...
Listen, there isn’t anything, it doesn’t matter; lie down
with me and close your eyes, the road curves here, 
I’m cranking up the radio
and we’re going, 
we won’t turn back as long as you love me,
as long as you keep on doing it 

exactly like that.

Thursday, March 30, 2017

My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer by Mark Strand

My Mother on an Evening in Late Summer


When the moon appears
and a few wind-stricken barns stand out
in the low-domed hills
and shine with a light
that is veiled and dust-filled
and that floats upon the fields,
my mother, with her hair in a bun,
her face in shadow, and the smoke
from her cigarette coiling close
to the faint yellow sheen of her dress,
stands near the house
and watches the seepage of late light
down through the sedges,
the last gray islands of cloud
taken from view, and the wind
ruffling the moon’s ash-colored coat
on the black bay.


Soon the house, with its shades drawn closed, will send
small carpets of lampglow
into the haze and the bay
will begin its loud heaving
and the pines, frayed finials
climbing the hill, will seem to graze
the dim cinders of heaven.
And my mother will stare into the starlanes,
the endless tunnels of nothing,
and as she gazes,
under the hour’s spell,
she will think how we yield each night
to the soundless storms of decay
that tear at the folding flesh,
and she will not know
why she is here
or what she is prisoner of
if not the conditions of love that brought her to this.


My mother will go indoors
and the fields, the bare stones
will drift in peace, small creatures --
the mouse and the swift -- will sleep
at opposite ends of the house.
Only the cricket will be up,
repeating its one shrill note
to the rotten boards of the porch,
to the rusted screens, to the air, to the rimless dark,
to the sea that keeps to itself.
Why should my mother awake?
The earth is not yet a garden
about to be turned. The stars
are not yet bells that ring
at night for the lost.
It is much too late.
From Mark Strand: Selected Poems, by Mark Strand, published by Atheneum. Copyright © 1979 by Mark Strand. Used with permission.

Saturday, March 25, 2017

The Snowfall is So Silent by Miguel De Unamuno

The Snowfall Is So Silent

The snowfall is so silent,
so slow,
bit by bit, with delicacy
it settles down on the earth
and covers over the fields.
The silent snow comes down
white and weightless; 
snowfall makes no noise,
falls as forgetting falls, 
flake after flake.
It covers the fields gently
while frost attacks them
with its sudden flashes of white;
covers everything with its pure
and silent covering;
not one thing on the ground
anywhere escapes it.
And wherever it falls it stays,
content and gay,
for snow does not slip off 
as rain does,
but it stays and sinks in.
The flakes are skyflowers,
pale lilies from the clouds,
that wither on earth.
They come down blossoming
but then so quickly
they are gone;
they bloom only on the peak,
above the mountains,
and make the earth feel heavier
when they die inside.
Snow, delicate snow,
that falls with such lightness 
on the head,
on the feelings,
come and cover over the sadness
that lies always in my reason.
From Roots and Wings: Poetry from Spain 1900-1975, translated by Robert Bly