Wednesday, July 29, 2015

[Buffalo Bill 's] by e. e. cummings

Buffalo Bill ’s
               who used to
               ride a watersmooth-silver
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat

he was a handsome man 
                                                  and what i want to know is
how do you like your blue-eyed boy
Mister Death

I discovered this poem when I was 14 years old in jr. high school & instantly began a life-long love affair with e. e. cummings.

It's brutally hot & dry here in the swamp.  When I water my plants, dragonflies come & drink right out of the hose!! I'm looking forward to the 2nd full moon (Blue Moon) this month in a few days.

Dreaming of Autumn,

                                                         One of my dragonfly friends.

MY PEEPS: I've recently had issues with my comment section due to harassment by 'anonymous', but I think I've got it worked out. If you tried to comment in the past few weeks and couldn't, I sincerely apologize because I love your input. Sorry for the word verification, but it's the only way to stop the spamming/harassment!  xo

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

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...

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