Tuesday, February 27, 2018

Goodbye, February

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Monday, February 26, 2018

I Felt a Funeral in my Brain


How I miss my precious, beloved kitty--- :-(



I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, (340)

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading - treading - till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum -
Kept beating - beating - till I thought
My mind was going numb -

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space - began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here -

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down -
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing - then -

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

You Can't Take the Sky From Me

Candy Rose & the Cheshire Cat.

~•~•~•~•~


"She was wearing an old summer dress as a nightgown, but in the mornings it could work as a dress again, if you just tossed a cardigan over it and put on shoes.  In this risky manner, she knew, insanity could encroach."  ~Lorrie Moore, from "Wings" in the Paris Review #200, page 137.

~×~×~×~

"Time rushes towards us with its hospital tray of infinitely varied narcotics, even while it is preparing us for its inevitably fatal operation." ~Tennessee Williams, "The Rose Tattoo"

~∆~∆~∆~

Ballad of Serenity
(Firefly theme song)

Take my love, take my land
Take me where I cannot stand
I don't care, I'm still free
You can't take the sky from me.

Take me out to the black
Tell them I ain't comin' back
Burn the land and boil the sea
You can't take the sky from me.

Leave the men where they lay
They'll never see another day
Lost my soul, lost my dream
You can't take the sky from me.

I feel the black reaching out
I hear its song without a doubt
I still hear and I still see
That you can't take the sky from me.

Lost my love, lost my land
Lost the last place I could stand
There's no place I can be
Since I've found Serenity

And you can't take the sky from me.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

C. D. Wright, Approximately Forever

A notebook I collaged.


"Lead me, guide me to the light of your paper.  Keep me in the arc of your acuity.  And when the ream is spent, write a poem on my back.  I'll never wash it off."  ~C. D. Wright, from "Deepstep Comes Shining".

 ~×~×~×~
Approximately Forever
By C. D. Wright

She was changing on the inside
it was true what had been written

The new syntax of love
both sucked and burned

The secret clung around them
She took in the smell

Walking down a road to nowhere
every sound was relevant

The sun fell behind them now
he seemed strangely moved

She would take her clothes off
for the camera

she said in plain english
but she wasn’t holding that snake
C. D. Wright, “Approximately Forever” from Steal Away: New and Selected Poems.

Sunday, February 11, 2018

Candy Rose

Those eyelashes!

See?

Snoozing.

~*~*~*~



Friday, February 9, 2018

Rumi on Death





Our death is our wedding with eternity.
What is the secret? "God is One."
The sunlight splits when entering the windows of the house.
This multiplicity exists in the cluster of grapes;
It is not in the juice made from the grapes.
For he who is living in the Light of God,
The death of the carnal soul is a blessing.
Regarding him, say neither bad nor good,
For he is gone beyond the good and the bad.
Fix your eyes on God and do not talk about what is invisible,
So that he may place another look in your eyes.
It is in the vision of the physical eyes
That no invisible or secret thing exists.
But when the eye is turned toward the Light of God
What thing could remain hidden under such a Light?
Although all lights emanate from the Divine Light
Don't call all these lights "the Light of God";
It is the eternal light which is the Light of God,
The ephemeral light is an attribute of the body and the flesh.
...Oh God who gives the grace of vision!
The bird of vision is flying towards You with the wings of desire.

Monday, February 5, 2018

A Miracle For Breakfast by Elizabeth Bishop



(I won't lie: this poetry form is way too much like a Math word problem & seriously fucks with my brain.  Elizabeth Bishop was a total genius & this poem proves it.) xo

Imagine the colors in God's crayon box!!!  (My watercolor pencils.)


A Miracle For Breakfast

At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
waiting for coffee and the charitable crumb
that was going to be served from a certain balcony
--like kings of old, or like a miracle.
It was still dark. One foot of the sun
steadied itself on a long ripple in the river.

The first ferry of the day had just crossed the river.
It was so cold we hoped that the coffee
would be very hot, seeing that the sun
was not going to warm us; and that the crumb
would be a loaf each, buttered, by a miracle.
At seven a man stepped out on the balcony.

He stood for a minute alone on the balcony
looking over our heads toward the river.
A servant handed him the makings of a miracle,
consisting of one lone cup of coffee
and one roll, which he proceeded to crumb,
his head, so to speak, in the clouds--along with the sun.

Was the man crazy? What under the sun
was he trying to do, up there on his balcony!
Each man received one rather hard crumb,
which some flicked scornfully into the river,
and, in a cup, one drop of the coffee.
Some of us stood around, waiting for the miracle.

I can tell what I saw next; it was not a miracle.
A beautiful villa stood in the sun
and from its doors came the smell of hot coffee.
In front, a baroque white plaster balcony
added by birds, who nest along the river,
--I saw it with one eye close to the crumb--

and galleries and marble chambers. My crumb
my mansion, made for me by a miracle,
through ages, by insects, birds, and the river
working the stone. Every day, in the sun,
at breakfast time I sit on my balcony
with my feet up, and drink gallons of coffee.

We licked up the crumb and swallowed the coffee.
A window across the river caught the sun
as if the miracle were working, on the wrong balcony. 

Saturday, February 3, 2018

MEN by Jeanann Verlee



MEN

want to fix you
save you
or fuck you

I can't be fixed
and I don't care to be saved.

Jeanann Verlee, from:  "Racing Hummingbirds", p. 58

~×~×~×~×~×~

This is a fabulous book of poetry and this poem made me laugh out loud, a rare feat lately.  xo


Friday, February 2, 2018

The Moonlady


January 31, 2018 full blue super blood moon
tangled amidst the trees...

Same beautiful Moonlady...rising.