Monday, April 30, 2018

Half Rack at the Rendezvous by William Notter

Color your heart out...then read a mouthwatering poem...

Half-Rack at the Rendezvous
by William Notter

She had a truck, red hair,
and freckled knees and took me all the way
to Memphis after work for barbecue.
We moaned and grunted over plates of ribs
and sweet iced tea, even in a room of strangers,
gnawing the hickory char, the slow
smoked meat peeling off the bones,
and finally the bones. We slurped
grease and dry-rub spice from our fingers,
then finished with blackberry cobbler
that stained her lips and tongue.

All the trees were throwing fireworks
of blossom, the air was thick
with pollen and the brand-new smell of leaves.
We drove back roads in the watermelon dusk,
then tangled around each other, delirious
as honeybees working wisteria.
I could blame it all on cinnamon hair,
or the sap rising, the overflow of spring,
but it was those ribs that started everything. 

"Half-Rack at the Rendezvouz" by William Notter, from 'Holding Everything Down'

Saturday, April 21, 2018

What Colour Are You?

My Artify watercolor pencils.
George Washington Rose

A gift of Tulips, long dead now...
Miranda Lambert Rose today, hot pink & prolific!

My favorite color, pink.

Pink-haired, customized Blythe doll from Greece.


What Colour Are You?
by Marion

Sunrise, sunset, sun and moon,
August, July, May and June.
Lust, desire, coals and fire.
Graveyard dirt and funeral pyres.
Roses exploding, tulips tall,
Verbena trailing down black brick walls.
Candles burning, emitting soft light,
Toenail polish and lipstick bright.

It pulses with desire,
Burns with fire,
Drips with lust
In shades of rust.

Red is the brazen harlot of colours.
All other colours envy her---

~Marion, feeling lonely & blue...

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Let Me Be Your Tattoo by Marion

Project semicolon... Life is precious ---

By Marion

Let me be a tattoo
on your cold, hard heart:
an arrow to pierce the plate of steel
protecting the soft, pliable tissue;
a black rose dripping red blood
onto your colorless psyche
to awaken you;
a skull and crossbones covering your third chakra
as a warning to others: fear me;
a slimy snake, slithering up your throat
to choke back your angry words;
an Indian chief on your left bicep
to cover an ancient wound;
an angel on your right shoulder to
watch over and protect you
from yourself.
Let me be your tattoo and
I’ll let you mark me forever
with the indelible ink
of your delicious,
dangerous love.


I am not what I used to be. ~from "House of Leaves" by Mark Danielewski

Thursday, April 12, 2018

A Birthday Poem by Ted Kooser

Former Rose, ashes now...
A Birthday Poem
This evening, I sat by an open window
and read till the light was gone and the book
was no more than a part of the darkness.
I could easily have switched on a lamp,
but I wanted to ride this day down into night,
to sit alone and smooth the unreadable page
with the pale gray ghost of my hand.
Ted Kooser

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Japan by Billy Collins (A must-read)!

Tobacco Moth at my Moonflower years ago...

by Billy Collins

Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.

It feels like eating
the same small, perfect grape
again and again

I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.

I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.

I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.

And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.

It’s the one about the one-ton
temple bell
with the moth sleeping on the surface***,

and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth
on the surface of the iron bell.

When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.

When I say it into the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.

And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,

and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.

(The red asterisks are mine.  I found the haiku, not online, but in a real book 10 years ago). 
***Haiku by the Japanese poet and painter Buson (1715 - 1783):  

"On the one-ton temple bell
A moon-moth, folded into sleep,
sits still."

(Translated by X. J. Kennedy)

From:  "The Norton Anthology of Poetry", page 1190


Sunday, April 8, 2018

Palindrome by Lisel Mueller

Palindrome - A word, phrase, or sequence that reads the same backward as forward.

By Lisel Mueller

There is less difficulty—indeed, no logical difficulty at all—in
imagining two portions of the universe, say two galaxies, in which 
time goes one way in one galaxy and the opposite way in the 
other. . . . Intelligent beings in each galaxy would regard their own 
time as “forward” and time in the other galaxy as “backward.” 
—Martin Gardner, in 'Scientific American' 

Somewhere now she takes off the dress I am
putting on. It is evening in the antiworld
where she lives. She is forty-five years away
from her death, the hole which spit her out
into pain, impossible at first, later easing,
going, gone. She has unlearned much by now.
Her skin is firming, her memory sharpens,
her hair has grown glossy. She sees without glasses,
she falls in love easily. Her husband has lost his
shuffle, they laugh together. Their money shrinks,
but their ardor increases. Soon her second child
will be young enough to fight its way into her
body and change its life to monkey to frog to
tadpole to cluster of cells to tiny island to
nothing. She is making a list:

Things I will need in the past
transistor radio
Sergeant Pepper
acne cream
five-year diary with a lock

She is eager, having heard about adolescent love
and the freedom of children. She wants to read
Crime and Punishment and ride on a roller coaster
without getting sick. I think of her as she will
be at fifteen, awkward, too serious. In the
mirror I see she uses her left hand to write,
her other to open a jar. By now our lives should
have crossed. Somewhere sometime we must have
passed one another like going and coming trains,
with both of us looking the other way.

From: "Alive Together: New and Selected Poems".


I highly recommend her book!  It's magnificent, a wonder...

Friday, April 6, 2018

The Sensual World by Louise Glück

'All say, "How hard it is that we have to die" — a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.' ~Mark Twain


By Louise Glück

I call to you across a monstrous river or chasm
to caution you, to prepare you.

Earth will seduce you, slowly, imperceptibly,
subtly, not to say with connivance.

I was not prepared: I stood in my grandmother’s kitchen,
holding out my glass. Stewed plums, stewed apricots–

the juice poured off into the glass of ice.
And the water added, patiently, in small increments,

the various cousins discriminating, tasting
with each addition–

aroma of summer fruit, intensity of concentration:
the colored liquid turning gradually lighter, more radiant,

more light passing through it.
Delight, then solace. My grandmother waiting,

to see if more was wanted. Solace, then deep immersion.
I loved nothing more: deep privacy of the sensual life,

the self disappearing into it or inseparable from it,
somehow suspended, floating, its needs

fully exposed, awakened, fully alive–
Deep immersion, and with it

mysterious safety. Far away, the fruit glowing it its glass bowls.
Outside the kitchen, the sun setting.

I was not prepared: sunset, end of summer. Demonstrations
of time as a continuum, as something coming to an end,

not a suspension: the senses wouldn’t protect me.
I caution you as I was never cautioned:

you will never let go, you will never be satiated.
You will be damaged and scarred, you will continue to hunger.

Your body will age, you will continue to need.
You will want the earth, then more of the earth–

Sublime, indifferent, it is present, it will not respond.
It is encompassing, it will not minister.

Meaning, it will feed you, it will ravish you,
it will not keep you alive.

From:  "The Seven Ages" by Louise Gluck

Crazy Gir, on Ramone's grave, both dead.

My precious, funny, sweet Catfish, dead.

My gorgeous Sophie, dead.

Sweetest dog ever, Cody, with baby Catfish, both dead.

Embracing Death, A Mam Poem

A repost.  My, time flies...  Mam is loosely based on my 88 year old Mom & 4 beautiful aunts who are in heaven.

By Marion Lawless

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.