A list with Lou Reed & John Cale - Berlin - Bataclan '72

In a drawer of an antique bureau
a yellowing, frayed piece of paper
scrawled memories … a passing year
Triumph, fear, derisiveness, happiness
Triumph of accomplishments
I’ll try to recall what I did
Fear
I’ll try to forget how it felt
Derisiveness
I’ll try to hold my tongue
Happiness
I’ll try to appreciate more
A list prepared
As I build the fire
To toss the bad away
Only retaining the good
My list goes up in flames
Ashes floating in the night

"sexy stockings" we write poems #34 the last line is the first

She tells you she can fly …
The girl with the dragon tattoo.
Takes you to her room:
fishnet, lace, decorated with silky bows
magenta, black, red or the rare virginal white
in a pile on the floor.
Stilettos, sling-back pumps, knee-high boots,
costumes for every occasion.
Seduction, temptation is her plot …
Young girl that moves like a gazelle
gracefully through the crowd,
sizing up the innocent
with her lustrous eyes, lined in kohl.
What catches the crowd’s attention:
Stockings wrapped firmly about her thighs.
I watch as she picks her victim,
with her beautiful smile and those sexy
stockings … she’ll take you on a flight …


the first two lines are from "dragons fly"

our conversation (never heard) - one shot wednesday #26

“What the fuck?”

(Occasionally I run into a problem)

Like a flower that starts to wilt

with tender loving care,

I’ve cut the ropes to that lifeline.

Chicken soup on the stove smells

good enough to eat, but the spices haven’t melded completely.

“What the hell am I doing cooking anyway?”

Bright lights make me nervous, I want to break them one by one.

You look wicked in those lights, not flattering at all.

Can we meet for coffee, as long as the place is far away?

It’s the grey area of your brain that interests me.

It's astonishing when ridiculous things come out of your mouth.

I have to remind myself to say:

“What a goddamn genius!”

Better give me a call tomorrow,

I’ll be available.

The new year for a dead man monday poetry potluck #16-celebrations and festivities

i. The dead man reflecting on the New Year

At the countdown he eats a grape
to the twelve chimes of the bell.
Making a wish with each one.
He decorates his  home with 
red, yellow, green and white.
Hoping these colours will bring
love, happiness, and stability.
For his New Year’s party, drinks flow, food is served.
He dances to the joyful tunes while the children play.

ii. More about the dead man reflecting on the New Year

He sees himself laughing, toasting to good health and prosperity.
While he’s wearing fine silk pajamas and a smoking jacket. 
He places twelve grapes in a bowl, he won’t reveal his wishes.
(suffice to say 586 times be undone)
Someday he thinks he’ll talk about it.
All will be different for the new year.
He ponders about what is coming to him.
His best laid plans are finally going to arrive,
as he slips into oblivion …

about the artist's work sunday scribblings #257-manifesto

Avant-garde art manifesto
recurrent Modernism.
Rhetoric, meant for shock value.
Freedom (of expression)
Crucial elements – the exposition …
Teacups and saucers suspended
from blue moon dreams on swinging beams.
Delightful romps through conversations
of marshmallow buffers.
While someone sleeps standing up
pretending to appreciate, behind closed eyes.
Champagne toasts and hushed voices,
lipstick smiles that seem to sneer,
raised eyebrows held up by stilts.
Open invitation for a public to critique.
They’ll never understand,
It’ll be written in the manifesto.
An artist who doesn’t survive …

walking the tightrope big tent poetry #33-wordle

A highwire act with old ropes,
his last performance.
Then he’ll vanish …
Squeezing into leotards too small.
A slight limp from a prior fall
(maybe in the basement)
His manager says “Be swift and
immerse yourself in the role.”
Placing the ladder with strategy,
he makes the careful climb.
He steps upon the wire
only slightly off,
as he topples to the ground.
Disloyal fans hoarse from shouting,
burst into a unison of laughter that sounds
like the roar of engines.
His grand exit …

changing the scene we write poems #33-say what you want

Plaster gets put over hurt …
painted with an old brush.
Many times – paint won’t adhere,
concealed behind masses of despair,
a façade you frequently wear.

We plaster it once again trying
wallpaper trimmed with fancy edges.
Expensive, unyielding
until it bursts from too much fatigue.
I have tried with my hand outstretched,
a grasp never felt …

I pulled subterfuges away – slowly.
When a sparkle came through,
a fragile dance round a subject.
Bricks and blocks come in handy,
say what you like –
I’ve never listened anyway.

Prepared with paint and plaster
in abundance of fear and suspicion.
Forethought
Trepidation
Weeping glacial mountains that look like,
orchids in a forest flattened in bark.
Where are the conversations of mine?
Solitude’s encapsulation to erase my dread,
to reveal my words so hidden.

Looking back on this passing year with some insight-monday poetry potluck #15-reflections,interpretations,musings

Things that should have been said, others missed.
Days filled with happiness, sorrow comes at times …
You stood against interpretations, when all was obvious.
Reflections of lost loved ones,
potpourri in a linen closet, reminds me of my mom.
Memories vary in every realm – life
Feeling the softness of a hand placed upon my shoulder,
listening to the words dropping around me.
I’ve read musings, some of despair, others of joy,
or just a few funny words … to start my day
Many kinds make this world what it is:
harmonious, peaceful or
consumed with angst, strife.
Nothing can be changed from what it essentially is,
I’ve thrown the bucket of desperation far away.
Musings are a reflection of interpretations …

It's so cold poets united poetry pantry #22-sunday scribblings #246-december

Decemmembris creeps back in

as I grab stones to generate

warmth within them.

Fingers rigid – palms smooth.

I roll the cold in circular motions.

Decemmembris enters on

feathers with fine edges.

Smooth to touch, the softness of

a tree’s leaf that breaks away

from the cold.

Decemmembris replaces the

warmth of summer days with

your frigid voice that bites through

the exterior, forming steamy circles

in the air becoming frozen in time.

a child of triumph writer's island #34-triumph

Hiding in a book … to drown
the vicious voices from the other room.
Paper – crayons
lined up on a table,
your amiable friends.
Where pictures of princesses
escape to love.
Music from a jewellry box with its tiny ballerina,
a melody to float you away.
Frilly dresses – dainty socks – patent leather shoes.
Still the sounds of discontent fill a lonely house
... a child who survived along the way.
Now you build paper castles to show the world
where happiness lies within prism walls …

nature, life, a dead woman big tent poetry #33 - dead man poetry

i. The dead woman wondering about nature:

Rivoli’s hummingbirds circle round 
flowers searching for sweet nectar.
I stare between creased petals,
watching the sun rising from
behind a disintegrating building.
All hope seems blighted.

I have draped myself in muslin cloth to
shed my skin of yesterday. All juvenility is
replaced with worn out memories. But
the colourful birds still entrance me.
I move closer.

ii. More about the dead woman wondering about nature:

While I died with those thorns fastened
deep within my heart, I thought of nothing
but the beauty of the arts, as music played
from grand pianos and violins in a stream.
Syncopation runs rampant and furious.

I count the seconds on my wristwatch.
It seems they are moving backwards, so
I may wait a little longer. As an apparition
I can unite with the living one more time.
To  savor the artistry of existing and
delighting in what surrounds me.

"home" poets united thursday think tank #28-smell

It curls around my senses
Enwraps me into ecstasy – remembering
Water flowing in a cascade
Aromas of a kitchen …
Mother smiling and laughing
Chopping, stirring … a taste of home
Water rushing on the shore
Where seagulls look for morsels

Hot summer days and cold winter nights
Scents that excite the inner self
To bring back memories of comfort
Like a blanket wrapped tightly
round my shoulders – warmth
Soothing
Loving
Fragrances of life

"as in life" we write poems #32-pursuit of happiness

Pursuing anything could be fatal,

or a complete waste of time.

Chase it on the merry-go-round,

where the cars go bumping in unison.

Plates of glass cut to a specific angle,

can be fit in the frame, until they crack or shatter …

The broken pieces left to be picked up

by the innocent spectator.

On a sidewalk crumbling underfoot,

while sinking into the earth.

Brace yourself for disappointment

that wedges us between the real

and unimaginable facts.

Existing – in looking for true happiness.

creativity monday potluck poetry #14-passion, hobbies, pastimes and entertainment

Restless hands, a desire to create
Never enough time …
Staying busy is important
Like water that rushes down
a mountain and becomes frozen in midstream
Fingers move in synchronized efforts,
forming – reaching – trying to make sense
Light through a window catches shadows
that spark interests and ideas
Creation, imagination, allows breathing, slow and steady
Pyramids pile high, placing layer upon layer
As we construct what we believe,
An expression of ourselves

"dancing" poets united poetry pantry #21/sunday scribblings #245 limits

Red satin shoes that tap
along the skyline.
Resonating through my brain.
Formations flow ...
Sequins sparkle causing rainbows.
Illuminations – Frivolous ...
Limitless beginnings and endings.
Twinkling – drops of contour.
The future is crystallizing promises,
comforting infinities.
Happiness surrounds, butternuts and chicory.
Lining a cloud above, clicking and repeating ...

wondrous wanderer writer's island #33-wondrous

Walking around in circles picking up
wooden nickels, placing them on the ledge.
One by one they’ll stack up high
until they topple over.
You run, trying to catch the perfect
symbol, tying them together tightly.
Woven in a pattern of perfection,
for all of us to see – Revealed …
Perfect shapes in different hues.
Till they send you off for picking up,
those worthless wooden nickels.
Left behind in a line …

John Lennon - Happy Xmas -War Is Over (official music video)

red crevasse big tent poetry #32-referential magazine, borrow an idea

Suspended upside down
in the crevice of a red mountain
Seatbelts locked in place
Air bags – imploded
Ribs left bruised and fractured
Engine is still idling
petrol is boiling – boiling in my brain
Escape is never easy – windows won’t work
Brakes gave way
Down the side you went trying to cling on to something – traction
60 metres – upside-down
vexed
Damn windows don’t work
Neither do the brakes
Nothing is functioning right now
A reality becomes unreal
Somewhere in a desert mountain


process notes:
I read the poem and it reminded of an event
Unreality by Elizabeth Langemak

"beware" poets united thursday think tank #26-forgiveness

A trouncing remark
is supposed to be forgotten.
Like a crushing boot …
Forgiveness rests within
knowing there is
no gain in retaliation.
I’ll forgive what you didn’t say.
People come – go
sometimes it’s best
While snakes live in darkness,
occasionally coming out to sun themselves.
Waiting to strike.
Slithering in my path.
Hiding in the tall grass …

She loves him #31 we write poems-love

Disembodied spirit

for a lousy tomcat club.

“You don’t love me”

How is it even an option, poor girl.

With her spoiled frock all frayed

about the edges.

“I really care about you, honest”

Muddy waders left at the front door.

Showing the miles he had trekked,

unrelentingly passing his scent from

one to another – pussy willow.

Pitiable girl, her once raven black locks now

streaked with grey.

A beauty in her day, but now a sad shell.

Her britches splitting at the seams,

instead of sewing up the sides.

She is still looking for love

in the most unlikely places.

Iris Dement Wasteland Of The Free

(jumpy video! but it is the best I could find. The message is still there though)

"in a dream, as in a movie" monday poetry potluck #13-dreams, visions, reveries

I dreamt I was directing,
a fantastic Hollywood production.
Carrying the brightest light of a moonbeam.
It took me to a place,
I had envisioned in the darkness,
when by myself.
Where it’s calm and peaceful.
And the stars were dressed in white.
Silver spangles hanging from
their waste coats.  
In the script, it was written
“We merely exist as one”
Showing different sides for
the world to see,
a table moved, skidded
across the linoleum.
My fantastic chair fell … 
It brought me to reality,
reveries will do that.

"caution" poets united poetry pantry #20/sunday scribblinngs #244 guidance

Sometimes I get lost in my
thoughts as they move in
an obscure direction, forgetting that
I'm not lonely or sad and must
Beware of …
the desperate and confused
wandering around me
black widows,
brown recluse,
tarantula,
hobo,
just looking for
a place to lay, to
burrow in my skin.
Bloodsuckers all around
love to poison
with vicious lies …
Always looking for … a victim
A scorpion’s poisonous tail,
one sting you’re
paralyzed
Watch them chase their tails
as they sting themselves to death
Guidance
Advice
Recommendation:
Insect repellant

“I was so chuffed all day,
I forgot to tell you what
I really thought”

excavating the old weed writer's island #32-Quest

I’m on a quest to rid myself …
of a man-eating plant that has
big decaying leaves and a gnarly mouth,
that tries to consume and poison
all those that come near.
Just when I least expect it,
this old flower strikes me from behind
trying to knock me down.
But I’m resilient,
I’ve dealt with far worse than she.
I’m sure there was a time when in her prime,
she flourished and bloomed,
now as she grows old
all beauty is left unrecognized.
Replaced by cynicism and bitter thoughts.
This wilting blossom is losing momentum
with each passing day.
Soon she’ll come uprooted,
we can finally put her to rest in the bay …
If not I’ll hire Chance the gardener
old weeds must go …


"Be alert and of sober mind.
Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion,
looking for someone to devour."
Peter 5:8



Process notes:
Chance Gardener fictional character from
the movie “Being There”. As for the quote
I figured it was quite suitable.

Did I invite you? big tent poetry #31 enough

Plenty is

quite like too many

Tables full

of dirty

silverware left over from

uninvited quests

Who spilt wine

on my Aztec rug

Composure

is fleeting

My normally calm self - blown

Hors d'oeuvres hit the wall

Bourgeois

people fill my life,

with my heart’s

lurid fears

I must say, I’ve had enough

Could you all, please leave

"Sal and Gala" poets united thursday think tank #25 weird

Your first encounter with his mind

wearing knee breeches, opaque stockings,

a silk shirt with holes in the front

(smeared with dung)

You had a fascination

for his practice of Candaulism.

He impressed you.

Crutches, a representation of

mankind’s need for religion,

with support of persistence of memory

and three dancing watches.

Rigid and unyielding,

worn by the masses

forever in haste.

A moat around your home.

He carefully placed crucifixes

in a room for adoration,

as ants crawl round symbolizing death.

He is The Hallucinogenic Toreador,

coupled with the Venus de Milo.

Above his bed hangs a painting titled,

Portrait of My Dead Brother,

(although they never met).

Like a Raphaelesque Head Exploding,

Lifting canvases through

a slit in the floor where a

Dematerialization Near the Nose of Nero

is standing below a Portrait of

Gala With Two Lamb Chops Balanced on Her Shoulder.

"It is mostly with your blood, Gala, that I paint my pictures”

"Alicia loves to count" we write poems #30 numbers game

Seven times I ran with a rabbit,

and landed in his hole.

Two times seven they couldn’t

catch my trail.

Fourteen plus five

I rounded into a snare,

and was carried to a palace.

One plus nineteen, 

I meet with twenty Queens’ mothers.

We had herbal tea.

It was two forty-five …

(two plus forty-five)

We danced round in our pedal-pushers,

singing forty-seven giddy tunes.

As we ate 20 cupcakes,

frosted with purple moons.

When I sat to write all about it,

sixty-seven minus sixty …

Seven has forever

been a favourite,

indivisible by any.

I've learnt a few things day #30 PAD november chapbook challenge-lessons learned or not

My words sometimes flow in
perpendicular directions, so
hard to make a connection
At times my words offend someone,
with no means to explain,
I feel like burying
my head in the sand,
(that’ll be a long bus ride)

Instead I move along
Take what comes my way
I write because I love to
I feel the need to say,
what’s on my mind:
dark
depressing
ridiculous
Doesn’t mean I’m going over the edge

Lessons learnt are:
rewarding
perplexing
saddening …


Living in a world of high-technology
Placing ourselves out there to be seen
never knowing who’s behind,
a name that comes across the screen

my footsteps day #29 PAD november chapbook challenge-a step poem

I approach things,
in a structured fashion
One small increment at a time

Though I want to rush at life
In wide gaited strides
Reality keeps me
Reserved
Cautious
Poised

All the while,
I want to ramble
Whirl around
Fly off the mountain’s top
Dance in the streets in silly outfits
Sing on a bus going into town

It’s just not my style
So, I’ll continue on my path
Taking one step at a time

"mother" monday poetry potluck #12 - nature

Nature takes her course
Things are in place
She can be such a trickster
Cunning and deceptive
When you think everything is going well
Surprise …
People you love – die
Worse – forget that you exist
Friends turn their backs
Or stab you – never saw that coming
Your dog dies – your cat gets hit by a truck
Seems the joke is always on you
(I’m not trying to be negative)
It’s just the basic facts
Nature will always take her course
Without consulting first

a lonely feral horse poets united poetry pantry #19

(She dreams of companionship)
Sun shines on her mane
Butterflies surround her
A mustang neighs, wants
to rest – deeply
She must lie down


Alone – she cannot achieve this,
She must keep watch
A beautiful feral horse is left alone
While sleeping, standing up

A deadly visit day #28 PAD november chapbook challenge-what really happened

Headlights came up the drive,
she stepped out – slender
with long dark hair – Delilah
works in a club across the bridge.
Making a living with bumps and grinds.
(Existing on her esthetic looks)

Carrying a package,
especially made – for you.
Wrapped up nice and tight.
(deadly weapons are always concealed)

“Misfortune and sorrow why have you
come my way?”

Delilah returns to
bumps and grinds for stockbrokers,
whose wives wait at home.
Their babies – crying.
Watching the clock … the hours pass slowly.

“The sirens wail on this
foreboding night”

process notes:
This story needs some work.
But that is for the future, when I
feel I can approach it.

venom sunday scribblings #243 - antidote

I need an antidote for my pain,
that rises and causes me discomfort.
Aspirins don’t work … but I try.
The bittersweet is relevant.
You need an antidote for hatred,
that rises and causes you discomfort.
Kindness doesn’t work … but you try.
The sweetness is irrelevant.
Antidote and snake bites run together,
simultaneously … 

blame the moon day #27 november chapbook challenge-blame the ______

Blame the moon

Tides will rise to push
their way past the orifice
of ebb and flow.
With fury flooding saturated
land – soaked – waterleaf.
Sand-filled holes and rocks
will obstruct the onslaught.
The moon …
Has her own ideas.
Rising full – smiling.
While hiding other times,
looking at you from behind
dark clouds, all the while
she is plotting her next course.

Oh my beautiful companion
Guide me on the journey

gratitude writer's island #31- gratitude

Gratitude is thrown off sometimes like
Roasted peppers that burn the senses and
Ardent smells that enter pores from the fire to
The thicket covered with prickly thorns
Imbued with poisonous buds that roam from
Tension to relaxation, usurped we lose our
Understanding of what we care for, exaltation becomes
Descriptive of emotions, love and sympathy aren’t
Eluded, if we pay close attention to ourselves

homeless day #26 PAD november chapbook challenge

Shoes worn down to the soles of his feet,
his trousers threadbare
Everything he owns in a plastic bag,
from a supermarket down the street.
Nameless might as well be faceless.
But, I observe his movements,
does he run with no particular destination?
If we throw a coin in his direction,
will that make a difference?
He hops trains moving from town to town.
Sleeping on park benches,
pillows are old newspapers with the latest
Stockmarket news.

A scar runs along his shallow cheek
Marks the day that he began to run

Where will we go now big tent poetry #30 wordle

I cupped lush flowers that were passed
around the room.
My hand worn with callouses — time
I touch the roughness of the skin …
discoloured from now on.
Awake now —
Wander through clunks and clinks.
Like chains suspended from creaky rafters.
Putting us in jounces too small — contain.
Hung upside down in an ash-pit.
Forklifted to our destination.
Resurfaced only to realize,
the nib of the falcon has sent
you to the boiler to burn on open flames.

My scholars day #25 november PAD chapbook challenge

All my dogs wear sweaters.
One is an Oxford scholar,
from Scotland or so they say.
We have a Harvard tramp.
He ran with a wild bunch in his day.
The girls:
A Berkeley bitch
Don’t know why, she’s not liberal,
hates everyone (except me).
At last we come to
“The Tribeca tart” the cutest of the
bunch .. She says “New York rules!”
I guess she’s right.

Johnny Cash - Thanksgiving Prayer

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!
pjs

Time has come today - Sheryl Crow.mp4

Love this!

spaces day #24 PAD november PAD chapbook challenge-space

Time we share in small spaces,
become vast areas of discontent.
Gazes are now glares like death,
sitting on my armchair as the quilted
patterns turn moldy with the years.

Distance is essential frozen in a cave.
Like the fossil of a trilobite squirming,
to be released in the future.

Changing the floral wallpaper into
bricks, piled one by one,
with mortar that sloshes from side
to side when touched by a razor.

Smoothness captures radiance
and sadness and flings it back
in your direction,
Space is wasted on anguish.

swimming with my sister we write poems #29 swimming

Currents push me hard against
barnacles on the post.
My sister said:
“Like in thick lava I swim
with nothing to grip”
Wide hips and plaintive smile.
A pool of ash and molten
rock — we’re stuck.
No way to navigate
this viscid cycle — with the
darkness in our hearts.
We try to be ambiguous and
righteous, but that twists
my brain.
And all the while I swim …
In a beautiful blue lake where
snakes won’t grab my ankles.

magic dreams day #23 november PAD chapbook challenge-poetic form/magic

Reverse, reverse, reverse, people.
Move in a wild que and put feathers in your hats.
So you can pick up coins off the cellar floor.
Swept up by magic brooms.
Long ago the script was thrown into the fire,
only ashes remain.
Illegible as if scrawled with ancient words.

Forward, forward, forward, children.
Run in an crooked file and place sequins on your cheeks.
Remove gems from rusted mounts,
set by fairies with silver wings.
Who cast spells while you sleep

Tiny, little shoes
Dance around the attic eves
Broken, frayed, twisted

what I think day #22 PAD november chapbook challenge-stand

If I were to tell you my views,
firmly gripped in my hands.
Would you take the time
to listen to my speech —
so carefully rehearsed in front of mirrors.
Or would you close your
mind and refuse to hear.
Should I sit on my hands,
and not do a damn thing.
unsaid — in time all words
fall on empty ground.
With no-one to pick them up
and dust them off.

"he travels alone" poets united poetry pantry #18

He walked miles …
never reaching his objective.
Waving arms and cheering smiles,
waiting on the other side.
No place to call home.
Waiting in the coldness.
Icicles forming on the trees.
The bitterness within him,
substituting warmth in his heart
Explosions all around …
As the moon begged him to
forgive with the stars guiding him
like fireworks bursting.
Over the mountains … he climbed

Asking for a seat on a bus day #21 november PAD chapbook challenge-permission

“How far to your destination?”
“Can I give you a hand when you
arrive?”
“dame un mano, por favor”
Arriving at the bus stop.
“Could you help me with
my bags?”
For hours we travel on the
rough back roads.
Sweat forming on our brows,
“Could you open up the windows?”
Please.
It is much too hot, hoping
for rain, to take away this stifling
heat.
You turned to me and said,
“Do you mind if I leave you
at the next stop?”
You never needed my permission
Adios
You decided to take your life
Goodbye

"knowing no more or less" day #20 PAD november chapbook challenge

Smoke curls round my eyes,
choking me —
Wrong is on the right
Right is on the left
Remaining in between lines

As cancer consumes
Blindness helps us see
Silence wants to talk
Desperation heals the sick
— hopefulness watches death

From a tower of inlaid ivory with
Crimson flowers blooming in the
darkness …

Placing meanings on the wrong side

your house writer's island #30 peerless

Eminent…
Façades built by you.
Nothing equal to what you,
say or do.
To be perfect like that in
all aspects, trying to fit
boulders through the eye
of a newt.
Never happens …
Attempting to catch
sand that flows in an hourglass.
With filters in fingers.
Pouring through small openings.
Beyond, above comparisons
you fascinate me,
Watching you twirl the world round
a room in perfect
unison never missing a step.
Peerless, my heart flows freely,
to the melodic tunes.

"doors open for us" thursday poets rally week #33

All things turn into windows
As doors open to separate
Sections on the highway
If closed shutters are rusted,
then we must use
Inner-strength to open them,
with care
Winds blow ...
Beckoning to be released
Through open
Doors, windows and shutters

hole in your soul day #19 november PAD chapbook challenge-a hole

A gaping hole which once contained
your soul, you try to fill the void with
whiskey, wine and sleazy partners

Squatting in a disheveled room
Grey, tattered curtains — once white
Cigarettes butts spilling from a chipped ashtray
Empty food containers rotting in the heat
Dirty linens splattered with stains
From your empty life

The stench is overpowering —
Sweaty bodies, unbathed, filthy
A life of degradation
A gaping hole of life

My queen #29 big tent poetry — a cascade poem

“Shine your divine light
So we may flourish”



From your mighty throne you rule
Watching all your lowly subjects
As they scramble for a lifeline
You may toss in their direction

Your kingdom is sacred and powerful
As you soil in your brocaded robes
The stench never reaching below
From your mighty throne you rule

A sceptre is held high, always piercing
And ready to strike those of a lesser
class, but never as filthy as you. Forever.
Watching all your lowly subjects

Pigs on oaken tables with apples
stuffed in their snouts. Royalty
at your side gorging on the feast, observing,
As they scramble for a lifeline

You lay your head at night on a bed
of satin — silk, dreaming privileged
cerebration, paupers waiting for
Something …
You may toss in their direction

"lost love" day #18 november PAD chapbook challenge-lost or found

Two lovers meet on clouds,
Iridescent moonbeams
Forever lost ...
Blinded by the twinkling,
of the stars
Fantasizing about love.

Two lovers part on barren soil,
a rugged terrain.
Saturated with heartaches.
As the sun is cast in shadows,
the coldness fills the air.
Forever lost ...

We are lost, only to be found

"wishing to fly" poets united thursday think tank #24 wings

From deep within the chasm,
of her eternal sleep
A nymph child awakens,
nightmares have interrupted
peacefulness

A satyr whispers in her ear
“your wings for immortality”
While his flute vibrates
within her

Carefully,
Unfolding her tiny extensions,
examining their details,
crying for release,
wishing she could fly,
with undeveloped wings

Words day #17 PAD november chapbook challenge—tell me why ...

Tell me why …
Is the depression I feel,
ever increasing with each,
move I make.

I pick up a pen, when I should
use a pencil.
Erasers are invaluable, at times
like these.

Each key I strike creates a paradox,
that only I can read.
Its meaning left misunderstood.
Its contents pushed to the boundary.

Words smear across pages and
the screen becomes mixed up,
as the words fall off, onto the floor.

I bend and flex,
attempting to pick them up,
So they make some sense.

No place to run we write poems #28 color me a wordle

Wisdom is forgotten,

while ancient blood wine,

is spilt at the hour of death.

I grab my handbag and run …

Trying to catch little monkeys,

along the way.

As trails of frivolous ants follow.

I am resident in a mockery,

you give within life.

The divine becoming night.

Knowing I have sprouted wings

 with nowhere to go …

 *(changed know to knowing)

I built it myself day #16 november PAD chapbook challenge-stacking or unstacking

I place the pebbles on top of each other
alternating their colours.
Creating a mosaic pattern that becomes
pleasing to my eyes.
In my mind they form Sahara deserts,
Never visited
In my dreams they form hidden treasures,
Never gotten
My moat is well-formed and protective.
To keep the warriors at bay, as they
try to force their way in.
May they drown in the stinging waters
below …

No Shoes written by Paranoid Larry, Arranged by the Roches

Friend day #15 november PAD chapbook challenge-"just when you thought it was safe”

You brought me in — your kindness
My friend
I trusted you, told you secrets
Buried inside for many years

Then I set my armour down,
Forgetting to keep it near
You struck me hard,
Sent me tumbling

I tried to get up ...
You slashed me with your sword
Slicing me into belittled pieces,
Leaving me to bleed to death

she survives monday poetry potluck-moods,feelings,emotions

She walked in fields of broken glass
Shards grinding into old wounds
With scarves of fluorescent colours,
winding round her delicate neck

She swam in seas of ash and fire,
flames singeing her sunburst hair
With jewels radiant, twisting
round fine, boned extremities

She climbed treacherous mountains,
filled with man-eating creatures
Ripping her from limb to limb
Her spirit spiraled back for the
descent with scarves and jewels
Intact …

bilingual day#14 november PAD chapbook challenge/sunday scribblings #241-bright idea

To step over the slightest line,
now familiar
Ideas seem vague
Less than brilliant
Every once in a while a light,
in the dimness
Mundane becoming exhilarating
One language crosses over to another
pronunciation,
enunciation,
comprehension
Formed and cohesive

Why? day #13 PAD november chapbook challenge-question

Why is life so unfair?

Poor struggle to survive
Scraping the ground for morsels
To feed their hungry babies

Some say “life is what we make of it”
If never given the alternative,
perplexing questions,
no answers

Can the arrogant feed the homeless man,
sitting on the corner
He’s humbled beyond what we see or feel
Looking for dinner in a dumpster, fetid with disease
As cockroaches crawl across him while he sleeps,
rats his mascots in the alley way

While we take another sip of wine,
and wonder what shoes to wear

U-MV021 - Sam Phillips - I Need Love

Like a scorpion,
poisoning me, paralyzing me,
With every sneaky movement
Oh, clever you
I didn’t see it coming
So tell me now, what is it
that you don’t understand
about people.

life's answers writer's island #29 quandary

A state of difficulty, perplexity,
uncertainty, hesitation or puzzlement
Never able to decide

A predicament; dilemma,
a difficult decision or choice
If you don’t make the right move
Will you fall? Into the deep pit,
never being able to climb out

The decision is already made
It was settled long ago, fate
gives us the cards played out
by the stars in the sky, as a
comet sweeps them off course
And changes things forever …

Tom Russell--Crosses of San Carlos

Tom Russell talks about the Mexican jaguar and their extinction,
beautiful song

what happened? day #12 november PAD chapbook challenge-forget what they say

I’ve already forgotten
everything told to me
when I was young

Seeing the world as a different place
Hatred, cheating, lying
How is it in the heart
that deception seems to rule?

Like stones worn by corroding
acid with grooves wide enough
to swallow you and burn the skin
We need to smooth the surface
clean with something more beneficial:

Like caring and compassion

"Dragons Fly" big tent poetry #28 NYT best sellers list

Hiding in unlit alleys, behind seedy bars
Red Stilettos, fishnet hose
A bowie tucked between her breasts
Concealed … she waits

In a subway tunnel: as the clock strikes
midnight, she is watching you
Stalking and plotting
As her stare draws you in,
Is your fear palpable as the sweat,
on your brow

Her hostage now,
clutched in her webbed arms
Carrying you to the highest ledge of a building
Placing a slender foot over the edge
She tells you she can fly …
The girl with the dragon tattoo

Afraid of the dark day #11 november PAD chapbook challenge-no one wants___

No one wants to be filled with fear
Needlessly worrying,
what happens next,
Clinging to something that has no substance
Waiting, trying to see …
Hyperventilating you can’t breathe or think
Darkness surrounds you …

Not really love day #10 november PAD chapbook challenge-love or anti-love

Across the room they seem to beguile
With cheap plastic eyes and their fake smile
Let’s raise a glass to wish you good cheer
Pinkies extend … so fancy my dear
They seem to beguile

We move to dances, an elegant file
Rubbing our cheeks with those we deem vile
To give my heart to someone I fear
Who seems to beguile

Wicked dresses on crystalline tile
Looking to trap my soul for awhile
There is no escape as they draw near
In the corner of my eye … a tear
Wanting to run far away for miles
They seem to beguile


process notes:
I am not very good with sonnets.
But I wrote this the other day and
thought I might submit it for this
prompt. It certainly needs some work.

starting over we write poems #27 healing

On the mending side of time …
All passes through glances
of sincerity - smooth voices
are captured with tone

Balanced:
Felt by some of those
looking for solace,
Healing areas once open,
maturating with rage

A tender hand comes across
to touch the injured soul
Kindness to one wronged
Healing has begun

while we catch our breath day #9 november PAD chapbook challenge-slow down

Catch your breath while leaning on the post
Having run for miles with nowhere to go
Circles never seem to end

As in a nightmare where a tiger chases
you down the city sidewalk
Never quite catching up — out of breath
Slow down … with no place to be …

In such a hurry … you race along the widest,
lane in life with no apparent destination
In time the bones will grow weary looking,
for some rest … take a deep breath

I simply can't agree day #8 november PAD chapbook challenge-agree

Like the sandpaper
of your bleeding tongue
You expect me to agree

Words rehearsed to hurt,
chafed raw as joy escapes your ritual
You want them to agree

Laid upon me …
Envy, anger, sarcasm
Wretched friction that abides in
one with a loathful heart

Agree: If I succumb to the inflictions
you have so carefully placed on others
I simply can’t agree

existence day #7 november PAD chapbook challenge

Lying side by side
Along a slightest filament
Reason …
Pros …
In life it’s essential,
examine what holds true
for you, it is like the patterns
Created:

Wars, injustice, people
hunger for more power

If peace would prevail
What would it look like?
Would we recognize it?

It has been written about
before and for many years
But do we understand
Perhaps not ….

Looking for forgiveness day #6 November PAD chapbook challenge-looking for

Looking for "forgiveness"

Is what he said to you,
As if the bruises given,
didn’t go below epidermal surfaces.

Where they nestled themselves,
like leeches looking for,
more blood and pain.

Burrowed in the years,
Contusions and scars,
visible on the surface

So broken underneath …
Forgiveness is looking,
for a warm place to hide

EST Day #5 November PAD chapbook challenge-metamorphosis

To shed the outer layer,
of devolving turbulence.
A mindful stance of the rotating
cogs in a filtered existence.
Wheels turn …
moving without lubrication
Being placed on a table.
Electrodes placed at tender temples,
sending fire throughout the body.
Altered for existence.

Process notes:
This prompt made think about ES therapy.
My mom worked as an RN supervisor.
In a psychiatric hospital for several years,
in a NY state institution. At that time
this form of therapy was legal. I am
quite mortified that it was ever legal.

"In a dream" big tent poetry #27 borrow a line from a fellow poet

I have experienced the
taste of sun silver rain,
with droplets as big as the stars.

In apocalyptic dreams,
mounds of goldenrod studded with ironweed,
climbed the walls looking for release.

I roamed the land for berries,
that were not poisoned.
Clawing and digging in dry earth,
my nails caked with the grime of passing years.

A rain of fire and ice has begun,
It wasn’t a sight anyone expected to see.


Process notes:
“taste of sun silver rain” Sherri
“mounds of goldenrod studded with ironweed” Barb
“It wasn’t a sight anyone expected to see” Nan

It is magic poets united #22 magic

It’s in the breeze that blows
through trees
and settles on the limbs
In the sky-birds in flight
Star filled nights-waiting for a wish
It is the laughter of the soul
Longing to be free

Magic of the universe …

A burial Day #4 November PAD chapbook challenge-Containment

I laid out the dress
While you picked out the jewels
On satin you place your head
A beauty in life-death
So cold to touch, now
Where has your spirit gone?
Is it roaming over open fields,
where flowers grow wild
In the fiery sun
Or soaring through the dark clouds,
looking for a place to rest
When I look up at the stars,
are you watching me?
As we put you in a final,
resting place beneath the tierra

“May you rest in peace”

The City November PAD chapbook challenge #3 location

Asphalt roads, steam rising from,
their steel covered eyes.
Grated sidewalks, sounds coming from within.
Exhaust fumes suffocating in summer,
inviting in the winter snow
Plated glass: reflections of ourselves
Concrete walls surround me,
I feel life from within them, alive
Birds fly high over head
I am once again amongst chatter,
laughter, cries and sorrow
That fill the city streets.

soul collector we write poems #26 collection

Little jars on a shelf,
high and out of reach
You place souls inside
Crystal walls
Sealed tightly, so they can’t escape

A beautiful array of colours
Purple, blue and gold
Hand carved with intricate designs
A monument created with everyone,
you've ever known

Every day you dust them off
And put them back so carefully
Avoiding that they touch each other
High and out of reach
Little jars on a shelf

Life day #2 November chapbook challenge (ready to start / never ready

To lose my mind
In this whirlwind,
of years

It seems life has laid,
its velvet cape on me
Smooth and seamless
Dark and concealing

All regrets flow in streams
Narrow and unrelenting
Movement of time,
pushing it forward

Until they begin to breach,
at the dam
I am never ready

Jethro Tull: Skating Away On The Thin Ice ... (02/10/1977)

Doors and Books Day #1 November PAD chapbook challenge (closing doors and turning pages)

Page upon page I have turned,
evolving into what I am now
Though some of the paper
has yellowed becoming
brittle with time

Closing thresholds on faces
that have spurned me
Laughter that I hear on days,
is your own self denial
While you try to tamper with my
hardback cover

Are you attempting to dismantle
me bit by bit …
When it is you who should consider
unfolding the shroud that you have
lamented so carefully shut

The Kinks - Lola (TOTP 1970)

Boy, does bring back memories!

Abuse poets united poetry pantry #15/ sunday scribblings #239 intense

Intense it’s found in whirling winds,
cyclones hit to tear apart the structure.
Flinging splinters on the eaves,
rampage is forced upon the open wound.
Salt poured in and festering, malignant scars,
bolts slash across crooked angles without edges.
While bleeding eyes contain no justice,
for the weak of mind and spirit.
An onslaught of wicked rain soaks to the core.
Gripped tightly in its fist, furiously, pleading,
for it to come to an end.

While the child hides in the corner …

Bal Masqué writer's island #27 masquerade

Yachts rock steadily in their slips

In the mansion, people gather:

Flowing gowns and silver slippers
Hair piled high with gemstone clasps
Glossy painted lips
Tuxedos and slicked back hair

A sign reads “Enter at your own risk”

Do the promenade (it’s free)
At the bal masqué
Cover your eyes and smile slyly
Our identities concealed for the night
We move under crystal chandeliers
While the champagne spills on to the marble,
beneath our feet
We don the silken masques
Hands hold diamonds, emeralds, rubies
We dance to the orchestra never revealing who we are

It is my home big tent poetry #26 write from a sketch from your home

A decoupage created from my life
Colours are vibrant and alive
Chagall, Van Gogh and Dali

Freida sits at an easel, sorrowful
Che with a Cuban cigar,
smoke curls round his mustache
mingles, as the devil hides in the guestroom
Waiting for me to sleep,
So he can dance round the room
To his solemn tune

An angel lives under my kitchen sink
I’ve seen her wings and cherub face
A gallery of faces
Mirrors in every room

An eagle at my front door grasps a snake
in its beak
Mayans watch my cat, sleeping on the couch
While lazy dogs lie in the morning sun
Who created this catastrophe?

Wormwood grows wild in the garden
Spirits roam looking for a place to rest
Candles light the way, while I place
marigolds on the table

A trip down the yellow brick road we write poems #25 OZ

“If I only had a brain, a heart, courage!”

Courage is a dripping faucet,
confronted with fear

A heart is pumping quietly,
while sleeping

A brain has its range,
to figure out what it needs

Like a lion with courage to face
the worse
My heart steps in, gives me a message
melting, falling away

The brain never engages properly,
rusty chains linked together
Corroded
Situations
Coincide

Those ruby slippers, go click, click, click

L & R monday poetry potluck #7 love and romance

Rigor mortis sets in 
Opulent, overrated
Malicious, majestic 
Aneurism to the brain
Nostalgic winding lanes
Chivalry in its glory
Enigmatic degradation on the horizon (in the backseat of a `67 Chevy)

Anxiety
Neurosis
Debility

L
O
V
E

process notes:
I am not really adverse to romance and love.
I just don't write about it. (well)

For those of you who might be curious: here is Michael's short story

JANIE ALISON WHITE
by
Michael Barnett



In ’84 I met a girl named Janie Alison White. I loved her like no other.
I made her my wife. We lived happily enough. I wrote; she cleaned.
And the love we made was the sweetest love I have ever dreamed.
In ’86 she began writing; I encouraged her. She was bored with cleaning;
I was bored with her. I’d been having affairs for a year; she’d been faithful to me.
And when I read her first poem I knew what had to be. She was better than me.
I began plotting her death. She wrote with pen and paper. She never made a mistake.
Her words were music haunting me from each and every page.
She asked my opinion of her work; I wanted to lie but I couldn’t.
I said it was good but she’d have to improve. And I’ll be damned if she didn’t.
She asked me how to get published. I told her I’d handle it.
I put my name on her poems. Something I’ll never regret.
One night as I sat beside her, reading her beautiful verse,
I realized she’d written enough; I wouldn’t need her anymore,
for she’d written with abandoned grace.
There was enough unpublished work to keep me forever famous.
I got my gun, blew off her head, dragged her remains to the attic.
Cut her in pieces: little pieces. What surprised me was:
each piece recited a poem. I turned on my tape recorder while
cleaning the bloody mess. I hurried to my typewriter,
transcribing from the tape. I heard a sound;
I turned and looked. Janie stood behind me, misty,
transparent, reading her poetry. “It’s pretty good,” she said.
“I know.” I published her pieces in a volume.
It won a Pulitzer Prize. I got a grant and fame and fortune.
I never lost my pride. How one carves his path in this world
should never cause regret. And Janie stands behind me,
reciting still in death. She has volumes to fill.
She’s pleased with the arrangement; at least she doesn’t complain.
She’s such a talented poetess. I’m such a happy man.
You might think I’m crazy. I know that I’m not.
Janie stands behind me; apparitions do not rot. I put her name on my old work;
that seemed to make her happy. Some of it even got published
but died quickly on the shelf. She didn’t seem to care.
I gained great wealth. But she won’t let me leave this desk
where I sit and write her prose.
When I try to rise her frozen breath pushes me back in my chair.
I’ll never leave this room. I’ll always have to write.
For Janie stands behind me. She never leaves my sight.
Yet sometimes when the moon is full I imagine she leaves this room.
I wonder, does she have a place to go? Perhaps a tomb?
I still transcribe her poems every day and every night.
My own could never compare to those of Janie Alison White.
The only lesson in this life that I have ever learned is to
take and take and take and take, leaving nothing in return.


THE END

Jethro Tull - Thick as a Brick - Madison Square Garden 1978

I saw him do this. Wow, memories!

"a cat and mouse" poets united poetry pantry #14/sunday scribblings #238 curious

“Curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought him back”

You see the look in their eyes

While walking down the street

A measure of existence

Time and space are relative

I am curious

Like a cat looking in the cupboard

Whiskers and claws

All the while the mouse is hiding

Behind its protective wall

Curiosity

Answers

Never finding one …

John Prine and Iris DeMent - In Spite of Ourselves

I saw this girl before moving to Mexico

"if we fall " writer's island #26 emerge

If I am emerged into the abyss
Can they rescue me from drowning
Egressed into the silence with no-one,
to speak with or hold

As the sun forms wrinkles on my eyes
I stave off adversary with a smile
I have burst … triumphant
While you swelter in your ira

If you are emerged with your idiosyncrasy
Nowhere to go,
and fall into the abyss
Can I catch you before you drown

Only the angels will answer

“An ode to Janie” big tent poetry #25 a scary poem

“For Janie stands behind me. She never leaves my sight.
Yet sometimes when the moon is full I imagine she leaves this room.
I wonder, does she have a place to go? Perhaps a tomb?
I still transcribe her poems every day and every night.
My own could never compare to those of Janie Alison White.”

by Michael Barnett


While I sit beside your grave, on All Hallows’ Eve
I read the inscription, written so long ago

“Here lies my beloved bride

May she rest where the daisies rise”

I visualize what your body looks like now
Decayed and crumbling, your once golden hair
brittle … sparse …

No eyes to see with, no mouth to speak
Have worms entered, taking your spirit away?
Do you rest peacefully?
When they heaved the earth upon your casket
Could you feel the weight, pushing you toward eternal sleep?

Are the cold nights lonely for you, in your private bed?
As the rain pours over the ground, soaking through the earth
Does it reach your brittle bones, forming icicles, hanging and suspended?
Do you still listen to the waterfalls, so close outside your home?

When the veil is lifted between living and dead
With marigolds and incense to soothe you
Will we feel at peace?



Process notes: I borrowed the prelude to this poem from
a short story my husband wrote some years back. My husband
is a writer and editor.

"a tree grows around the sadness" poets united thursday think tank #20 the ugly that is beautiful

“A tree grows in Brooklyn”
(a novel by Betty Smith)

It breaks through the asphalt,
looking for the sunshine
Watching sadness and despair,
of people wandering the streets

The homeless and nameless,
seeking a place to sleep
And the branches reach up,
to protect the roots firmly fastened

Leaves capture the rain,
released from the clouds
While the wetness soaks the pavement,
glistening in the streetlights

In the Brownstone
A husband and wife are arguing over,
whiskey drinking and absences
Sad children hiding behind bedroom doors

All the while the tree survives …

'The road' we write poems #24 crossroads

I have reached a crucial intersection
I call mine
Time has been a friend to me
It’s all I own
The sadness we perceive, can always change
Enjoying familiar faces

Seems sometimes I have nothing new to say,
it becomes camouflaged
I follow the itinerary of this road, crossroads form,
which way to turn
As the creases are left, never right, ahead lies the destruction,
have I gone too far?

We place sparrows in the sunsets and watch as they fly
While happiness and sadness run streams — paralleled
You have everything that is needed,
before you make a wrong turn,
blue jays … circle
Listen to the crows sing their song …
                                                            

Pearl Jam - Crazy Mary (Live)

Don't take the trip


Treetops in autumn against a stone, blue wall
Fairies singing lullabies in your ear
Christ in my handbag nattering incessantly
Purple, blue, red swirling high

This is not the dawning of the Age of Aquarius
Reasons that make you wonder
Aspirin coloured scum floating in a martini
tryptophan-enhanced turkeys grunting up from my dinner gravy

Angels wandering the hillside
Clean pond-scum enhances my illuminated bible,
chug a lug, chug a lug
Vomit spilled on the clean carpet
Get the Hoover

Demons running in the yard
Trying to collect the errant silverware
Grey clouds moving in
Absorbing unfettered visions

Looking for an unhappy soul
Jesus annoying me nattering from my handbag
while the orange cat twas ever,thus
Romans with a spaceship
And a Popiel Pocket Fisherman

Mayans with swords trying to kill the populous
Scrotum-scratching, snickerwarts interrupting and
trying to compete with an ever more obnoxious messiah ...
from my handbag
Falling, many notes that don’t concern me

As they spill into my glass of milk, the chupacabra drools goat blood
making pretty swirling sensations,
reminding me of a cherry shake without olives
Sacrificial thoughts remind me of where not to go ...
... like Cambodia, with its swaying palm trees,
sashaying in the autumn treetops against a stone, blue wall

America's Got Talent YouTube Special - Jackie Evancho

Amazing!

You've Got A Friend - Carol King with friends (stereo)

you gotta love it!

A deadly human monday potluck poetry #6 7 deadly sins

Having laid your wrath upon me, as the twisted words,
are released from the darkness in your heart.
Brusque attitudes enrapture vice.
Your pride got in the way and envy is surrounding me.
Gluttony at the feast was grotesque, like lust lying
with its loins spread open.
The greed of the minions spilled poverty on the crowd.
Like a futile sloth you crawl below the surface.

Harvesting jewels (poets united poetry pantry #13/ sunday scribblings #237 harvest)

When the tale is told for everyone to hear:
A sliver of light enters the fissure in the wall.
It has the smoothness of a golden chain — twisted.
It winds itself round and encompasses softness.
As a sharp, jagged edge moves along the surface.
It rips open the contents of the sky, unraveling,
pouring diamonds and sapphires onto the blind.
Guiding them on the journey, so that they may not
fall … and drown

Joe Cocker - A Little Help From My Friends - Woodstock 1969

Would you?

Joan Baez, Diamonds and Rust - Live, 1975

Colours in your life poets united thursday think tank #19 color

A colour that makes you think, might just be anger.
The colour of anger to some, is not the same for everyone.
Red. I pity the people who live in a bubble,
that has left them isolated. With no-one to care for. Blue.
Words are their weapon and a tool to hurt.
It´s like a bruise on first impact. Purple.
Time-takes care of harmful accusations and heartlessness.
It´s a forest filled with foliage. Green.
It´s like a wound disappearing. As you continue to exist. Yellow.

Black is created
Chartreuse can become mellow
Orange changes love

process notes:
I dedicate this poem to some of the unpleasant
people who I have had the misfortune of crossing
paths with.

It was never about you #24 big tent poetry wordle

a glossy purple kiss
a head that looks like:
a gourd
you never had the hook,
to extract,
or pluck me
drooping eyes and muddy hair
I had to leave you on the staircase
do you feel bitter doll?

The animals in my life we write poems "23 ¨a visit to the zoo¨

Landfills and diamond mines.
Disastrous new beginnings.
As snakes crawl through
fertile soil:feeding on humanity.

Old storage spaces and damp cellars.
Intricate woven patterns spin,
as spiders walk in the dark:
Catching flies.

In fields, on mountains and crowded
city streets: the cougar stalks its prey ...

Mother monday potluck poetry week #5

She walks through this life with softness.
Lays a hand on your shoulder.
She files emotions with paper moons,
comes to lay beside: to fill with hope.

Surrounded by lush green fields filled,
with fresh dew from the morning.
As the fog is starting to lift.
Despair has vanished on the wings of light.

She is dressed in satin and silver brocades.
While dancing on amethyst stars that burst,
and release sparkles of sunshine.
Surrounded by tranquil pools of rose coloured petals.

She is your inner peace and light.
The ocean ...

Esencial poets united poetry pantry #12 -- sunday scribblings #236 essential

While all the others watch with great wonder
Place the candles in the stands to burn,
with wicks too short to withstand time
Wax melts on open frames

Si bien todos los mira a los demás con gran maravilla
Coloque las velas en las gradas para quemar,
Con mechas demasiado corta para soportar el tiempo
La cera se derrite en los marcos abiertos

As I sing the sad song of years, gone and forgotten
You perceive goodness and heartbreak from all things
Bliss causes tidal waves of injustice and corruption
Catch the closeness of scum which lies upon the pond

Como yo canto la canción triste de los años, pasados y olvidados
Se percibe la bondad y la angustia de todas las cosas
felicidad hace que las ondas de marea de la injusticia y la corrupción
Captura la cercanía de escoria que se encuentra en el estanque

We pull back the curtains, let the breeze in
Open the windows of eternity
So that we can escape through the roughness
Only to spiral back on the downfall

Tiramos las cortinas, y dejar que la brisa en
abrir las ventanas de la eternidad
Para que podamos escapar a través de la rugosidad
Sólo una espiral de nuevo en la caída

Everything lost—becomes essential
Todo lo perdido—se convierte en esencial

Can we possibly? writer`s island #24 envision

Encapsulated by the light of the screen, which divides
and joins all living things on this earth.
Enlightened — we must take great care.
Entrusted with a sincere heart, that will carry us
through the narrow bridges.
Engulfed in hardened arteries of time and haste.
Embrace and relinquish all hatred — form the soul.
Engrave an everlasting light from within.
Exemplified — putrid, rusted veins open
to release the vileness.
Envision this as life ...

Some evenings big tent poetry #23 pilfering

And The Moon And The Stars And The World
Long walks at night

I walk under the moon and wait
I stare at the forms in the door
Are you listening to the cry of the owl,
deep in the woods
I watch the domestic fight with sentiment
Throwing china plates and crystal,
that smash with fury against stone walls
And shatter to pieces: on fine linen sheets
As silk lingerie is hung from ceiling rafters
So that we may watch the sorrow flow,
from the unfaithful
the moon the stars and the world


Charles Bukowski
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/and-the-moon-and-the-stars-and-the-world-2/

This could not be me poets united #18 complaints

I just close my mind, sing to myself
Nothing ever satisfies
Soup is cold, meat never cooked enough,
Vegetables overdone
Send it back
All you ever do is whine and cry
My hair, my shoes, my makeup just isn’t right
The weather is too cold, cloudy, sunny, rainy
Hasn’t been a perfect day since '56
Year before you were born
When I see the reflection in the glass
I know it must not be mine, it has to be yours

Pavarotti - Nessun Dorma - Turandot, Puccini

we write poems #22 what's for dinner

Coco
Take your lover in your arms
Change the colours
to black and white
Chanel No. 5
Grasse
Eyedropper of oil
with
flowers, rose du mai, jasmine,
and a synthetic musk
'a concrete' to 'an absolute'
Blend to create a scent for the world
A memory is stirred by the trace of a bouquet
Chanel No. 5
A millinery girl with flair

a red window monday poetry train revisited #100

From outside my window, I see how all things change
As the paint of years gone by starts to crumple and fade
My view has changed, like the shadows on your frame
I painted you with red enamel, dressed you from the inside
So the world may see how beautiful you are to me
You are my window; you capture life as it slowly passes

A funeral~sunday scribblings #235 flashback/ poets united #11 poetry pantry

As I sat in the pew,
while they prayed for your soul.
To be delivered from evil.
flashback
I knew not my lines in this life.
I looked at your body, covered in a shroud
of fine wool tailoring, a matching silk tie.
flashback
Powdered skin, blushed cheeks.
Unlike you in real life, to me frightening, surreal.
Cold to the touch, a dreaded kiss on an icy cheek.
flashback
An obligation, we must say goodbye.
We shall dance round the pyre ...
It’s just a flashback

Dreams soar writer's island #23 soar

Over mountains and bridges,
through a second in time.
To lift up with ease, my wings carry me,

effortlessly ...

Like lace covered patterns,
woven in feathers of metallic threads.
Wrapped in golden hues, my body floats.

Toward a sun that is radiant and warm.
Beautiful dreams take me,
to places I desire to see.

I soar ...

Skating big tent poetry #22 `let an adventure spark a poem`

Snow covers the ground.
Magic ice castles are on a crystalline surface.
Cold air nips at all senses, glide on to the setting.
Friction over the ice.
As ice curls and cuts on shiny blades.
(rock over and bite)
Bodies bent radially, flexing of knees,
increase, momentum,
cut into the ice.
Into another world . . .
Descend . . .

Indians poets united thursay think tanks #17 equality

From the sierras
Living off the land
A simple life with no luxuries
Our land?
Our rights?
Like animals cast aside
Our traditions matter none
A hunger strike
To alert the world
We are the indigenous
From the sierras

process notes:
There is a horrible
situation going on in the state of Oaxaca.
The indigenous have no rights.
If you would like to read more here is the link:
http://www.eluniversal.com.mx/notas/710038.html

Charles Bukowski-Alone with everybody

Flesh covers the bone

and they put

brain and

Sometimes a soul

and the women

vases against the walls

and the men drink too

and nobody finds the one

but still

looking

bed

in bed

flesh covers

bone and

flesh searches for more meat.


there is no possibility:

we are all trapped

a destination

singular.


nobody ever finds the one.


slums are filled

landfills are filled

asylums are filled

the graveyards fill


nothing

fills.

Mine we write poems color scheme #21

Cobalt blue carries through, it strikes. Red sums up the feelings of anger. Combined it is the purple of royalty that rushes in with great awry. Felt under the light blue sky. Flash red - yellow of the orange sun, with its heat. It floats here in this universe, set them free. Bursts, splashes and splatters to the foreground. Mixed together, becoming a kaleidoscope of colours.
Blue red yellow green
These colours fly around me
Combined, they are mine

`the only way round it` monday poetry potluck-Kings, Queens and Warriors

You may pass for a shilling into the grotto

As intravenous superfluous desire

trembles inside you

An ebb tide comes back

Larceny is not extinct

Pugnacious with your poor query

Listen to this

Succumb

The trees

Noon dwarfs as you paddle

to be conventional with your art

Listen to this

as I obfuscate

An oval queen has become kingly

Can you hear it?

Hope carry on tuesday #72

It started out as a feeling
Which grew into hope:
I searched in open drawers,
looked in locked-up wardrobes.
Could never find what I wanted.
I ran into the yard, stumbled upon a rose bush,
bleeding, red and coppery to my senses,
dripping on the pavement into crevices,
in warm, circular pools, coagulating,
formed, crusted, little dried up rivers.
My hope was all I had, now it's lost.