Red Wolf Journal Spring 2014, and a fresh start
10 years ago
Sunday, October 31, 2010
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 …
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 …
Saturday, October 30, 2010
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
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
Friday, October 29, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
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
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
Monday, October 25, 2010
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)
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)
Sunday, October 24, 2010
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
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
"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 …
Saturday, October 23, 2010
"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
Friday, October 22, 2010
“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
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.
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 nowDecayed 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.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
"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 …
(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 …
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
'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 …
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 …
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
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
Monday, October 18, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
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
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
Saturday, October 16, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
It was never about you #24 big tent poetry wordle
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?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Monday, October 11, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Sunday, October 10, 2010
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
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
Saturday, October 9, 2010
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 ...
Friday, October 8, 2010
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/
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/
Thursday, October 7, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
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
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
Monday, October 4, 2010
a red window monday poetry train revisited #100
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
Sunday, October 3, 2010
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
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
Saturday, October 2, 2010
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 ...
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 ...
Friday, October 1, 2010
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 . . .
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 . . .
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