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.