Sunshine or Rain Poets United Thursday Think Tank #42-Love

When it’s right all calmness proceeds in life,
puzzles fit together perfectly,
blue skies fill the picture,
billow-shaped clouds are soft,
inviting you to relax
But when it’s wrong everything is turned upside down,
nothing seems to work,
gears are broken,
rusty sprockets grind,
dark, menacing skies fill your days,
torrential downpours,
lightning bolts smashing at your feet,
everyone’s frowning,
put on scowls for more misery
Like a stab to the core … when love doesn’t work

"The Red Shoe Book Project" by Annell Livingston

Creativity

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

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 ...



**This is part of The Red Shoe Book Project, an artist's vision conceived by Annell Livingston. She generously asked me to include two of my poems in her project, which are the poems above.

As Annell has explained, "I got the idea for The Red Shoe Book Project from the book, The Madwoman in the Attic. It has quite a bit about the symbol of the red shoe and the creativity of women. As I began to discuss red shoes with women, I realized that so many do not know the meaning behind them...so it seemed the perfect project.

I am very pleased because the writings I have received are all so different. Thus as I had hoped, it will be a jewel with many facets. There are two ideas behind artists books. One is that they be very inexpensive, and democratic, and the other is the idea to make it precious. And the Red Shoe Book Project will be both. "

"Last Minutes Spent in a Café" We Write Poems #47-Musty Minutes

Close but never quite within reality’s
clenched hand as it squeezes too tightly,
pressure builds on the interior

It’s morning walks through city streets
smell of exhaust from diesel fuel
burnt and sent to the atmosphere as it mingles
with your oxygen … breathing, resting on clouds above
like a saturated sponge forming a shroud 

Carbon turns skies a dingy grey like tables
at a local café, grease clings to tattered curtains
hung many years ago by hands now riddled with
rheumatism … unyielding

Coffee has sat too long, the aroma’s acrid
scent lingers in your nostrils for hours
as fluorescent fixtures blink intermittently, making you uneasy,
reaching for the Sunday paper, examine the
veins on your hand that rise and pulsate like 
tiny rolling rivers

Musty memories open floodgates to central
recollection … as you take another
sip of bitter coffee

"Velvet and Gold soaked in Red" One Shot Poetry #39

Ursula bequeaths her throne,
little is known of her past.
Tweeds are braided softly
so they fill the picture
till it’s bursting from volume,
reaching for forgiveness. 

Following a sound from the forest
as handmaidens file in,
coiffed fine velvet, gold dripping edges
on an altered direction.
Hibiscus plants, purple lily bells 
run in a circular motion …stillness,
walking in a single melody.

Sorrow fills the vestibule’s opening,
streaking watercolour hues of sadness,
prickling the senses, holding on …
as their skirts crease at fine hemmed edges,
nothing lost nor frayed,
frozen in the light of an unforgiving night.

Blindness has accompanied these women
who have laid their arrows down, 
beleaguered by hostile forces
when fenced in by the wreath
completing a last voyage.
It’s a massacre in Cologne.



process notes: This is a poem I started
writing awhile ago, I decided to finally
finish it.

"Peace" One Shoot Sunday-Roger Allen Baut

Photography by Roger Allen Baut
                                                 
Time after time try to reconcile
concepts detailed in rippling,
beckon crystalline waves on
unseen lit smooth surface,
aquamarine calls forth
serenity’s eye,
hold peace at
its wake
blue

A Lost Island Poetry Tow Truck #13-Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

Barbados by D.V.

 

 Grates of iron surround doorways
on an island of solitude
Isolated inner sanction resolves 
problems, they turn away
with disgust or indifference
Look between the slatted boards
reserved for errors we missed
Read words carefully crafted
so the mind can catch some meaning,
lost along the pathway of others’ indiscretions
Iron and boards form intricate patterns
to hold us from within  

Ashes Find a Way Back Poetry Tow Truck #12-closet shopping/ Writer's Island #13-unlimited

As ashes floating in the night
I can see her lustrous eyes
while you shine your divine light
on blood wine as it is spilt
at the hour of death
We may sense an aroma left behind
that joins the ladder with strategy 

When a sparkle came through like a
feather with fine edges, silken smooth

Syncopation runs smoothly as
imagination allows breathing to become steady

A hallucinogenic toreador stands guard in the night,
cupping lush flowers passed around the room,
listen to explosions surrounding,
descending on a tower of inlaid ivory

Can night see her as ashes floating in
the sky? I sparkle through,
sparkle like stars resting easy








Process notes:
I created this from lines of my poems,
re-adjusted them where necessary added and
took away words, cut-up two sentences.
This is the final result.
These are the lines:
scent an aroma is left behind
ashes floating in the night
with her lustrous eyes
placing the ladder with strategy
when a sparkle came through
feather with fine edges
syncopation runs rampant and furious
imagination allows breathing slow and steady
he is the hallucinogenic toreador
I cupped fresh flowers that were passed around the room
explosions all around
from a tower of inlaid ivory
shine your divine light
blood wine is spilt at the hour of death

"Clocks Outside of Rooms" Big Tent Poetry #46-mix things up a bit with poetry toys

They’re on a sideways journey
Unstoppable
Unknown
Not felt by anyone
Whippoorwills cry in the night, trepidation’s initiated
Si amano su un viaggio obliquo
inarrestabile
Sconosciuto
Non ha ritenuto da chiunque
There’s a room we must leave
when we’re gone, it will still hold shoes, boxes and pictures
but the room doesn’t worry
memories will weaken with movement

They’re on an inverted travel
Reversed
Resistant
Not sensed by anybody
Owls stare through the darkness, qualms are manipulated
Ils sont sur un voyage inversé
Renversé
Résistant
Non senti par quiconque
There’s a clock engraved in a brick wall
it reads 7:45, the hands are eroding as you watch
but time doesn’t care even as walls crumble
to concrete walkways at your feet

Outside a tree with red plum tomatoes
growing on its trunk, blooms every year
Magnificent
Majestic
Neglected by the observer
Recall sitting in a room observing a clock
ricordi sedersi in una stanza
osservando un orologio

Remembrances are left in sequence
for innocence to gather up, to toss aside

Process notes: 

First four lines are from an old poem. 

I used babelfish to translate to Italian and French.

"No More Jonquils" We Write Poems #46-Street Art Poem

                      Art by RONE                         

Blood stain’s weeping caresses my face,
jonquils no longer grow in clusters,
I’ve lost my view of white picket fences only
to be left with chain link enclosures crowning me
As the sun goes down in its dubious fashion
I’ve turned a pallid white, all colour is gone,
my hair picks up highlights of day and
sends them back to a bluish sky without
birds of tendency I once knew
Red surrounds me and I take in the anger
only to cry it out so all the world may see
my lonesome misery painted on this wall

"Nothing Changes" One Shot Wednesday #38

Roots hang from trees that
have been there many years,
winding round the air with grace,
grabbing nourishment.   
Releasing what’s not consumed,
misguided aspirations.
Leaves hang from branches that
have been there a few days,
drooping with no finesse,
beaten down by heat,
seeking life or
subversion.
It’s a Grand Guignol
accompanied like a plague.
Taut skin stretched becomes
unglamorous
as melodrama unfolds
making things indivisible.
Sub-genre can make for bad theatre
grotesque.
Its conformity has me
lost in a sea of bullshit
lies.  

"She is the Goddess of Life" Poets United Poetry Pantry #34

  
Spring Isis Shrine 

Hedonistic practices in the mountains of desire
The goddess spreads her fingertips capturing the sunlight
From the highest point of the pyramid
Isis greets the earth where fertility is incubated
The vernal equinox 
Planets align with the sun laying out the path
Our view is clear and the first bloom shows its face
on a once barren land
Colours light the sky in a display of life
Celebrations flying in the air
She kisses the terrain, spring has begun

Captured in Time One Shoot Sunday-featured artist James Rainsford

 

 

 A span’s length full of wonder, 
still a dead stare ahead, affixed
My beard has accumulated
the dust of centuries past,
robes are wrinkled, stiff, unmoving 
My cap is undetachable
With a bird on top who spreads its wings
coming in for safe landings,
it visits every day
My dynasty of an existence in the town square …
behind me is the holy grail,
ahead I see nothing
The sun no longer blinds me
Clinging to atmospheric change,
functions circulating in a cycle
Ideas I once formulated
are unmoving inside me …
a statuesque  life

A cat and A fish Tuesday Tryouts: Are We Talking Yet?

a little fish swimming
round attracts a curious cat

fish says
I can’t breathe

big cat likes that
and replies come on out
play with me

as he pulls at the seams
of the tank and water
oozes out

smiling
delighted with himself
I’ve made my catch for the day

lying in his filthy mess
repeating over and over
I can’t breathe

cat licks its paw
saying oh, boo hoo!

"South of the Border" big tent poetry #45-stuck,stranded or otherwise trapped

On the desert floor air is frigid at night
Deflated memories bound in a cyclone
I look for a familiar star to guide me in my twilight
No cars pass on this purple-tinted highway in the dark

Can you hear the coyotes howling in the middle of the night?

On the desert floor the sun is blistering in the daytime
Scorpions and vultures searching for prey
Cacti as tall as buildings lay veins in the earth
Spines emerging from areoles, too close you bleed
Dust rises, settles in my hair and eyes in the sun
As I try to protect myself there's no shade
Parched mouth, water’s gone, dry skin, I’m tired
Hoping for a passerby
to rescue me from
a liquorice-coloured route
that disappears ahead

From the Dark to the Light poets united thursday think tank #40-hope

Leaving city lights behind that line a sky like jewels,
shining in their settings … bright, blinding, suspended.
Buildings look like matchboxes
ready to ignite from lingering heat.
Pressure builds up in the body, like a vacuum
searching the brain for leftover debris
to be tossed away.
Forward motion to escape oppression
that runs through the body like a disease,
eating at the core.
A million hungry ants carrying parts
to unknown areas, never to be found.
Traveling for hours with a sun that burns,
throwing its phosphorous captured by the rain
and doused outside a window as you watch.
Changing landscapes,
entering into green valleys that puff to meet
clouds and push them back in place.
Life is calm and wraps its softness around
like a gentle hand guiding you
to a new destination with some hope.

"The Muse" we write poems #45-against the grain

Gone are times of hysterical madness
Gone are folds of resistance that crease and leave me bent,
unable to stand up against its rage

Gone are reflections of the tarnished or diminished
Gone are scraps of paper holding truths not to be revealed
to anyone, anywhere

Gone are simplifications of enormous magnitude
Gone are stories of supplication’s fear in unknown
areas of the mind

Gone are watchful days with words running in a line
Gone are fears of moonless nights hiding behind
closed curtains that never open

Gone are clowns who terrify with crooked smiles
Gone are mad hatters with different disguises for
days to come forward
Gone are all these from my sight

"Girl in the Mirror" One Shot Wednesday #37

 

George Donaldson all rights reserved

 

She watches what I do
sees me in her mirror,
staring at me slightly
from her left side view.
Count and measure,
moments of delicate thoughts.
Truth is not relevant nor
evaluated in a spectrum.
No need to stare
with intensity, there’s no love …
found in her regard, it’s fair.
Remorse is solitude
from her point of glancing,
following me round, broken
images make us who we are.
As she looks on and gazes at me
through those glasses,
I’ve become unnerved.

"She Seems Lost " One Shoot Sunday- featured artist Fee Easton

Through these eyes
we see many different angles
a way to look at life
even if it’s shattered
swept aside
a demure sense of being
streetwise but lost in a fray of filth
tangled in the street’s darkness
rivers run 
water is stagnant
all waste sinks
any sense of magic doesn’t seem to hold
people look at her
disheveled appearance
tattered mess of self 
sadness strongly exudes from those eyes as
she waits by the gates to exit into
the unknown areas of her mind
soon to be lost in overindulgence
of wild nights filled with booze, men and too many cigarettes

Everything turns to Dust writer's island #11-tribute

Recognition of your gift
leads to remembrance
of who you were
lends itself to
contributions made

Flowers grow under
the worst conditions
always as fragrant

A compliment seduces
you into honor
with acknowledgment’s
smooth embrace
around the mind

In the church across the street
nothing is left to see
the steeple has fallen away
turned to dust
testimonial is
a commendation
read like a eulogy

Sidewalks separate everyone
buildings are barriers
well-constructed
my tribute to you

After the Rain poetry tow truck #11-repeat yourself

I was waiting on you, when the moon came out, you were nowhere around

I was waiting on you

I was waiting on you, in my fear and pain

I was waiting on you, in the morbid rain

I was waiting on you, past the frozen clock

I was waiting on you, where the bus had run, in the days of light

I was waiting on you, near the deepening hole

I was waiting on you, when the sun went down, I was swallowed up

I was waiting on you, but you never came

I was waiting on you, in the morbid rain

I was waiting on you

"Look to the Sky" big tent poetry #44-science

Orion has captured flight in three dimensions,
come closer … you can see him praying on his knees.
He has fed himself with Cygnus served on a silver platter
in the great dining hall of Taurus.

Through a lens observe Boötes chase hunting dogs,
as Aquila flies beside Aries searching for 
the Sea Goat that sleeps on mountainsides
in the shade of day.

Cassiopeia fills everyone’s glass to the brim with ruby liquid,
her pitchfork existence held by prongs placed on
the Altar of the Lizard, who weighs the scales between
life and death of the Southern Cross.
Still she portrays herself as a victim,
Cepheus will no longer drink from her Cup.

Perseus saddles Pegasus to find the Caelum
stolen by the Phoenix on a cold winter’s night.
Sagittarius dons the Bird of Paradise in his wavy hair to
come forward and give a detailed description of the theft.

Andromeda holds court in fairness with Lupus as counsel,
while Hercules guards the threshold from interruptions,
the Peacock spreads its coverts, like a fan keeping vigil.

All of this can be witnessed on an autumn night,
but you must pay close attention …

A Woman in the House poets united thursday think tank #39-Ghosts

She is everywhere I look,
around every turn.
In the middle of the night
she stands at the foot of my bed,
dressed in white …

Creaking on the stairs
she is behind me, so very close.

In the dark, shadows play with
the mind, I see her
hiding in the closet, ready
to take me into her world,
dressed in black …

My fear of her is real,
she sits in the sunroom looking
out at the street when no-one is home, 
and disappears when I come in,
dressed in daylight …

Then I hear the story of a young
woman who took her life
in the house
where I live …

"In a Western Town" we write poems #44-make your own wordle

 

A wild horseman carries his battered book
in a hidden pocket of his saddlebag,
riding past the titled windmills where
a meek preacher is sleeping on an old bench,
dreaming of a hawk-winged prophet’s
return to the distant and almost forgotten woodland.
A sign hangs above him that has been written
by hand in bold letters:

“Do not bare your shoulders, it will
cause you much pain in the future”

While somewhere in the center of town,
shoulders and long slender necks
arrange a distinctive pattern in the dirt,
like a zigzag that crosses back and forth.
Nearby, a young boy sits in his room looking out a dusty
window watching passing hooves,
hoping the wild horseman will come back one day and
read from his book … the words he wants to hear.

"Flowers of Fiamma" One Shot Wednesday #36

Fiamma puts flowers in her hair,
lights have been extinguished.
You’ve changed the course … shifted.
As a lock of red hair falls over her shoulder,
fruit is sliced open as walls weep
perfume contained inside them.
A pounding as he exits on a spiral staircase.

I am falling into myself, no escape.
Unraveling each part
of a painting hanging upside down.
Tiles have cracked under foot,
a crevice is opening up.

Fiamma puts her flowers in my hand.
She has lit the candles,
placing them far out of reach,
as a lock of red hair falls over her eye …

Life's Stage One Shoot Sunday-Featured Artist Jacob Lucas

 

Lost in a solitary sea, 
rise to greet the sunshine,
it soothes a severe heart.
Push aside boulders that block our journey.
We wrap our words round
until they come untied,
littered with forgotten lines like a play
poorly rehearsed and acted.
Each character is defined by their costume,  
meticulous shadows hide behind the curtain.
Step lightly into the center, 
nuances are enhanced and blinding,
never being able to see
 “Shikasta’s” last chapter, first page.

"Shikasta" is a novel by Doris Lessing.

"Canopus in Argos" sequence of five 

science fiction novels. 

What I Think I Heard TuesdayTryouts-conversations aren't just for prose

Conversations

God and Jesus in their Underwear

Fruit of the loom?
Yes, my son.

Balzac meets God

The tablecloth is greasy.
Hmm, wonder where that came from ...

Marquis de Sade meets Sade

In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice.
Aren’t you a Smooth Operator.

Three Dog Night meets Randy Newman

How can people be so heartless?
That ain't no way to have fun

BB King meets BB Gun

Bang!
Ouch!

Bob Dylan meets Al Roker

Sure gonna be wet tonight on Main Street.
60% chance.

God and Jesus in their Underwear

Are you happy now?

"Reporter" big tent poetry #43-“read-it-over-someone’s-shoulder” wordle with bonus phrases

There is also the matter of
a typical question that will tangle me up
You smile as if to defy me, I let out a gasp
A flame burns in your boyish heart
like a parade to wake up the hiding world
As you slip one thigh over the other and
proceed to write the story …

Awareness poets united thursday think tank #38-quotes and quotations

If sidled up to a tiger
be sure to close your mind
while counting stripes with
alternating colour.
Teeth that gorge or claws
slicing you into shreds.
If vexed by a hurricane
be sure to board your windows
while considering which
way the wind is blowing.
Eyes that dump torrential rain
or lightning thrown like knives.
In a garden so many things
to speculate,
how a flower creases into itself
or leaves that fall away dead.
We have to deal with such intricate measures.

“Things do not change; we change.”
Henry David Thoreau (1817 - 1862)
 

"I have found her" we write poems #43-gaurdian angel

A crevice where Bougainvilleas once lived
has rain inside its heart, as the sun makes
its bon voyage it pulls away the heat.
Dark thunder crashes down from a bright sky.
Abbreviations form on fairy wings in a universal flight,
weaved through golden ominous shadows.
Lacy patterns of ice crystals tap as we stretch our
limbs to touch the farthest point of foundation.
Engulfed and swarming with presence …
she has shown her renaissance outline
of peace and solitude that covers me.
Blankness fills empty holes with enormity.
Dreams are intertwined with fascination of
lapidarists found in a monastery of repose,
as a drop of sweat falls from my brow
to make its scintillating pathway
known to observers of night.
Her violet eyes burn into my soul leaving me
pacification to wind round a weary heart,
while I listen to rain dripping from eaves’
fingertips of nature’s diatribe.

"Unconscious Thoughts" One Shot Wednesday #35

Can’t place my heart inside a crystal glass
when flying singed edges need repair
Form is lost … changed 
Tin cans line streets
emerged with toxic waste
Forge a place of humanity
where furnaces never cease
Chase ghosts as they hide in
unseen corridors


Can’t place my soul inside a wooden box
while sliding on slippery pitches
Shape is found …regained
Plastic-filled waterways
choking out life
Consciousness of others lost
when the sun burns hardest
Pursuit of demons is forever
in scorched open fields


There’s a tree that leaves me
gloomy, while waiting for the night