Broken Shells

Sunday Clouds

2012-01-08T18:53:00.000-06:00

What a glorious day.

Signage

2011-11-02T16:52:00.001-05:00

Three art pieces created from out signs on building in historic downtown Eureka Springs......."Mud Street".

Getting weird with my shots

2011-11-02T16:44:00.001-05:00

On one of the lakes we came upon a "murder of crows" (that is the correct term isn't it?) perched on bare tree branches. I promised Ernest I could come up with something uniquely creepy from his shots. The old falldown barn is also from this trip..just a different spot.

just a few fall shots

2011-11-02T16:32:00.001-05:00

Photography by Judy and Ernest lewis

Eureka Springs

2011-11-02T16:17:00.000-05:00

just returned from a fantastic few days in Arkansas. Arrived just in time to get fall color at its zenith. Should have poetry later but art is already spilling out....more to follow.

It Ought to be Perfectly Clear

2011-10-16T18:57:00.000-05:00

I'm looking around wondering if I'm in hell

I can feel words rubbing shoulders,

others enjambed like widows and orphans

Too many notes, Mozart!

You'll have to excuse me

I've been up for 28 hours

Maybe I need more coffee

I've just been remembering my childhood skies

Images tumble--

a carpet of brilliant stars,

moon swinging like a pendulum,

the glow of city lights

a rainbow I once saw in Myrtle Beach,

old man at the bus stop,

a mud puddle,

guinea pigs and turtles,

robots clomping along in concrete sandals

I’m in deep weeds here

I fear it can't get simpler and remain This Poem

And now the stars are pouring from a Dutch oven,

the moon's glow is excessive and offensive

Eyes stabbed by a pollution of light

Sudden severe zoom-in:

children scabbing food off people like sea gulls -

restless and needy

But they seem too superior for that somehow

I’ve had a glass of wine

and I find this to be absolutely hysterical

Laughter is neurosis springing leaks

Looking back I can't believe what I’ve written

A few jagged lines

front row seats to a catastrophic sideshow

an awful muddle of modifiers

What rubbish lurks in the empty spaces of my brain?

Why do I wish in general poetry made more sense?

The imaginative reader

is a figment of the imagination

But I believe in trolls, kid,

and they know where you live

Long time/no blog

2011-10-05T12:57:00.000-05:00

I am still around. Life has been complicated of late. will try to post some new work soon...soon as I have new work.

Test

2011-07-07T18:10:00.001-05:00

Networked Blogs is failing to publish my posts to Facebook. This is a test to see if I have resolved the problem.

Infinity

2011-07-07T01:21:00.000-05:00

Slamming

2011-06-26T14:34:00.000-05:00

Just did the Poetry Slam over at the Town and remembered how much I used to look forward to that sort of pressure. LOL Think I might have has ONE good line. But as they say...one good line will follow another...or something like that.

Politically Correct

2011-06-06T12:15:00.003-05:00

I found this posting at The Town, one of my favorite writing community sites. I would have linked but I am not sure how to link a specific post for those who might not be members of the site, I hope its author will forgive me posting it in its entirety here. I haven't laughed this much in a long time.

The Do It Yourself Tutorial

                        on

         How to Sanitize the English Language
     Using Acceptable Gender Neutral Terminology

                      by me

                Phillip H. Antom

    in corroboration with the "NEWSPEAK" Society

                      and

The New Entimology of Word Structure and Pronouncement
                    for the
 Empathic Application of Multicultural Inclusivisity


PREFACE:  The example provided below illustrates the politically
correct method to convert a commonly used, but unacceptable term -
 "manerism" - into the improved and more acceptably gender
nuetralized derivation of this archaic word form - "organweedbody" -
through the sensitive substitution of word parts which do not convey
any offensively sexist intent or meaning.


Chapter 1:  We start with the word "mannerism", with its obviously
unacceptable gender component - "man".  The process of language
sensitivitization begins by replacing this insipid reference to a
specific sex with an acceptable, substitute syllabilization which
embraces all genders, not just the male counterpart:  the acceptably
gender neutral word component in this case is the term "Human".  Put
into this context, we have transmografied "mannerism" into a more
sensitized version of itself - "humannerism" - without destroying
its intended meaning.  This process of substitution continues until
all unacceptable, insensitive, and inappropriate word parts or
syllables are replaced by their appropriately correct gender neutral
counterparts.

Chapter 2:  Closer scrutiny reveals that "humannerism" also carries
its own sexist connotation via the reviled gender component "man" in
its second sylable.  Our first transformation is therefore
politically unacceptable for proper sensitivity in the more empathic
pronouncement of English language terms.  To avoid the tautology
posed by a second substitution of "human" in the context of
sensitivitization, we must seek out another replacement which
conveys a similar, but more gender neutral intent.  The
word "person" is the proper candidate for usage here, yielding a
second derivation for our example word in the form
of "hupersonnerism".

Chapter 3:  One would assume that the process of word
sensitivitization would be complete with this second derivative.  It
is not.  Albeit, a more subtle form of gender connotation, the
unacceptable word component "son" in "hupersonnerism" must be
corrected to a more properly gender neutral term, as well.
Since "child" conveys a universally non-gender specific meaning
within the basic context of the "son" syllable, it is the proper
choice for our third derivation of word sensitivity
transmografication as pertains to  the original, gender based
word "mannerism".  Our correctly sensitized version of "mannerism"
now becomes "huperchildnerism".

Chapter 4:  However, we have not yet absolved our derivative word
from the unforgivable sin of gender specific syllabilization or word
parts borrowed from other world languages.  In particular, the
English translation of the German pronoun "er" is quite gender
specific, if not openly and tutonically sexist - "he".  Proper non-
specific gender empathy demands that we eliminate all universal
hints of language sexism in the evolving sensitivity of our
derivative word.  A selection is readily available in the German
pronoun "es", meaning "it".  A more universally acceptable language
substitution  thus being made, "huperchildnerism" sensitively
evolves into the more wholistically gender neutral word form -
 "hupeschildnesism".

Chapter 5:  It stands as axiomatic in the process of language
sensitivitization that, whenever one acceptable correction is made
to one sylable or word part in any politically incorrect word
construction, another problem is likely to
arise.   "hupeschildnesism" is no exception, since the
syllable "schi" has the phonetic potential for pronouncement as
another gender specific pronoun "she".  As with "man", "son",
and "er", "hupeschildnesism" is not an acceptably gender neutral
derivation of "mannerism", either.  In this case, we shall replace
the "she" sounding syllable with its more neutral English language
counterpart "it", thus leaving us with "hupeitldnesism" as our
resulting derivative of the politically incorrect word form -
 "mannerism".

Chapter 6:  Even so, we are still not totally language sensitized
with this derivation of "mannerism".  Far be it from politically
correct NEWSPEAKers in their haute couture of flannel shirt and
burkenstock chic to employ any word component in our acceptably
sensitized lexicon of sanitized terminology which may be offensive
to anyone on the planet.  "Hupeitldnesism" illustrates this
possibility quite rhetorically by virtue of its word
component "pei", which active verb connotation may phonically offend
the more cloistered polite circles of a global  multicultural
society.  A quick reference to our compendium of medical terms
reveals a neutralized substitute that can be safely and
inoffensively applied to this situation.  The acceptable process of
word component substitution has therefore generated our next
derivation in the process of language sensitivity -
 "huexcretetldnesism".

Chapter 7:  As of yet, this derivation of "mannerism" is not
completely devoid of insensitive word components, because it
contains a reference to an ethnic place of origin - "Crete".  To
maintain any such references to place-specific ethnicity or national
origins is not only improper, it presents a fundamental challenge to
the precept of politically correct sensitivity we are endeavoring to
achieve through the purposeful applilcation of NEWSPEAK
reeducation.  On this basis alone, it is imperative that we act
affirmatively to enfranchise all ethnic groups or nationalities via
the process of language sensitivitization in order to avoid any
misguided inference that our next derivation of the word "mannerism"
condones the discriminatory practice of favoring one place of origin
over another.  Thus, the politically correct and most universally
acceptable substition in this instance would have to be the
word "country" in lieu of the embedded word part "Crete".  What
derives from this exercise in reeducative language propriety is a
properly resensitized version that retains its connection to a place
of origin without any allusion to ethnicity or nationality -
 "huexcountrytldnesism".

Chapter 8:  However legitimate this last word substitution appears
at first glance, it is not itself acceptably sanitized of improper
sylabilization, yet alone sensitized to the most prevalent by-
product of new millennium world history, e.g. the transferance of
sovereign authority from diefied kingships to the self evident rule
of the common people, which in turn surrenders its constitutional
birthright to those governmental authorities empowered through the
collective will of the allegedly elected.  Likewise, the word
part "count", being a royal title, is a virtual anachronism for
these modern times and must be replaced with a term that is more
attuned to modern sociopolitical thought.  Although it can be argued
to the contrary, the best substitute for the purpose of universal
language sensitivity is "congress".  With "congress" meaningfully
interdicted to its rightful and appropriate sylabic place, language
sensitivity is now judiciaously applied to our next politically
correct generation of the word "mannerism" -
 "huexcongressrytldnesism".

Chapter 9:  Realizing that an important objective of NEWSPEAK
reeducation is not to be judgemental or disparraging in our daily
use of the English language, proper word acceptability must be
evidenced in all selections for a word part replacement so that
acceptable levels of universal sensitivity can fortify the dignity
and character of those prone to antisocial behavior, as well.  In
this regard, retention of the word part "excon" will only serve to
subvert this laudable objective and will only perpetuate
stereotypical labels for these unfortunate victims of western
civilization's historically noninclusive socio-economic system.  A
more politically appropriate substitution comes in the
word "repatriated", which confers the positive imagry we
unquestionably wish to promote for enhancing the self esteme of
individuals with potentially low self esteme, especially for those
who have or are paying their debit to society no matter how many
times that installment has been overdue.  What evovles through the
edification of these principles in our NEWSPEAK derivation
of "mannerism" is "hurepatriatedgressrytldnesism".

Chapter 10:  For reasons alluded to already, ethnic names also
constitute an unacceptable predisposition for favoratism at best and
prejudicial intent at worst.  Such syllabilization therefore has no
place in our sensitively sanitized derivation of "mannerism".
Although it may be a unisex appellation, we must reluctantly
eliminate the syllable "pat" on this basis and substitute the
acceptably gender neutral descriptive term "name".  This ultimately
yields the acceptably reeducated
terminology "hurenameriatedgressrytldnesism", wherein the equally
repugnant gener component "rena" must likewise be replaced, yielding
yet another achievement in language sentitivitization -
 "hunamemeriatedgressrytldnesism".

Chapter 11:  As with royalty, titles of distinguished achievement or
selective honor which cannot be achieved by everyone are an especial
taboo if we are to aspire to the lowest common denominator in the
politically acceptable process of language sensitivitization.  Since
the word part "emer" (an abreviated form of "emeritus") is an
exlusive rank of ordination reserved to a privileged circle of
intellegencia and since this honor is never conferred upon any
intellectually subordinate levels of common society, it, too, falls
to the rules of compulsary elimination for the purpose of corrective
sensitivity.  The logic of semantics dictates a choice that would be
an abbreviated counterpart for "emer", in this case "ret",
meaning "retired".  So our next derivation of "mannerism" is now the
more politically acceptable - "hunamretiatedgressrytldnesism".

Chapter 12:  Intentional or not, references which infer a
predisposition to ethnic traits or characteristics   serve only one
purpose - to target a group for insult and mockery so that its
individual members can be deemed deserving of all the misfortune or
travail which befalls them.  Disparaging epithets based on national
origins are particularly inappropriate - as in "Hun".  They always
represent a disrespectful attitude towards the acknowledged
advantages of every urbane lifestyle made possible by our pluraistic
society.  There is no basis in fact to perpetuate the stereotype
imagry or racial profiling conveyed by any improprietous component
of our NEWSPEAKING derivative word.  As luck would have it, there
are several suitable replacements, but only one - "nomad" - seems
apropo to the acceptable process of language sensitivitization by
substitution.  Such an improvement provides for the next NEWSPEAK
generation of "mannerism", that
being "nomadamretiatedgressrytldnesism".

Chapter 13:  Properly placed sensitivity requires that we eliminate
all connotations to illicit practices and immoral behavior in order
to police the innocence of the sheltered mind or to uphold in our
multicultural mindset a pristine resolve, as historically
demonstrated by the incorrupt modesty of premodern times.  Too many
respectable terms of a bygone era have fallen to some subversive
form of retranslation, thereby perverting their original meaning.
The term "madam" suffers terribly from its modern annexation into a
dual meaning of honor or inuendo.  Yet, it is just one example of
the philological shizophrenia so readily contained in the every-day
English of modern society.  The remedy, however, is easy and right
in line with our goal of politically correct language
sensitivitization - to form yet another derivative that will
eliminate any prospect of an unintended meaning.   By
replacing "madam" with a more globally accepted neutral term that
does not evoke any sexist characterization of chattel, as in "ms".
This being done, "mannerism" now
becomes "nomsretiatedgressrytldnesism".



end part one
out.

Watercolor Flowers

2011-06-05T19:06:00.000-05:00

Love it!

2011-05-10T22:36:00.000-05:00

Posting from my new ipad

at Melba's request

2011-02-28T16:24:00.003-06:00

This is about my husband and his mom taking a drive to visit old familiar places...not long before she died. One place was near her childhood home, an old creek that Ernest always called "grandpa's creek".

Grandpa's Creek

We stop on our nostalgia trip
at an ancient wooden bridge
and look below to where the reeds
grow thickly at the edge
of a shallow branch of the river
and for a moment we do not speak.
Then I say at last, incredulous,
"Can this be Grandpa's Creek?"

Across some water- beveled rocks
a little rapid spills.
We called that spot "the waterfall".
a sad reality fills
my eyes as I see it now
with perspective born of age:
a meager, little knee high wash
no wider than a page!

But looking at my mother's face
as she looks back through time,
I see it with my childhood eyes
and me, just so, at nine:
a scrawny kid in baggy trunks
with freckles and a tan-
screaming, gleeful, soaking wet-
without a future plan.

Summers with my sisters there
a dozen miles from town,
they'd hold me under three feet deep
with the promise I would drown.
My mother watched us from the bank
or waded out up to her knees
laughing or else scolding us
to "be more careful please".

She sees that now I am quite sure
the scene in sight arranged,
a perfect place of memory
no matter how it's changed.

A little farther up the road
she shouts for me to wait.
"Oh look, it's the old corn crib
there just beyond the gate.
Daddy built that for the cow's feed
right on that very spot.
Why haven't these people torn it down
with this fine new house they've got?"

"Oh I guess for the novelty." I say
"They probably call it an antique."

And I wonder do their kids go down
to play in Grandpa's Creek.

Symbolic Wisdom

2011-02-17T01:50:00.001-06:00

Option on the Wall

2011-02-04T18:25:00.001-06:00

An experiment with using the option key on my keyboard.

Without Instruments

2011-02-04T00:26:00.000-06:00

All that exists we imagine,

the great circle of the earth tilted

on magnetic lines,

minute organisms that dip and bob

in a glass of water-

all either too large or too small

to examine without instruments. Our fingers

can’t peel back mountains

to extract the molten peach pit

at the core nor charm bacteria

into a snake dance with the songs they drum.

We imagine

that we move along parallels,

tropics that never converge,

each believing

in its own symbolic power to inscribe

the surface of the earth with its existence.

We imagine

that we wind like thread around a spool,

strands of singularity, each

its own color and texture.

We imagine that it matters

what we think,

what we do,

what we say. We believe in ourselves

like geography, like science,

something written in a book--

too large

too small.

Backwards

2011-01-29T22:47:00.003-06:00

In the mirror first I see myself

then the streaks of Windex Mama left behind.

On the third look,

I see her staring back

from another room , the cat under the bed,

the way that picture looks

backwards.

Today is the first time I’ve noticed

that everything is tableau

worth writing down.

In the kitchen I arrange the objects

on the formica tabletop.

Salt and pepper shakers shaped

like Mickey and Minnie, a sticky syrup bottle,

Mama’s plastic plates with the pink rose

in the very center.

Our turquoise vinyl couch

always squeaks when I sit down

and unfold the funny papers.

The cartoons are Black and White,

the blurbs in balloon boxes.

Outside lawnmowers hum,

kids glide by on two wheel bikes.

The summer air is breathing peace.

We have not yet become human metaphors

for mass consumption.

I am no longer certain if I am there

looking ahead

or here looking back.

I see myself in the mirror first

and then the world turned backwards.

Mermaid ballet

2011-01-29T18:09:00.000-06:00

Haunted

2011-01-10T13:17:00.000-06:00

Without Us

2011-01-08T17:42:00.002-06:00

When we left

time folded up the town,

stored it away

in some dusty drawer.

I never doubted

the population logged off

with a sigh of relief

they no longer

had to keep up the pretense.

An artist

at an easel had painted

cloud-streaked sky,

quaint shops,

rural landscapes.

Only our stepping

through the canvas

gave the image

breath.

It was a brief reality.

Today I crossed the street,

peered at window displays that seemed

unchanged.

I drove the short three miles

to pasturelands where cows

moved slow motion

across sweet grass.

I couldn’t believe

a world went on without us--

without you beside me

studying a road map,

calling out the names

of towns like this

with histories

that only had a present life

as long as we were there.

Networked blogs

2011-01-08T17:15:00.002-06:00

I am really enjoying Networked blogs! A great way to share my blog and to keep up with the blogs I follow.

For my friend Randy Adams...in response to his poem Tears

2010-12-27T18:29:00.002-06:00

Happiness and sanity are an impossible combination

Mark Twain

What troubles me most

is the sheer number of sane people
crouched under their umbrellas

unable to take the leap off the pier

absolutely certain disaster lurks there

when it is the insane leap of faith

that brings about positive change

one miracle at a time:

After reading about a Chicago toddler

who needed a new kidney

to overcome a rare birth defect,

a stranger donates one of his organs

saving the boys life

A French inventor develops

a car that runs on thin air

Petitions from women around the world

stop the stoning of a woman in Iran

Parents of a student volunteer

killed in the Haitian earthquake

build an orphanage in her honor

An anonymous woman

drops a diamond ring in a Salvation Army kettle

Three graduate students at Rutgers

found “Giving What We Can”

and pledge to donate 10% of their incomes

to relieve suffering in the world

A five year old with a terminal disease

spends his own allowance money

to buy Christmas toys

for Children’s Medical Center in Ohio

An Australian mother’s embrace

revives her stillborn baby

after doctors have pronounced him dead

On land poisoned by toxins

of a long-gone manufacturing era

more than 6500 solar panels face the south sky

ready to deliver power to New England

An off duty Colorado state trooper

pulls a boy from a frozen pond

A Christian Church and an Islamic Center in Memphis

share friendship, practicing the tenets of their faith

No sane person would believe these stories

because he sees what he is conditioned to see

He has his hat drawn down

to block out the sun he is sure will give him cancer

Don’t be accused of being sane, my friend

Take the leap

And let me preface this post by saying

2010-12-26T20:23:00.002-06:00

This is not about my mother.

I don’t mean to be critical but

That’s how the sentence always began

and I knew

I was about to hear my failure again

I put the dishes away wrong

My new haircut did nothing for my face

It wasn’t right to wear slacks to Mass

You were busy

but you still had more than enough time

to be perfect

My friends’ mothers wore polyester pants

with elastic waists

and sometimes forgot their lipstick

Once I left my shoes in the living room floor

I tried never to repeat that mistake

but even in my shoe rack they were scuffed

I told myself

my daughter would never hear me

catalog her shortcomings

I would praise her complexion

Making a B in Algebra

would be cause for celebration

Maybe I tried my best

I certainly put enough thought

into her Christmas presents

Now and then I stop

at her bedroom door

and listen to her laughing on the phone

I’ve raised a happy child

Pretty and popular

She knows what a gem she is

I look forward

to Mother/Daughter Day every year

Want her to know how proud I am

I am standing at my mirror

making sure my make up is complete

when I hear those words again

Mom, I don’t mean to be critical but

Coloring Memory

2010-11-23T10:27:00.006-06:00

If I ever have a son, I*ll tell him the sky was denim,stone washed blue, a hand like suede.
An indelible image.

Light filtered through rustling leaves
like some delicate open fabric,
made lace shadows on the grass.

If there was rain
it arose without cause.
Clouds were auras around the sun.
Puddles were dazzling, liquid fire.
Along the water*s edge
purple irises never lost their graceful bearing.

You can call me muddy and confused.
If our stories diverge,
you can say I*m misremembering.

The day was turbid, brown.
An unfriendly wind bent
the line of blooms in different directions.

For years you pored over
the book of purposes only to conclude
that gray gloom entrenched that day
never to release its grip.

So be it.

Remembered or recast,
I*ll retain my belief in denim sky.

coin

2010-11-21T13:17:00.000-06:00

Burning Bush (ah brush)

2010-11-20T00:34:00.000-06:00

This image was painted entirely with Photoshop brushes and enhanced with Photoshop filters. Not to give technology ALL the credit, I did actually envision, design and execute. I rather like my end product.

Writing can be frustrating

2010-11-16T18:12:00.002-06:00

Reverse Metaphors

I wake up in a white room
not a hospital
more like a page in a book
where I am the only line of text

I have no context
in which to place my observations:

there is cold
the smell of strawberries
and a light without any obvious source

If this is heaven I am disappointed
If it's hell I am unimpressed

Perhaps it's a dream
where the metaphors have been reversed

Somehow I've been turned into an inkblot
in someone else's Rorschach Test

and the dream is interpreting me

Grapes

2010-11-13T18:05:00.002-06:00

Found

2010-11-12T22:54:00.000-06:00

When the night is cool-

stars spangled against dark sky,

silence spread like arms

pulling you in,

a thread of memory

around your finger-

comfort is a small place,

just big enough to fit your day inside,

with no room for tomorrow

Turning

2010-11-12T22:46:00.003-06:00

I don’t understand

the revolving door.

Moving, always moving

in one place.

There is comfort

in an open door,

a closed door--

knowing just where I stand,

one side or the other

of somewhere.

But here I turn

forgetting where I got in,

unsure when to exit.

Okay, I’m an idiot.

I find I’m transfixed

by the man two slots

ahead of me.

He is both fat and flimsy,

held together

by a bow tie, a ghost

between sheets of glass.

I can’t decide if I should follow him

or if he is following me.

Still Life

2010-11-12T22:43:00.003-06:00

Fat fountain

becomes tilted jug,

spills water turned

to wine by evening light

across concrete tablecloth.

Glass towers are bottles sparkling

with reflections.

Sphere of setting sun,

an unpeeled orange.

No hand disturbs

the scene where silence slithers

between dishes set

for one. From the window,

landscape is still life.

Changing Lanes

2010-11-12T19:08:00.000-06:00

In the express lane, I frantically

count items. Ten only, ten only.

If I have eleven, will the clerk notice?

Will she humiliate me, declare

a bunch of grapes, a thousand items?

Store’s so hot,

the guy ahead of me steams.

Behind me, a woman with a dozen eggs

(how many items is that?)

shifts a baby from hip to hip.

The kid reaches for my hair with sticky fingers.

Grapes, toilet paper, bread, milk and peanut butter.

Lean Cuisine, mayonnaise, head of lettuce.

Can of peas, can of beans, shampoo.

Eleven essentials. One extra item,

only one. Let go of my hair!

As the clerk calls me next,

I change lanes.

On the freeway,

trapped between a Toyota

and a semi, I squint

at the exit sign 300 yards ahead.

Names of streets

are doing a hula in the hot, yellow haze.

I turn on my signal,

squeeze a inch forward,

sneak a glance at the driver

in the turquoise Corolla.

He plays I Don’t See You,

keeps edging forward.

---he wants to shift left,

I want to shift right---

this ought to be easy.

Eggs over easy, one wrong move

wrecks breakfast. I hold my breath,

change lanes.

Home. Alone. Haven from choices.

No question where to park

in a one car garage.

Microwave Alfredo, peas in a sauce pan,

sit down to Judge Judy

in the only good chair.

I know this routine, bless its sweet boredom.

Tension uncoils as I sip my iced tea.

I pick up the frame,

study your photo, crinkles of laughter

framing your eyes.

A picture in winter, still tanned from summer,

hair turning two-tone, still darker than mine.

I stick out my tongue--

half in jest , half in earnest--

at the face and its challenge to all I hold dear.

What the hell, one more time.

I’m changing lanes.

Pears

2010-11-12T19:05:00.001-06:00

Lemons

2010-11-12T18:59:00.000-06:00

Apples

2010-11-12T18:54:00.000-06:00

Fruits

2010-11-12T18:51:00.002-06:00

A new series of art images

Green Eyes

2010-11-06T23:26:00.000-05:00

Happy Passings

2010-11-06T19:03:00.003-05:00

in the South

we always say someone has passed

it’s a much kinder phrase than death

as a child I always imagined

the deceased drifting by

passing us as a parade float might

we could stand and watch

them smile and wave

on their way out of our everyday world

that’s why we were dressed up

because it was a party and afterwards

people brought cake to the house

my grandmother passed

and in time my parents too

took that Rose Parade journey

though by that time I no longer expected

passing to be an occasion of joy

even if we do wrap it in flowers

the pageantry of death is grim

no bright streamers or balloons,

no raucous music with drums

we dress somberly

we speak softly as if we are trying

to keep the secret of their death from them

most often it is raining

though I have no idea

why that should be true

I rather hope the parade starts on the other side

that someone is as happy

to see them arrive

as we are sad to see them go

that they get their brass band

and the chance to ride

in the crepe paper carriage

my childhood fantasy

never followed the procession

farther than my own field of vision

the march was all about me waving goodbye

so where the passing ended up

was a just great mystery

it still is

pastel graphic portrait

2010-11-04T19:07:00.000-05:00

Dream Pilot

2010-10-29T16:51:00.000-05:00

the moon tumbles

into the refuse bin of morning

all dreams both large and small

contain a splinter

of truth, a chink of reality

which is why the comb

seems to pull

certain strands of light

from my hair as I blink

before the mirror

I spent the night flying--

a kite dragged across the sky

by an unseen string

dipping and curving, occasionally

crashing back into my bed

in a dazed heap

of glowing sheets, luminous

pillows

I pick up my toothbrush

half-expecting

to be pulled up through the ceiling

Drawing Blood

2010-10-29T16:33:00.007-05:00

This won’t hurt a bit, they tell you

as they strangle your arm

with a rubber tourniquet,

begin slapping your flesh

to raise a vein.

The needle is small, as if to say

Don’t fear my bite

but I always look away at that point

I know it will burn,

know they will likely withdraw,

stick again,

apologize

It’s like that

Don’t be fooled by cliche promises

Eat your vegetables and you’ll grow up tall.

study hard and you’ll succeed,

cheaters never win

Why can’t they just tell you

you’ll be a pint low after this

but don’t worry

there’s always more blood where this came from

And the series continues

2010-10-20T12:32:00.000-05:00

one more....

2010-10-18T19:23:00.000-05:00

These are proving to be quite fun.

More "Fema Art"

2010-10-18T19:13:00.000-05:00

Art in works

2010-10-18T19:07:00.001-05:00

I am working on a full series of art poster images created from Fema markings on walls of homes post-Katrina in New Orleans. I think it would be cool to create something beautiful out of something intrinsically ugly. Here is an example of what I am going for.

Sunflowers in Glass

2010-10-18T15:57:00.002-05:00

windows

2010-10-05T14:51:00.000-05:00

titleless

2010-10-05T10:59:00.004-05:00

Cold hours

hugging the dark

Rainforest thunder,

its grumbling bark

Morning runs barefoot

in the sleepwalk grasses

Sun thrusts fingers

through bird-studded branches

Dreams undress,

shed their meaning

I open my eyes

and hear the bread singing

Hopping on the poetry bus

2010-09-15T17:44:00.000-05:00

From Karen's prompt: write about school or schooling

I walked home from school

in the days when a child could still do that

in the days before

the wall-mounted telephone

fell in to disrepute

I carried my books in a plastic satchel

It was plaid with a red handle

and a metal clasp that looked like brass

but wasn’t

All the houses I passed on my 4 block trek

were either white or gray

except one

tiny pink shotgun

with a tumble-down porch

and screens full of holes

The lady there didn’t like kids

to cut across her yard

with its patches of brown grass

sprinkled between the weeds

She glared

from the kitchen window

and sometimes

knocked on the glass

so I would cross over to the other side of the road and quicken my steps till I was past that house

I crossed the street

without a crossing guard,

I walked home from school sometimes alone

or else I rode my bike

barefoot and without a helmet

with no fear at all

but for an old woman in a sad pink house

on a corner lot

of an old shell road

in a little town

were everyone knew my name

Title before the Poem/Egg before the Chicken???

2010-08-31T17:26:00.000-05:00

I have this unfortunate talent for discovering a title before I can fully imagine the poem that goes with it. I woke up yesterday with such a title and ever since have been trying to come up with an opening line. Anyone else have this problem? Or am I uniquely insane?

Loved this One

2010-08-29T12:47:00.000-05:00

I loved this. Funny and yet also beautiful.

been breathing too many fumes running after the poetry bus

Name on the Wall

2010-08-24T15:06:00.001-05:00

graffiti

2010-08-24T15:03:00.000-05:00

Babilu

2010-08-11T17:18:00.002-05:00

Some workshopping going on on Babilu this week. Really gets to blood pounding.

Rising Sunflower

2010-08-07T17:20:00.002-05:00

Secret countries rival

between the long-legged trees

crowned with sunbursts,

the happiest orange

This field,

a world enough of color

to overshadow all

the dark-damp ground below

One head nods above, petals spread

like arms of rising sun

Nautilus

2010-08-07T14:43:00.006-05:00

A folded heart

thrown down on the sand

like abandoned love,

an exquisite exoskeleton:

its graceful curves

wrapped tight as fingers

in a worn-out glove

New poems

2010-08-07T14:17:00.002-05:00

For the longest now I have posted more visual art than poetry. It is addictive working with images, deciding what they are after they are finished. It is a bit like automatic writing. I think I need to put my pen to paper just move it around and around and see what emerged. For starters I am going to try to make poems to fit the images I have been posting. Lets see what happens.

Fresco

2010-08-02T16:29:00.000-05:00

Perfect Sunset

2010-08-02T15:08:00.001-05:00

Gems

2010-07-28T21:30:00.003-05:00

Gems

Turquoise waves rushing ashore

evolve into emerald

when viewed from the long pier

The midday sky is sapphire, cloudless;

the sun, a hot gold coin

with ruby edges

Gulls skim the surf, shaking

diamond drops from their wings

and come to rest

on sand so pale and shimmering,

the grains can be no less

than tiny seeds of pearl

A Study in Textures

2010-07-28T19:03:00.000-05:00

Access and Barriers

2010-07-28T16:46:00.000-05:00

Billion Dollar Sand Castle

2010-07-28T16:30:00.000-05:00

Broken Shells

2010-07-28T16:25:00.000-05:00

Sky and Surf

2010-07-28T16:13:00.000-05:00

The Long Pier

2010-07-28T16:07:00.000-05:00

Pensacola Moon

2010-07-28T15:59:00.000-05:00

Islamorada Queen

2010-07-21T19:28:00.001-05:00

Sunset at Islamorada

2010-07-21T13:29:00.002-05:00

Hibiscus/Key West

2010-07-17T12:23:00.000-05:00

Florida

2010-07-16T09:31:00.000-05:00

Totally loving this trip. Expect pictures later.

Florida

2010-07-12T21:51:00.000-05:00

Sitting in a hotel in Tallahassee listening to my husband snore. A long long day of driving and another tomorrow but great friends waiting at the end.

Visits

2010-07-09T14:13:00.002-05:00

Had a great visit with my sister-in-law and her husband. And now we are eagerly getting ready for our Florida trip!!!

Rising Sunflower

2010-07-09T14:10:00.000-05:00

Brown-eyed Susans

2010-07-06T14:33:00.000-05:00

Eyes of Day

2010-07-06T12:16:00.000-05:00

An old one

2010-07-05T16:01:00.001-05:00

The daisy facts made me remember an old poem I wrote. It related to a list a friend gave me explaining the Victorian "symbolism of flowers" There was a whole list: a tulip, especially a yellow one meant deception. Foxgloves indicated infidelity. Accepting a flower with the right or left hand expressed a positive or negative response to a suitor. Hibiscus indicated desire; pansies, suspicion; daisies, dissembling. It was a very detailed code that everyone had to understand if they were to cultivate or give flowers. I found it amusing as well as poetic.

The Symbolism of Flowers

Eyes of day, white-petaled

dissemblers. He loves me-loves me not,

with all those tactile promises.

And in their midst, a tulip

as yellow as a caution sign.

So much for the symbolism of flowers.

I carry my cuttings inside

and tell myself if he reaches

to take them with his right hand

that means yes, the left means no.

But he doesn’t look up from his copy

of Car and Driver.

In my youth I tucked pink hibiscus

behind my ear to signify

an amorous mood. In time

I pinned forget-me-nots

over my middle-aged heart. Lately

I cultivate pansies and suspicion.

I fancy he has slipped on foxgloves.

But perhaps it is just indifference.

I might be telling the story of a man

who fell asleep in a poppy field and forgot

the poet he was, maker of cardiac cadences.

We continue. We have a license.

I head to the kitchen in search of a vase,

an informal one for simple stems.

There my two-faced daisies litter

the tile in a mute heap,

rendered silent by a single bud.

The language of flowers may be obscure

but everyone knows what a red rose means.

Facts About Daisies: found poem

2010-07-05T15:43:00.003-05:00

Daisy Facts

Offered here with some minor editing

Facts about Daisies

They originated in western Europe

In Scotland they were known as Gools

A man there could be taxed if he had

too many daisies growing in his fields

They are known to grow wild and cover whole meadows

They are very hardy, often considered a weed

But some people eat daisy leaves in a salad

or brew herbal tea that is said to be medicinal

Many animals eat daisies but not pigs or cows

They are the eyes of day and grow best in sunlight,

a perennial returning year after year

Daisies bloom in the summer months,

over 200 types of them: Africans, Shastas,

Brown-Eyed-Susans and more

Children make daisy chains, girls pluck their petals

“He loves me , he loves me not” as if daisies knew

Legend says their numbers could predict

how long till a maiden wed

After 39 years its seed might still grow

Great one for the 4th

2010-07-04T20:25:00.002-05:00

Great one for the 4th in this nation of immigrants.
Thanks, Rus, for this link!

Immigrants Picnic

Getting silly with those phrases

2010-07-04T20:03:00.000-05:00

I assume you followed the butterfly link. If so you will understand this silliness... if not, well........

To Interest a Butterfly

The childish and the old alike

may crave to consider a butterfly’s flight

Its very little lifespan among ceiling flowers,

the water and nectar, the light it devours

Cool types of gardens won’t offer such fun

as it finds in the chubby weight of the sun

With fanfare and flourish, these tiny insects

are drawn like a magnet to gorgeous effects

It loves sour fruit, it worships the heat

Does it make brains to pollute where they eat?

Whatever you cultivate, keep slightly wild

for the joy of a butterfly or delight of a child

What language is this???

2010-07-04T18:59:00.001-05:00

I have been searching the internet for inspiration for garden poems and came on this article about gardening to attract butterflies. While there is good information the language is strange.... rather like someone fed it into an English translator. I especially love the phrases "magnetize butterflies", "brightly painted plants", "crave to consider", "ceiling flowers" and "the chubby weight of the sun."

Backyard Butterfly Garden

I'd Like to Be There at Sunset

2010-07-04T18:21:00.000-05:00

Glass Garden

2010-07-04T15:31:00.005-05:00

http://www.chihuly.com/I posted the art piece "Gardens of Glass" created from images taken in Phoenix a few years ago.

This link will give you background on the glass artist Dale Chihuly whose work was exhibited there in the botanical gardens.

Glass Gardens

Jewel branches

ice rose, cold blue, rainbow ribbons

Chihuly’s blown flowers,

moving rivers,

iridescent spheres

It’s simply artful

in the sleepy desert sun

There among green-gray

spikes on yucca,

the perfect glass trail

winds through pebbled paths

Always dry,the landscape

dreams of grass, fantasizes gardens

as cool as water

even in India-hot swelter

But sunset and moonfall,

darkness rising,

twinkle lights awaken like fireflies

to a collective gasp of wonder

Imagination

It’s poetry for free

Reflection of Suspension Bridge

2010-07-02T17:43:00.000-05:00

Worms

2010-07-02T15:06:00.000-05:00

Flare off the sidewalk one day:
walk on forbidden grass,
risk your eggshell-tender toes
on rocks like colored glass

reflect on soil and compost,
stare in nature's gritty face
Look keenly at its darkness
to comprehend life's grace

isn't all daffodilly sweetness
but brown earthworms in the loam
tunneling with sure purpose
where rootlings make their home

A miracle of ugly:
wigglers fit for fishers' pails,
you'd never see without first
getting dirt under your nails

Challenge laughter's brittle edge,
press its border further south
Trumpet deeply from your gut
without covering your mouth

Toss head back like the flowers
and while kneeling at their feet
consider what's above
before,
beside,
behind,
beneath

Morning in my Garden

2010-07-02T14:39:00.000-05:00

In the gentle light of morning
I wade through dew-wet grasses

dragging rake and trowel and clippers
over footstep-flattened passes

Across the frontier of my yard
I daringly pioneer forth,

scout out legions of garden pests
invading roses from the north

I forget awhile those challenges
that make me doubt my worth,

I kneel down on the rock hard ground,
change horizons with spades of earth

Undefeated by foes of weeds
where there is no strength to prove,

I bring to fruition some small dreams
and move the little mountains I can move

gardening

2010-07-02T14:19:00.000-05:00

Summer brings thoughts of gardening.
I used to love working in the yard. As time goes by I love it less and less, detest the heat, the humidity; and my back and knees have rebelled. Still, I have a wealth of garden poems. I thought it might be fun to post a few...all old ones...and then see if I can come up with a new take on the old theme. Old ones to follow, then we'll see. :)

Garden of Glass

2010-07-02T13:58:00.000-05:00

Birds in the Windy Sky

2010-06-29T17:54:00.001-05:00

Quote from Kendall, age 6 :" Grammy, the birds are having trouble flying!"

Storm arrives suddenly

(moon sliver clutches blue corner of sky

birds are finding it’s hard to fly)

Trees fill with refugees

(robins and sparrows and jays unite

on limber branches, halted in flight)

Manic music shakes the air

(twittery,feathery protests abound,

crashing and barking and wind chimes resound)

Sky styles its head of hair

(pure white then gray and finally black,

puffy then choppy till wetly pulled back)

Thunder grumbles like a train

(lightning licks darkness, shadows the ground

fright incites singing, a riot of sound)

Feather coats repel the rain

(braver birds battle the wind and move on

before the clouds rain out, ghost moon is gone)

Windy Sky

2010-06-28T12:33:00.000-05:00

cycles

2010-06-27T19:45:00.000-05:00

A Place Near Water: for my Captiva friends

2010-06-27T18:43:00.005-05:00

A Place Near Water

I shared the desert’s dusty breath

all winter and into spring,

Now the air’s grown cirrus-thin,

without even the grit for tears

or smoke enough

to tease a cough from my lungs

I long for that place

deep under the trees

where leopard light dances

on moist leaf beds,

where pavement-worn sandals

can sail the grass,

and rising fog rains rivers of mist

to catch like snowflakes on my tongue,

where moments before sunset

ruby refections spiral out

from a pebble toss

and every sound is a whisper:

that place.

Remember?

There was a river or a lake
or a sea

Workshopping and Rewrites

2010-06-27T15:43:00.000-05:00

I mentioned in my email to Rus how much I miss NevadaChat. That was such a rich experience. There we were: none of us in Nevada, spread all over the world, speaking a variety of first-languages and yet meeting up at least once a day to post and workshop and exchange news about our lives. I value all of your friendship so much and really miss that connection!!!

I have visited The Town and Babilu recently and have found a couple of old friends but others seem lost. Where are you, Shisa??? And Paula? How about Randy Adams? Rus, have you heard from Peter Desmond? Has anyone a clue where Chris Tozier is, or Barbara or Silva or Fei?

Over at Babilu, Brenda gave me some great thoughts on my clock-Watching poem . I am going to do some rewriting and repost in a couple of days. I need workshopping. My mind is as dry as the Nevada desert.

anonymous posters

2010-06-23T12:09:00.003-05:00

Who are these people and what do they want????
I don't speak Chinese and when they post in English their comments make no sense. (Judy looks around the room and wonders who is hiding in the closet)

Abstract Shell

2010-06-22T19:58:00.000-05:00

Nautilus

2010-06-22T19:16:00.000-05:00

Shelfari widget

2010-06-20T21:00:00.002-05:00

I've added a widget for Shelfari where I am starting a reading list.

Sunset Fountain

2010-06-20T19:23:00.004-05:00

Wind and Rain

2010-06-20T18:07:00.003-05:00

Water weeping from the sky

settles dust

and though newly cut,

blades lift up,

gently blowing grass

Rain isn’t always storm

nor windy weather, hurricane

Sometimes a ghost moon

lingers into day,

its shape a shadow

against the sky

just whispering

Darkness isn’t always blind

nor daylight empty of stars

The heart’s shaped chambers

open and close,

a living muscle

and muscle requires living,

struggle not languor

Not every seed becomes a fruit

nor every planter, a gardener