The Town

This site looks like the old Utne Cafe. Runs on Motet. Lots of the old regulars are there too! I am so glad to have found this place.

Staying in the Lines

Staying in the Lines

Red lights start to blink

in my rear view mirror and

I wonder

what if I could put blue

everywhere red now stands,

would it make a difference?

Color sneaks

into every meeting, presses

its significance. What if all the world

were a fresh coloring book--

white pages/ black lines

and nothing more?

I could grab a crayon, dress

that cop in a red clown suit--

far better too

if I could flip back a few pages

and, without overrunning the edges,

make the corpse bleed blue.

Turning

Turning

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 follow him

or if he is following me.

Without Instruments

Without Instruments

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.

All of these began life as New Orleans sunrises.

Another one

Experimenting with layering different photos and art work. Got some interesting effects I think.

My brain cells are fried

What WAS the name of that lake in Canada on our 3rd poets' summit???

I wrote this one after that trip and dedicated it to Ernest, Pat, Sonja and Carol F.

Poets Should Not Wed Poets

In Santa Fe, all the downtown buildings

are pink adobe. Some two-story

geometrics with arched windows, some--

like the McDonald’s--

squat, rosy boxes beside logo-bearing signs.

It’s all very picturesque at first,

so visually poetic.

But I wonder do the buildings tire

of each other,

search in vain for steel and glass

or a tiny white cottage,

even a rusty mobile home?

Balance.

Balance beside a Canadian lake,

those who speak

and those who listen.

Moving waters

and the stone grottos they lap against.

Silent cedars

and the bears that prowl amongst them.

Milky moonlight

and the coffee-black sky that accepts it.

Poets should not wed poets,

should not struggle with metaphors

for garbage night.

Much better to tune ears to casual wisdom

and write it down

without fear of infringement.

New and old friends.

Just found Michael Snider on Facebook. Remember him from Utne? I also found my college roommate and an old friend from yahoo chat days who we once visited in Montana.

Anyone got suggestions for poetry and/or photography blogs? Have been cruising around a bit and find an occasional interesting site to comment on.

Another one

The flower boxes in French Quarter

Spent some time today tinkering with some photos. This one we took on our swamp tour on the Nawlins trip.

my photo

Ernie says I need a new picture. I told him "you are a photographer...make me one."

Frankly it was this or my driver's license photo.

No title yet and probably a work in progress

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 a 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.

Some great Reads

Good Poems edited by Garrison Keillor

Any novel by Jodi Picoult ..... she is my new favorite

Keeping up the flow

Good morning poetry land. I have my butterfly net at hand and am trying to recapture that errant word.

link to the Alexie poem

http://harpurpalate.binghamton.edu/91/ShermanAlexie_Traveling_poetry.pdf

Sherman Alexie

Rus , I am still thinking about that poem Traveling. I think I have had that dream a time or 2 myself.

Might give you an idea ......

The Word That Got Away

And I stand there

abandoned by my own vocabulary.

People get twitchy,

embarrassed for me , no doubt.

They imagine

I’m humiliated by this betrayal.

But what I feel

is more akin to grief.

I knew that word well.

We were old friends.

If it’s escaped me,

surely it is only a vacation, not divorce.

My fear is that

it has been waylayed by strangers,

kidnapped, stuffed in a trunk,

sunk in the ocean, forgotten.

And I stand there

holding a big bag of money

waiting for the ransom note

or a dictionary.

I've thought of those ladies so many times.

9-11-01 after returning from Italy

Throwaway Friends

Two gray-haired ladies in pedal pushers

stand on the curb

near American Express in Rome.

They brighten at our Texas drawls,

ask if we are in the Vatican tour.

We are.

One fans herself against the August heat

with a crumpled city map,

shares a laugh about Italian disdain

for ice and air conditioning.

From New York,

she has been following

an itinerary like our own--

Venice, Florence and now the eternal city--

ten days of foreign flavors,

the trip of a lifetime.

Knowing we will forget her name

along with all the others we learn that day,

we climb on the bus

behind her friend and ask about jobs back home.

She glances back, flashes a smile.

Oh, I work in the World Trade Center.

I’m sure you know the place