Copyright 2009 by Joyce White
Published by Smashwords
ISBN 978-0-557-22371-8
66 Pages
Dedications
My personal thanks to Sage Sweetwater who befriended and encouraged me saying, “Joyce’s poems are really good…Feminist godly mythology… sensuous, of love, of women and addictive, competitive drama…Angel-bearing wings, Joyce White’s poetry flies above life’s fault line.”
Of my book, Sculpting the Heart with Art Therapy E-book, she says, “this book is about the possibility of renewing life.”
I’d also like to thank Carolyn Howard-Johnson for her review, “Lovely…Joyce’s poems are like little affirmations for the creative essence in each of us.” ~ says Carolyn Howard-Johnson.
Of my other books she writes: “…Surviving Depression eBook “are liberally sprinkled with four-color images of artwork and photography that will make you smile; these books are about being happy.”
FORWARD
We all enjoy expressing ourselves in some secret way. This book is filled with my secret, inner most feelings. However, both reading and writing poetry are forms of therapy for the reader and the writer. Writing poetry is an excellent way to pay renewed attention to the masters and their art. They inspire us to turn their art into “our art” through films, paintings, poetry or even clay sculptures. None of us write alone without carrying on our back the whisperings of others.
Ekphrasis poetry like mine makes an excellent conversation between two pieces of art. I want to thank Picasso, Chagall, and all the other artists I partner with in my work.
Most of us get a kind of emotional fuel from looking at the art of past. They kind of give us a foundation to build our dreams on. There is no such thing as writer’s block when we use others ideas to inspire us. Poetically speaking, I think most poets are like honey bees hungrily searching through a grand buffet of literature, film and/or art for that speck of pollen we can turn into honey.
Besides authoring two books, I had a lot to say and needed a way to say it, so I started experimenting with poetry. I am no doctor and I write for fun and wellness, mine and others.
Writing poetry, journaling and art making are creative ways to turn the burning inside our heads into positive thinking, researching and recording. When writing poetry we can't help but confront our past circumstances to break their hold over us. This form of healing is called Poem Therapy.
I am not always aware; at least on a conscious level how much others drive my art. Reality is too restrictive so I like to play connect-the-dots with Picasso. He walks with me and talks with me. I am expanding his ideas into my own. It is said the human mind is like an umbrella. It functions best when open.
When sculpting our heart’s poetry, it is good to approach our art as poetry as if it were a game. We need to play connect-the-dots with words and feelings, paying close attention to the sound and flow of our memories, as well as their arrangement on the page. It is never too late to be what you were meant to be.
Sculpting the Heart’s Poetry
To be a poet, you need to know when to listen and when not, as well as begin every day with a moment of silence, during the day listen to the children who are always on, we can learn as much from them as they us,
Poets need to befriend isolated thinkers, to enjoy their gift of gab, to recognize universal truths, listen to their intuitions, and welcome the muses that are their best fans,
Poets need to give credence to the “unseen” and to know that there is no coincidence, and be appreciative we enjoy free will,
Poets need to ride the winds with glee that blow through their minds, and to write those thoughts down before someone else does or before their forgotten all together,
Poets need to learn to appreciate the sun setting, a bird call, a quiet garden, a clear sky, and a creative effort with an unambiguous pen.
TABLE
OF CONTENTS
POEMS
Chapter 1 Feminist Mythology
Turning Into Mom
Crystalline Clear
Journaling Love
Becoming a Poem
Chapter 2 Conversing with the Masters
Zeus, Hermes & Dionysus, the First New Year Baby
The Gallery
A Thousand Artist Eyes
Saint Raphael, Angel of the Sun
Uplifted by Angels
Madonna and Baby Jesus…the
Supreme subjects…
The Beating of Angel Wings
Chapter 3 Reading Picasso
Picasso’s Art
Picasso’s Paintings
Girl Playing the Tambourine
Picasso’s Women
Les Demoiselles
Chapter 4 Van Gogh & Friends
Terror and Mercy
Tears are like Polliwogs
Our Inner Poet
Money, Grammar & Endless Love
Pimping out Love in Poetry
Springtime Choices
White on White
Our Designer Future
The Ballet of the Cats
Chapter 5 the Circle of Life
The Alcoholic
Blossoms Praying
The Boy and his first Dirty Word
Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt;
Poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.
Leonardo da Vinci
Chapter 1
Feminist Mythology
Women
A kick here and there for my mom, my daughters and me, rivalry inscribed from birth to grave, our mouths disengaging our brains,
Sweet kisses turning into salty tears, do as I say not as I do! Silent wars, screaming hostility, with pods revolting and roots diving deep for refuge,
Galileo painting our minds with jealousy and conflicting opinions, from one generation to another,
Caffeine, Nicotine and Prozac swallowing our kingliest bliss, our happiness depending on our estranged loyalty to one another,
Women are flags of far too many dimensions to unfurl on paper.
Bird of God
I like to begin poetry by exploring phrases,
I am...I am a poet...but then I think
“What is a poet?”
What ever it is, I think,
it must have food for the soul,
It must have generous folds of
thoughts,
and Love,
What ever it is, I think,
it must be arrogant,
to coach the sun to rise,
to kiss the day good-bye,
and Hope,
What ever it is, I think,
Its ecstasy remains intact,
With the Birds of God
for Companions.
Turning Into Mom
I hear my mom’s voice many mornings when I roll out of bed, her eyes looking back at me in a mirror, both of us crying a little,
it was our habit to refer back to minutes, weeks, months, or years gone by, when forced to keep doing, as opposed to enjoying each other,
when we sat eye-to-eye, we were estranged, waiting for our bodies to stop hurting, and our minds to stop accusing and excusing,
but now that she is deceased, I try to simplify my twisted feelings by trying to forgive and forget, and remember our anger at the world did not compromise our love for each other.
Birthdays
Do you carry your past like a stone in your pocket?
Not surprisingly birthdays come on like villains knocking at our doors, tap, tap, tap, shifty-eyed fast speaking salesmen
peddling love, wisdom, youth and popularity pushing substitutes in bottles, tiny millimeters of hope Shifter stones, natal lovers, dark aliens, eaves-dropping our days, troubling our nights,
Feigning possibilities of youth and good health, intertwining hope with dread, Fantasy with fact
Re-defining gravity as incidental, promising regularity as attainable, shifty fast speaking salesmen console us with companion pillows, heating pads, Flex all and Unisom,
Un-pearling our hopes and dreams a little while longer, Old age is no party, No matter, No, No
Sometimes we swallow their lines greedily with regular doses of Metamucil, Centrum Silver and Maalox,
So what if Lady Clairol is our friend?
When we can't sleep, not without all those young hot lovers who mused our days and pleasured our nights, Come you now with wrinkled skin and beer barrel waists with high, high foreheads
No matter, No, No, meet us at the Vender's Market in the Land of dreamy plenty. We will love you and will sing for you of good times
Bottled and Preserved just for our Birthdays!
Happy Children
Happy children are all-stars, curious jugs of sunshine, their faces radiant,
their eyes metaphors of emptiness and fullness perfectly contained, their naïveté keeps us entertained,
they don’t think about anything too long, peanut butter keeps them energized, they have happy feet, elastic faces, like acrobats they ride bareback on wild stallions with wings, they train smarter, not harder, slow and steady gets them there,
they balance fun with rest, and they lie on their backs and take pleasure in moments of nothingness.
Crystalline Clear
I sometimes imagine us like we use to be, together holding hands, kissing, fighting, just being,
I reach for you too late, my nails biting into my flesh, I clutch nothing, just bloody me,
never in reality, would I ever imagine you not with me, have I seen you everywhere watching me, watching you,
I see you giving me a stoic farewell salute, in clouds rolling over and over, then disjoining and vaporizing,
in my afternoon Coke, tiny air bubbles fondle and nuzzle, as if us, then the ice cubes dissolve, my future crystalline clear.
Journaling Love
As if over-ripe 40 year-old grapes on a vine, sorely waiting to be plucked, aged curves and sun-toned appeal,
not soured by time but
improved like wine, hot days and long nights, wanton juices burst, in
love at last,
I am free, until,
bright neon lights, fears and scars illuminated inexplicable pain, a new seedling in a new time,
and captured in her tiny face is love, whose heart in a few years will be ripe for the plucking.
Becoming a Poem
As an artist I will admit there were unfortunate moments in my intensity, when crippling insecurities left me limp and passion-free. When I'm busy doing something I love,
there was progress to my spirit. Keeping busy always put me in a better mood. I am many, but not always the fairest to gaze upon, my smoldering aura embodied the holy, unholy and the human form; I confess I've opened my exalted head and body to Pablo Picasso who perceived me in strange and abstract ways; and there were times when I've summoned the most evil, known as Satan for a few hot unholy days, then joined Moses and the Greatest Mother of them all, until I tired of their perpetual sermons, on the hills, if I recall; three watery graves once called out to me, I offered John, Jr. a Water Lillie, as well as his wife, Caroline and her sister, too,
lastly with an urge to breed, I began following John Travolta around when his quivering wings reminded me of a night spent in the arms of the angel Michael, I offered him a Lilac Blossom plucked from my own bosom...laughed and kissed him long and hard, becoming this poem for you.
Chapter 2
Conversing with the Masters
Zeus, Hermes & Dionysus
Hermes the prankster of the Gods, sired Dionysus
The love child of Zeus and a pregnant Semele,
who died when a wish backfired because
love between a God and a mortal, cannot
safely be; Zeus quickly plucked her unborn fetus
from her dying womb, to stash in his thigh till born,
becoming tired of the extra weight, he then
plucked the child, once again, into the light,
“You intoxicate me, little one,” Zeus laughed and
pronounced, “you shall be the God of wine
and good times.” Who better to introduce
wine, merriment and fertility than Zeus, the
God of electricity, a prankster like Hermes, and
an insatiable gender-confused child?
The Gallery
Mom, I finally made it in to see you today, this darn bloody wooden bench hurts my back, and so I won’t stay too long,
the gallery of marble and stone where you make your home, chills my aged bones, yet daily, I’m happy no where else,
remembering that Sunday in the park at La Grande Jatte when I was a little girl, even now my cheeks flame a bit each time I think of Seurat,
he was the one that gave me the beautiful bouquet of flowers, and I remember how pretty I felt, he was the handsome young man with the palette he said was singing to him,
I thought him a bit crazy, now coincidentally, most think I am, when I say my own art sings to me, I’m so glad he wrapped us all in a bright warm yellow coats, and even though I didn’t hear his music then, please tell Seurat I do now.
A Thousand Artist Eyes
When twilight chases day,
heavens twinkled with the delight
of a thousand artist eyes
the day but one, a fireball called
the sun, to help us get our days
work done,
when twilight chases day,
heavens twinkled with the delight
of a thousand artist eyes,
all called upon to pay their due,
writers must write, painters must
paint; musicians are most blessed
for all, for their work they get to
play
for you.
Walking with Angels
It was John Milton who wrote Paradise Lost, the epic of Adam and Eve; he was most probably counseled by angels,
I'm thinking of just a few, now there is the angel Raphael, who escorted Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden,
And Israfel is known as the angel of resurrection and song, wrote Edgar Allan Poe, even Michelangelo sculptured his angel kneeling with a candlestick,
Shekinah is the most interesting to me, the female manifestation of God in man, also known as bride of the Lord,
the Bible says in Matthew 18:20 “when two sit together and are occupied with the word of the Law,
the Shekinah is with him.” She was also the messenger to Moses and Jacob, and John the Baptist,
And most probably to all us bloggers, poets, writers, and then there is Gabriel, one of the two highest-ranking angels in religious lore. He is the angel of
Resurrection, mercy, vengeance, death and revelation. Gabriel sits on the left-hand side of God; he has 140 pairs of wings, and represents the spirit of truth. There are many kinds of heavenly beings that bridge the spiritual and physical realms. We all walk with angels.
Saint Raphael comes to us to heal what is not right with his wisdom and grace, it can happen in the twinkling of an eye, he is my muse and I am his,
Saint
Raphael gets his power from the sun,
and he stokes our passions
with delight,
burning the midnight oils for us,
with
a voracity of unparalleled love,
he glistens in the day
for us, and glows at night
with wings and horned-head as
handsome as
any can be, when wrestling with Satan and his demons
for our souls,
Saint Raphael is my
muse and I am his,
he whispers in my ears at night,
“Let
your passions flow for others like
the moving of water, and you
Heal thyself
along with others.”
Uplifted by Angels
I am a 11:11 angel, I pray to be a
Celestial artisan, that my soul be sprinkled with passionate thoughts, when I’m tired let their angelic wings fan me with healing energetic breezes, let them light my eyes with the lamps of wisdom so I can see what is right or wrong, and give me the creative license of mixing pain and pleasure, terror and hope,
bless me with celestial knowing, wit, wryness, color and an angelic sense of timing, wake me out of a sound sleep and give me words to translate pain and loneliness into a form I can understand,
And let my optimism fall like seeds to the moist warm ground to take root in the footsteps of others.
Madonna and Baby Jesus
The Supreme Subjects
Some call her Mary, others call her Madonna, or the mother of Jesus, she was frail, gentle and absolute, infant Jesus was her first work of art,
the toddler grew strong and alert, and when he smiled at those with twisted and broken bodies, their limbs grew strong, and they who couldn’t stand before could now walk away,
that
part of little Jesus that was man never knew hunger, for angels
nurtured him with the milk of God, poppies, and lilacs for desert,
and their love which sustained him.
The Beating of Angel Wings
Melodic music of Mozart, and the beating of angel wings, breathing a pure and holy feeling into all who welcome them,
For those who believe and pray for help, welcome the guardian angels God will surely send,
And, do not be Afraid but Delight when sacred scenes unfold as I:
For once in such a moment somewhere in my soul, a pure and holy feeling came over me. I thought I died and gone to heaven, and I decided it was okay, I was suddenly awakened to incredible love. I felt like I could fly! An angel by the name of Sarah explained that angels have only one wing and can fly only by embracing another in love!
I
was hearing the most refreshing, wonderful and musical things. I knew
she
was not going to take from me but give instead; she then helped me
return to share with others what was given to me which was love.
On or Off or In-Between
The keeper of the in-between, is a messenger called Hermes, chosen to record, report, and transport the dead,
in between an outer realm and an inner realm, the living sacrifice one for the other,
the mysticism of nothingness and non-being always prevailing, our egos demanding us to be either on or off much like a machine, a loss of body, a drop in a bucket,
a fragmented libido, unending claustrophobia, a giftedness faded, secrets entombed,
how they tore at their bread, warped their peace and wasted their enormous budget of potential, their memory makes me tremble,
in between an outer realm and an inner realm, we sacrifice one for the other!
Chapter 3
Reading Picasso
Picasso’s Art
He was was born in Spain, the son of a painter and teacher of art, he was astonishingly prolific moving on to Paris,
As a theater designer, draftsman and sculptor, he was believed to be the greatest printmaker of the 20th
Century, and at last, there was as much interest in his personal life as his art, his love of praise was insatiable,
Despite all, his world was flat and his heart one-dimensional, he preferred ownership rather than loving,
he owned a model, a dancer, a photographer, a journalist, and a ceramist, and a child of 17 not quite ripe,
His Blue Period was 1901-1904
His Rose Period 1905-1907
His African influenced period 1908-1909
His Analytic Cubism period was 1909-1912
His Synthetic Cubism 1912-1919
When he found himself old, twisted and torn, he paused for a rest at Madoura Pottery in 1953,
where Picasso began molding clay, and a potter by the name of Jacqueline, whom he finally wed in 1961.
when he was entertaining friends at dinner in 1973, with these last words, he pleaded,
“Drink to me, drink to my health, you know I can't drink any more.” He died.
She
shot herself in 1986, probably thinking of him.
Picasso’s Paintings
Picasso’s abstract paintings fill my head with fascinating narratives, he ran the females in his pack with wounds, he should have felt and dealt with when he was young,
but then painted them with feelings of mastery and omnipotence, his favorite model was a pretty ballerina named Olga, his girl in the mirror,
I hear her begging to be space between Picasso’s ears, I can see her elongated limbs and bulging breasts reaching out for him,
pride guides his hands around her 22 inch waist, I see him loving his women separately but tasting them all as one,
turning his backside to each after a cataclysmic orgasm, he painted torn pieces of himself in blues, reds and yellows.
Girl Playing the Tambourine
Bazooka, I see Picasso's done it again, painting Olga dancing and playing the Tambourine, a collage of many sensual parts, a mystery to explore,
she's dancing to an unheard melody in Picasso's head, it's magical getting to know her in a cubic sense, even though she looks kind of odd to us,
Picasso thinks she's perfectly mapped, a massive tragedy of parts, recalling them with an insanity he never-ever sought,
He could do nothing more or less, then to reconstruct his women as he knew best.
Picasso’s Women
I caught the glimpse and gleam of
Picasso’s women…in my mirror, each
Invading my soul with curiosity,
sadness and fear, all of us like
stubborn toddlers, sitting in highchairs,
waiting to be f4ed life, a little excited,
a little not,
we travelled with dark glasses of
misconception and misery, our
faces wet with sweat and tears, our
egos plump,
each of us moving from one world to
another, our hands cutting the air into
magic masks of unforeseen
circumstances we hide behind,
each of us craving and loathing the
pain of the perpetual wounds of living
and loving.
|
|
Les Demoiselles
Picasso gathered five sisters of
prostitution into a collage of
strategic cubes of memento mori,
the death rattle of jilted lovers,
painting them as savages,
with angular and disjointed
bodies,
some hiding behind masks,
while his hand-eye coordination
painted them all into the future
with
ambiguous affection.
Chapter 4
Van Gogh & Friends
Oh, Starry Night
There is beauty, bravery,
and achievement in Van Gogh's
Starry Night, splendidly swabbing
his canvas tenderly, taking his own sweet
time, while gifting each air pocket
imaginary wings fashioned from a cool
night light, while the small village
slept below, he educated his eyes by
surfing the clouds, we educated ours by
studying the merits of his lines of
of composition, form and color,
trying to lock in his essence,
with his soul hanging like a
tadpole man in each artistic
rendering. where we go to breathe
in the darkness of all the idiocy,
we poets fall heir to today.
Terror and Mercy
I feel like I'm disappearing,
thought Picasso,
one painting at a time,
I'm drawing on empty, too many
paths and detours,
followed and un-followed,
an agitation blowing through me,
like a cruel wind,
between the rapture of my brush
and the dread of being misunderstood,
between groans and grunts,
and a thicket of lingering passions,
hand-picked, polished and packed for
delivery at my door by unseen hands,
these things I do not profess to
understand, my life pieced together
laboriously with terror and mercy.
Aphrodite
& Venus
and all Want-to-Be
Marilyn Monroes
Some call us man’s first cultured pearls, goddesses first birthed from castrated genitals,
our all-seeing eyes of violet blue with traces of emerald green, and our hair is like soft wet straw, with traces of wild flowers,
We are known as special tongue-n-cheek divas, which are sexually implicit phenomena and repository of many a mortal’s dreams,
man has tried to carve our beauty into blocks of naked stone, with a lot of arousal left behind, almost like flesh, only cold instead,
even though our hands are penniless and empty, they are filled with man’s destiny to love and be loved,
so
similar to the divine in repose, we lay upon rose petals in our
scalloped shells nibbling on poppies, reading poetry and singing
songs of love.
Chapter 5
Drama, Drama, Drama
Tears are like Polliwogs
It is nice to think of tears like polliwogs swimming around in a mortal’s eyes, evolving into well-adjusted higher forms,
with better motor control and hand-eye co-ordination, ascending rather than descending,
bending rather than breaking, reaffirming rather than hurting, and smiling rather than frowning,
It’s nice to think of sorrow as water, and all those tears escaping where swelling pain had been,
It’s
nice to think our sorrow will soon evaporate just like our tears,
turning our attention to helping others evolve.
Our Inner Poet
When art comes to consciousness, whether it be Haiku, epic or free verse, if it looks and sounds like a poem, it is,
whether it be paintings, photographs, sculptures or any form of creative expression, if you can feel it, you can produce it,
you can even write an Ekphrasis poem, just paint an image in your reader’s mind, Yeats, Picasso, and Van Gogh, all dead,
when
conversing with the masters, all imagination gathers to a greatness,
leaving a chain reaction, of inspiration by and large.
Money,
Grammar &
Endless Love
My brain is working overtime, thinking about money, grammar and endless love, what shoes I should wear, how to eat and how much not,
I don't know what I'll do, if my Yorkies won't stop barking, soon, I drag my tired body, from place to place, dreaming about justice and injustice,
and gorging myself on winged poetry, and it seems like I never have enough money to go around, and then words worry me, too, like would, could, shall, or should, and why not do?
Even though my pen may have a moral plan, it cannot out-argue my past because just this morning I was dreaming of budding twigs in my graying hair and dancing with an endless love,
I was thinking how his eyes flashed with fire when he looked at me and how his always smiling lips tasted of chocolate even in my dreams.
Pimping Out Love in Poetry
Some love affairs go on too long in our heads...the truth is we poets can easily become our own sad poems,
half falling over ourselves day and night, wearing mufflers, blinders and Mona Lisa smiles, our blowfish egos becoming nightly bridge walkers, roof servants, or chimney sweeps,
so Indefinable, Undeniable, breathing in the soot of our heart’s desires and all the rest of the idiocy we poets fall heir to when conjugating our hearts and pimping our love into poetry.
|
Springtime Choices My first choice is to open the windows and tear the plastic away, and let the sun shine thaw out my aching bones, winter depression and other damages unseen, Soon my poems will blossom like seeds, their roots flourished by the warmth of a sun gone wild, I will kneel and give thanks as I struggle out of my skin like a sleepy poet ready to dangle metaphors from my pen, we will all drink, eat, and feel more; when we touch, smell and breathe more, We’re so privileged to have two working hands and hinged knees to help plant the seeds that come to life in the Spring. |
White on White
I like to play the “what if” game. How would we live in a world without color? I imagine living with white on white would be better than black on black.
When I’m shuffling through my mind, I imagine I wouldn’t know if I were winning or losing with a deck of solid white cards or a set of white checkers,
Without colors I wouldn’t know when to stop, to slow or go, I think about all the beautiful flowers and butterflies and what their colors mean to me,
I’m thinking about white pigeons cooing and cawing, hiding from white cats, hurling and twirling themselves into the air, all for naught,
I’m thinking about white birds, looking for white worms crawling around in white grass, and all their white bellies hungry for the prey they cannot see,
I’m thinking of white sea-caps on white rolling seas, and a white sailboat in distress, how would it be saved? How could we be taught our ABC’s with white chalk on a white chalkboard?
We can live without many things around, but who can happily and safely live without nature’s colors of red, yellow, orange, blue, green, black and brown?
Our Designer Future
I wrote this poem thinking about how our world would be if science begins designing kids in test tubes. Then there is the ozone thing. What will humans be like if all is bad becomes true sometime in the far future?
I woke one morning to find Mother Earth, is damn mad now, her rain forest so beautiful and strategically placed are gone because men needed toothpicks and chairs to sit their lives on,
looking out my window, my light-sensitive eyes detect a protective plate glass between me and the warmth of the sun, as it is fatally dangerous now with no ozone layer in between,
it seems now the fields of corn, wheat and all the good things we love to eat are gone, no green grass, only clay and sandy ground cover remains.
No cows, milk, chickens nor eggs, only nutritious red and orange chemical capsules with added steroids to purge on, Not Russian nor USA,
nor Chinese, everyone imprisoned yet saved.
Only unisex babies are born now, incapable of love or emotional thirst, sexual preference and degree of intellect are now a matter of scientific design,
those men and women who remained true are considered genetic mutants, and can be found in a new kind of zoo.
Mankind
now practices levitation, and uses much more of their brain. There is
no need to talk or sing, and can be described as open vacuums of
knowledge with Mona Lisa-smiles!!!
The Ballet of the Cats
By day they sit and stare in unison, a communal group, observing, waiting, it is their job, height obsessed, achieving lift-off, sailing like pieces of air-blown tissues,
twitching tails, piercing neon eyes, hissing and spitting in rage, their operatic screams take the night,
cameling their backs with purpose, one mouse in seven escaping, their mystery prevailing as rumors suggest they see through reincarnated eyes,
Cats by day, and Tigers by night, on stage, on call, perhaps eternally.
Chapter 6
The Circle of Life
The Alcoholic
Rotted gutting, pickled lips and
Blood shot eyes, violent
limbs in the middle of sleep
Protruding wormholes where
the liver and heart should be
Fading in and, a stranger
A lover, a stranger, again
Coal black days for his enabler,
His breathing labored after
Kissing me, him licking
his lips loving the way
they tasted like beer
He drifted in and out, a boy,
A monster, a boy, again
who doesn’t know his
his insatiable penis
will at some point devour him,
A stupefying sight,
him clinging to his fleshy brain stem
while pouring out his heart to others!
Blossoms Praying
There's nothing as sweet as falling for a little girl in her gardenias world, she loves the sight of us sprawling all over the earth,
pink, white and yellow, some pods pierced through the heart by a stem so green, always singing, and dancing side by side, dreaming of an amorous encounter,
when the winds and rains come, we are set free to take the ride of our lives, we sigh for some understanding, some permanence,
we don't have much time to philosophize about our fate, we'll all be back again the following spring, blanketing all around, where we first and last touched the ground.
The
Boy and his
First Dirty Word
His first dirty word tore at the sweet meat of his brain, while he explored many feet of earth, and everything that really matters,
he was like most boys with years behind him of chasing squirrels, playing video games and pushing music inside his head while putting everything else off till tomorrow,
glued to the side of his ear was a shiny snail whispering, go for it, go for it, and it made kissing sounds, as he jumped from hole to hole,
he
would be a man when his twelve organs were in place and his brain
stem was unencumbered by logic.
A Cowboy’s Moonlight Ride
A Virgin Moon shining particles
of our forefathers, ageless and weightless,
a movie camera,
Intake, Focus, Flash-On
an aged Cowboy and a lot of Bull imbedded
deep within a plush, green, still-life
hemisphere, partly missing & partly seen,
Intake, Flashback, Intake
callused palms and aching thighs,
booming echoes of bulldozing hoofs,
the unruly duo becoming the burial site
for the roots “Of Dandelions”
Intake
Flashback, Intake!
Hermit Poets
It is a dilemma how we are always digging in-between sand traps, cutting us off at the waist, from the triumph of imagination over intelligence,
Playing hide-and-seek, always on the go, here, there and yonder, forgetting to appreciate the poetry and creative expression,
kindred spirits turn disorder into order, they turn repressed thought into attendant emotion, and ambiguous words into dreams.
that
transform us from displaced willy-nilly crabs to spontaneous artists
who build elaborate series of defenses lest their sublimated emotions
and motivations come disturbingly into consciousness.
Ribbons, Bows and Pink Lace
I’m six, no ribbons, bows or pink lace, only curly long locks around my freckled face, I don’t want dolls or to play with others,
I never got ribbons, bows or pink lace, only long braided hair that hid my shy face;
I was always alone, and for fun, I chased lizards, slimy, slithery ones, and turtles, slow ugly green ones,
I loved watching the frogs jump and the birds fly, flip pity flop pity, high-flying ones;
I loved the pretty colored rainbows sent after a storm; and when I caught falling stars, putting them in my pocket,
I made wishes every day, for ribbons, bows and pink lace!
I’m ten years old now; we live in a shot-gun shanty on the Mississippi River,
I wore new homemade clothes that smelled old before I wore them, no time for fun or friends,
it seems like the only warmth in our shack came from an old iron “pot-bellied” coal stove huddled in the corner coughing up fumes of distaste,
Like me, “Come on out and play!” The kids in the neighborhood screamed and ran away.
I’m
older now, my gray hair hiding my face, I have Ameren, a warm gas
heater, water to bath with and to cook, now I’m wishing my kids and
grandchildren have ribbons, bows and pink lace.
Who Should Live & Who Should Die?
I think a lot about our men arguing over who should die and who should live, I think about how they worry about the sky dropping fire and brimstone on them and all they love, s
I think about how they end up sore and bleeding standing on corners, I always give them a nod, a word or two, and they look at me through swollen unforgiving eyes; what more can I do?
Will it matter who I vote for? Will the killing stop?
I'm recalling my own pops, who served both in the Navy and Army, from l7 to 40, even though his heart is now cold stuck inside a box,
I think about my brother committed suicide when he got back from Viet Nam, I don't think he ever voted, I hear them scratching and moaning just outside my reach,
Probably patrolling somewhere between the living and dead, weighed down by these last indignities.
Will
it matter who I vote for? Will the killing stop?
Purple River Currents
My heart is a reservoir for purple river currents, not blood red, not lagoon blue, not raging in a deep dark mysterious abyss,
But passionately racing through my body, my veins, lapping up oxygen like long hungry tongues,
purple river currents cannot be dammed, nor can resounding echoes be ignored, I’m damned,
still,
I’m counting on those purple river currents flowing a long, long
time.
Growing Love
When I was a child, it was my mom I loved the best, when I was a teenager, I began questioning, was I worthy to befriend?
As a young single mother, I wondered if I was worthy of another love?
Now in the winter of my years, snug under my covers warm and tight, my inner poet whispers in my ears at night,
to not be afraid to bare my bosom to the moon and up gather my pollen like a sleeping flower,
when my days are no longer that of harmony, beauty and/or dramatic expression,
Triton
will blow his horn and I will join my mom in deep repose both of
us eternally loved.
The Glass Dancer
After my mom died I sculpted the following
bust of mom and wrote a poem to go with it.
Mamma, Mamma, don't cry,
lucky for us, we've been born again,
from rich moist clay and strewn love
each sand particle together mixed,
Sweet waltzes of time gone-by,
dancing with vulnerable glass quarried limbs,
blind mocking eyes cold as stone,
Mamma, Mamma, don't cry,
so harried our beginnings and our end,
with so much desire and in quiet desperation,
I cut your jade wrists than mine,
My bereavement pain has not been easy,
Twice no one dies; I wait in un-hope,
A slip of the hand,
And we're together again!
If
you don't know what your true gifts are, this book will help you find
them. Written from my
heart for the heart of others.
THE END