You and I

Image borrowed from Bing


You and I

You are a warm front
that moved in from the north,
a blind spot bearing beautiful gifts,
a garden in the air, a golden filament
inscribed with the name of God's hunting dog,
a magic heirloom mistaken for a feather duster,
a fountain in a cow pasture,
an anachronistic anagram
annoyed by anonymity, a dollar in the pocket
of a winter coat in summer.

And I am the discoverer of you.

Jonathan Potter

Posted over on the Writer's Almanac
"You and I" by Jonathan Potter, from House of Words.

Part of Embracing

Image by Yildirim Enes


part of embracing

part of embracing
the city is knowing
the corners and nooks
across the faces
of a handful of
buildings,
familiarizing
yourself with the
way the sun climbs
along the city’s
spine and lifts
off, panting
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Bitter Lemon

Image borrowed from Bing


Bitter Lemon

Sam Sharpe, private investigator had his work cut out
for him. And he was in a mood, his ex wife was on his
case for more money and his new girlfriend was proving
tricky.

He was called to the townhouse of Harvey D.
Schoolzemeiner (the D was for dollar), something to do
with a dead Harvey, a hysterical servant and blood on a
breakfast plate.

All before 7 am. and Sam Sharpe, private investigator,
had run out of coffee beans and everyone knew Sam
didn't do mornings without coffee.

He arrived at the townhouse to be met by Harvey D's
distraught wife, a pneumatic blonde with tears in her
eyes but clutching a dry hankerchief.

Sam introduced himself and was led to the breakfast
room by the wife.

Harvey had been found dead by the servant at 6 a.m
this morning.

He had a knife wound through one of his main arteries.

'Is he really dead?' the wife breathed to Sam.

'Put it this way, doll, he has made his last dollar'
Sam said.

'Who would do such a thing?' the wife shrieked.

'Well, doll, I would definitely be pointing the finger at you,
you are what twenty five, Harvey was what? Seventy four?
What did Harvey do, doll? Or was he just too old and you
wanted to get your hands on some of those dollars, pronto',
Sam asked.

'He didn't like my pancakes, Sam, I tried every recipe and
he just HATED my cooking. I just couldn't take it anymore'..
the wife sobbed.

'So you had to kill him because he didn't like your cooking,
doll, is that what you are saying?' Sam asked.

'He said I cooked like his third wife. I know for a fact
that she only every microwaved, Sam. How did you know
I did it? I had been wearing oven gloves when I stabbed him,
I thought no-one would ever discover it was me', she cried.

'Listen, Doll, if you ever have another husband to kill,
don't draw heart shapes in the blood, the jury will give you
another ten years for that. That, like the lemon is just pure
bitter. Now who does a man have to kill around here to get
some coffee ?,' Sam barked as he reached for the phone
to call the cops.

Brigid O'Connor

Posted over on her site Sort of Writing
Listed as #16 over on Magpie Tales 55

Sharp Shooter

Painting by Peggy Flora Zalucha


Sharp Shooter

Ballistics were all in a flap,
No bullet could make such a gap.
Holmes made his arrest
With his typical zest,
A lemon entry, my dear chap.

Martin T. Hodges

Posted over on his site Square Sunshine
Listed as #1 over on Magpie Tales 55

Scientific Exploration

Image borrowed from Bing


Scientific Exploration

So.., When they tell me
you can't get blood out of a turnip,
naturally, I have to try.
Well. it ain't easy,
but it can be done.
Takes a lot of pressure,
you don't get much blood,
and the turnip ends up
looking all anemic and wrinkly.
But it can be done,
you don't get much, though .
What you'd want turnip blood for anyway,
I can't imagine.
What are you gonna do with it?
You can do it at home.
Best not to try it at the breakfast table, though.

Doug Palmer

Posted over on his site Feel Free To Laugh
Listed as #21 over on Magpie Tales 55

Bloodblossom

Painting by Boris Vallejo


Bloodblossom

Her lips parted slightly,
like rose petals pulsating,
awaiting the darting Lothario,
the love snake; but instead
there erupted a stabbing pain
as her lower lip split open
and the thick sweet blood
masked the lust overtures,
interrupted in a heart beat
as twin ivory stilettos punctured
the pale curve of her exposed neck
just prior to an orgasm surpassing
all others, frying the hillocks of oblongata,
electrifying the red rivers and tributaries
of maidenhood, boiling every ounce
of arousal to a peak, sprouting
demon wings on a bare back,
drenching blue irises goat-yellow,
splitting her tiny tongue
into a serpent’s stinger, swimming
powerfully toward total darkness,
willingly, lovingly,
without fear.

Glenn Buttkus

March 2011

Listed as #22 over on Magpie Tales 55

Would you like to hear the Author read this poem to you?

Lemon

Image by Tess Kincaid


Lemon

In Sunday-go-to-meeting
clothes, the Betty Boop
of fruit, a natural-born flirt,
can be very unpretty.
After the first sweet sip, drips
a brutal aftertaste. They say blood
can’t be squeezed from a turnip.
Sometimes, no matter how
hard you try, lemonade
can’t be made from a lemon.
Sugar hides a multitude,
but it's no good to be
both hungry and afraid.



Tess Kincaid
February 2011

Posted over on her site Willow Manor
Listed as #3 over on Magpie Tales 55

Little Dot

Painting by Rick Mobbs


Little Dot

the great
coiled snail of
wisdom hovers over the
golden hair and wings of the
twelfth cherub of lork busily protecting
little dot who still converses with the gods
and finds wonder in the chaos, wrapped
tightly in her cloak of woven ferns after
facing down the whirling dervish
snake that appeared after
breakfast, who hissed
incessantly to beware
of the bright fishes
of the air, for
hurricanes
and tornadoes
are attracted to the
rainbow scales on their
sides, now readying herself
to emerge anxiously from the
temple entrance to run and jump
and work off the bread fruit in her
tummy, picked from the hothouse trees
within, wanting to rush headlong on the sheer edge
of the narrow ridge top so as to dally beneath
the mobbsian gate, the arch of love, clicking
her ruby slippers and making that high-
pitched clucking sound in her throat,
calling to the multi-colored
amphibians, cajoling them
from hiding so that they
might cavort and play
with her before the
tiny third sun would
drop from the sky
and she would
have to go in.

Glenn Buttkus

March 2011

This is a response and homage to the stunning painting
above, created by Rick Mobbs.

Would you like to hear the Author read this poem to you?

February's Wintry

Image by Yi Ching Lin


february's wintry

february’s wintry
mix only lets up
long enough
for breakfast
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Factory/Shadow

Painting by Norman Rockwell


Factory/Shadow .........................1725

He kept himself
grounded as he worked
on the line because he knew
the dangers of power. One jolt
might not be so bad, he
would joke, but he knew
he’d be dead. And when he
was driving home and a woman
hit him from behind going
twice the speed limit, blinded
by the afternoon sun,
he made it home and cried
in my arms, amazed and sad
he was still alive. His seat fell
backwards and he was lying
down when they pulled him
out. She claimed his car
was just a dark blur at impact.

Amish Trivedi

Posted over on Poems & Poetics

Foil/Dose

Image from collection of Judy Kesterson Solis


Foil/Dose .........................1732

This is our last time around
with no sign
that we've been here
before. Next time,
I plan on leaving early
before they fuck us up
again. Asked about where
he was going, he always said
he was coming back
and smiled. This made them
cringe and pretend
they understood. He noted
the pained look
on their faces and wrote down
the time. There was an angelic baby
on her shoulder
and he was introduced as
the father. His face was the same
as theirs.

Amish Trivedi

Posted over on Poems & Poetics

Abandonment/Obscurant

Deviant Art by NewBelgrade


Abandonment/Obscurant .........................1698

This was the day
for a smoke screen that
I had seen before. He
has returned
and there’s no rebellion
to be found. I built this war
to reflect what I saw
in space: this war and
this well-rested night.
I saw all the lights flicker
multiple times
before questioning
the power generation. What-
ever and whatever, this
is the used up end and the
beginning that’s waning.

Amish Trivedi

Posted over on Poems & Poetics

Attempts/Unrealized

Image by Enzio Parrazziello


Attempts/Unrealized .........................1718

We’re good at
pretending to know
what we’re doing
during the lean hours. He
carried tools and
fixed glasses, waiting
for a nerve to work
up. Even then, she
pretended to know
what was happening
and he waited for nothing.
I saw him later
at the door as her
cab pulled away and
never said anything and
never talked about it
after that, but I could tell. These
were the moments where we
meditated in the yard
and stood with our legs apart
and our hands up, pretending
to hold a vase or a child
as long as we
could.

Amish Trivedi

Posted over on Poems & Poetics

Sound/Syllable

Image by Enzio Parrazziello


Sound/Syllable .........................1708

Us
at the table
and red: glasses
that don't
need tape. I see her
listening to jazz
and should have
said no. Plastic
forms the new
fever. I was from
Saturday and she was
Sunday breakfast. Tiles
are stuck and
germinating: your hoodie,
a nervous smile.

Amish Trivedi

Posted over on Poems & Poetics

Combine/Liquid

Image by Enzio Parrazziello


Combine/Liquid .........................1735

After, the
bruises became
her thighs: the next
blooms. Rotten
flowers,
symbols of
sustainability. In photos
where she’s
Joan of Arc,
I prefer the ones
with her glasses
taped and in
a purple dress. This
music plays
faster as she says
no and smiles.

Amish Trivedi

Posted over on Poems & Poetics

Dose/Farewell

Image by Enzio Parrazziello


Dose/Farewell ..........................1738

A new, lovely way
to say “mistake.” I should
have imagined these
bindings before. The moment
after must have been
amazing, but there’s no
way to draw it out
or pretend it sprung up. This
last note is the orbit
of decay: please press
these stains to my face.
Anything included
in the sunset is mantra
and I felt out of it some
time back. These were
the same eyes that saw
what wasn’t there, and
now all I want is the
vision- the way things
should have gone.

Amish Trivedi

Posted over on Poems & Poetics

Amish Trivedi

Image borrowed from Yale Archive


At the library I worked in, I came across a discarded card catalog. Because of computers and databases, etc., card catalogs are a thing of the past. This one drew my attention due to the labels on the front of each drawer, including “Ritual/Abstinence,” “Sound/Chest.” The drawers, however, were empty. I was confused but intrigued by the jarring nature of each word in combination with another word. There seemed to be no relationship between the two words on either side of the slash, so later on, I wrote down all fifty drawers worth of titles and began writing poems that I felt reflected each label’s juxtaposition. I felt the poems ought to try and bridge the two words on the label, creating a relationship through language, much in the way I believe we all create meanings with words.

With some research, I was able to find out that this large wooden cabinet had been used to house a custom index for a collection somewhere at the University of Iowa. Unfortunately, all the labels were removed before I could find out anything for certain and now the cabinet is empty, waiting to be given away or destroyed.

The card catalog intrigues me by its ability to be fascinating and useless at the same time. Language, too, is ultimately ephemeral in that it is always changing and never static. Language must be treated with a movement towards levity, as it is always light with us. Aesthetically, I strive for levity in my poems, not only through subject matter, but also through word choice and the visual effect of the text. As I am attempting to represent the card catalog through my poetics, I believe the card catalog also represents my views of poetry. I feel that poems ought to use fewer words to create jarring oppositions and phrases, which is probably why I was drawn to the card catalog. I believe this is how one explores language as a construct and liquidity rather than as a rigid structure. The function of poetry is to delve into and explode language. In this sense, the card catalog, which is now an ephemeral piece, has room for poetry to move within it, seeping through the disjunctive language present in the extinct labels. Where the relationship is remote, or maybe even non-existent, poetry, as a function of language, is able to propose meaning via its agile nature.

Amish Trivedi

Posted over on Jerome Rothenberg's Poems & Poetics

The Visit

Painting image borrowed from Raine's Gallery


The Visit


Mocked by the thin sun
of a February morning
she shut the door
on the cocoon of her house.
She shrugged herself deeper into her coat.
Distaste tugged at the corners
of her lipsticked mouth.
Spiked heels meticulously picking a path,
her gleaming car received her,
purring pleasure,
flattering the tedious road ahead.
Bound for the old house by the sea,
shrouded in memories of long ago,
where faded women kept watch over a past
which was hers too,
grey clouds overwhelmed
the last rays of the morning’s sun.

Friko

Posted over on her site Friko's World

Limbo

Image by Gregory Melle

Limbo

After the melt, winter, dull
with Novocaine, lacking a proper taste
of death, waits in patient homage

for Nature to resume her pleasantries.
The insufficient poison of ice,
is swallowed-up in mushroom sky,

and leaves behind a chamois world,
a limb-strewn, cardboardy puzzle,
dirty as a pillowcase. She paces,

obtuse, in the squalor of good
intentions, scotch-taped, ephemeral,
in an arborglyph of days.


Tess Kincaid
February 2011

Posted over on her site Willow Manor

Exposition of Sleep

Image by Tess Kincaid


Exposition of Sleep

Gone is the late,
languid dream, the lazy
misdirected energy, closely-shaved
armpits, gaped hungry and pink,
deep past the alarm.

The crepe-strewn sphinx, hollows
now filled and tapped, easy
with a new eye, punctual
as a coo-coo clock,

does not take much room
in bed, but sleeps rolled
in a ball, a pendulum steeped-quick
and pulled-out, like a teabag.


Tess Kincaid
February, 2011

Posted over on her site Willow Manor

In Choppy

image borrowed from bing


in choppy

in choppy
waters, we tried
to secure
time to the pier,
fingers fumbling
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

If There Were a Time

Image borrowed from Bing


if there were a time

if there were a time
to melt down, i would
gladly
seize the last
three-hundred-and-
seventy-two
days, bring them
to a simmering
boil, cool and mold
them into a
commemorative
coin and give it
away to someone
who collects pain
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Even When

Image borrowed from Bing


even when

even when
caged, youth
arches arrogantly,
passing from
one spring to
another, a
satisfied thirst
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Confined to a Single

Image painting borrowed from Bing


confined to a single

confined to a single
measure, a fragment
of notes seldom
appreciate the longer
phrase they make –
an eighth note three
measures away is always
much more
of an eighth note,
and the whole
note over there
wears his fermata
with such
generous aplomb.
as the sentiment goes,
the notes are always
achingly sweeter
on the other side
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

An Ocean of Seconds

Image borrowed from Bing


an ocean of seconds

an ocean of seconds
later, morning remains
a moving target,
routine after routine
after routine
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

A Year and a Morning

Image by Yi Ching Lin


a year and a morning

a year and a morning
later, we did not have to
say anything –
beneath and between
the ambiguities of
a full term, we hid
the heaviness, over-
looked the sorrow –
a makeshift anniversary
to shelter the tears
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

One Year Finally

Image by Yi Ching Lin


one year finally

one year finally
wraps its head around
the truth – two
winters nearly
gone
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

The Condiment

Image borrowed from trulyfool


The Condiment

Avoiding a curse is ritual.
Tossing salt over the shoulder.
It'll not happen, then,
that bad dreams come at you.

And for positives, one looks in the mirror
at moments of great confidence,
perhaps after a day
when separate compliments come:
You know so much. You're just so funny.

Not to mention a spark of a glance
that under other conditions
start long expeditions,
find new continents.

So, to looking into that mirror
for the Great One,
the hero to take you on the journey
into the possible, that you.

It's a finding that what's a prison
of one's own limitations
turns out to be a lucky number.

Pick the chair which makes you
invulnerable to table whispers,
sure that in the decorative tapers around,
you're royal in the glint.

Trulyfool

Posted over on his site Light at the End of the Tether
Listed as #90 over on Magpie Tales 53

Mother Needed Medicine

Painting by Vladimir Borovikovsky


Mother Need Medicine--18th century


Mother needed medicine',
Ellen proclaimed during her trial.
She wore her best clothes, stitched together
with her careful seamstress skills.
If the sun shone through the court's glass windows,
the gentlemen and ladies of the court
could see right through her patched clothes.

But still Ellen stood tall.
Her employers in the large London townhouse
were offended by her poise.
They felt it mocked them somehow
as they sat in court plotting her downfall.

Ellen was found guilty of theft from her employers.
She had hidden the beautiful glassware, silver topped,
in a basket of sewing each night as she left
the imposing townhouse.

She collected twelve pieces of cut glass tableware
before she was caught.
The thirteenth one proved unlucky for her.
Ellen was sent to jail for her misdemeanours.
Somewhere inside, she knew she had done wrong.
The problem for Ellen was that it didn't feel wrong.
Cut glass bought a lot of doctor's care for her mother.
The tableware was never found.

'Mother needed medicine', Ellen said,
the cold steel of handcuffs tightening
around her wrists.


Brigid O'Connor

Posted over on her site Sort of Writing
Listed as #53 over on Magpie Tales 53

What Did We See Today?

Painting by Gustav Moreau


What Did We See Today?

Some days we are passive, listening to the incoming waves.
On other days, we are like a light that sweeps
Out over the husky soybean fields all night.

What did we see today? Horses at the end
Of their tethering ropes, the wing of affection going over,
Flying bulls glimpsed passing the moon disc.

Rather than arguing about whether Giordano Bruno
Was right or not, it might be better to fall silent
And lose ourselves in the curved energy.

We know how many men live alone in their twenties,
And how many women are married to the wrong person,
And how many father and sons are strangers to each
other.

It's all right if we keep forgetting the way home.
It's all right if we don't remember when we were born.
It's all right if we write the same poem over and over.

Robert, I don't know why you talk so confidently
About yourself in this way. There are a lot of shady
Characters in this town, and you are one of them.

Robert Bly

Posted over on the Writer's Almanac
"What Did We See Today?" by Robert Bly, from Talking Into the Ear of a Donkey.

Michael Parkes Art

Michael Parkes (born in 1944 in Sikeston, Missouri) is an American-born artist living in Spain who is best known for work in the areas of fantasy art and magic realism. He specializes in painting, stone lithography and sculpture. Parkes' work is widely available in the form of self published mass production poster prints and nine published books.

Parkes studied graphic art and painting at the University of Kansas. As a student, Parkes was fascinated by various graphic processes, and he later became proficient in the difficult medium of the colour stone lithograph. Many of his recent works have been produced as Aurographics, limited edition giclée prints.

His unique style evolved in isolation, after a period in which he gave up the practice of art altogether and went to India in search of philosophical illumination, a location that he and his wife continue to visit annually.

Early on, he painted in the generally abstract expressionist style common among his teachers. However, he later began to draw and paint in a meticulous style of detailed representation. This style is realistic in principle, but often uses magical subject matter, with imagery drawn from a range of traditions including the cabalistic and the tantric. Strange beasts encounter mysterious winged women, good and evil fight out their eternal conflict.

All of the images of these incredible paintings are copyrighted to Michael Parkes.
Visit his official website The Art of Michael Parkes