Sunday, September 30, 2012

MAGPIE...Prompt #137

                            IT MUST BE TIME FOR LUNCH NOW/ 1979/ Francesca Woodman

THANKS to Tess at Magpie Tales


Like a faux magus,
I've bent spoons for you
with my mind.
Look at me,
starved, waiting.

When called to be present
I ring with pangs of remorse.

Despair bumps and grinds me
to my knees each day,
trickles of crimson
sully the dust.

The villain of the piece,
I'm bleeding,
now wearing
your favorite color,
Scarlet A.

Not yet entitled
to meet eye to eye.

Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2012

Sunday, September 23, 2012

MAGPIE...Prompt #136

                                                       FLYING DOWN/ 2006/ David Salle

Thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales.


My dream vibrates,
won't let me shed it.

As a rule
sunshine melts
the night's exploitation,
thoughts soon fly away
like crafty ravens,
but not those hovering
in the hours
of last night's darkness.

A gilt frame surrounds
my prevailing life.
A two way mirror allows
Freud to peek in
on the old guilt.

I'm a collage,
layers attached
but transportable,
not embarrassed
by my naked derriere.
Dreams intact.

Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2012

Sunday, September 16, 2012

MAGPIE...Prompt #135

                                     VENUS AND THE SAILOR/ 1925/ Salvador Dali

The rhythm of a Pantoum, feels like a dance to me....Thank you Tess, at Magpie Tales.


Don't take the dance from me.
I give my word not to wait
for intoxicating applause.
Just need my heartbeat to do a jig.

I give my word not to wait.
Dancing is my body's dream,
just need my heartbeat to do a jig
when a melody seduces me.

Dancing is my body's dream,
it bubbles from the source
when a melody seduces me,
weaves my karma into a waltz.

It bubbles from the source,
embraces me at nativity,
weaves my karma into a waltz.
Simply want to keep on dancing.

Embraces me at nativity
for intoxicating applause,
simply want to keep on dancing.
Don't take the dance from me.

Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2012

Friday, September 14, 2012

When The Dalai Lama Comes To Visit

                                           Household Cleaning Book:  Self Sufficiency


It seems like dust,
this accumulation of faults,
amorphous, floating,
looking for a place to land.
Settling on a waxed table top,
a fold of my robe,
between my teeth.

I spin like a top
to cleanse my breathing,
my delusions waiting
to be swept up, altered.
On I run to purge this vessel,
so that I can receive
a pop in
from the Dalai Lama.

Hosts of life itself,
on my shoulder,
a line of Bodhisattvas,
telling me to hush, and purify.
A poke in the ribs,
take notice of the stain left untouched.

I rinse the flaws
from the fabric of my mind,
sweep away the soil of my indifference,
light up the path
to the assembly of my soul.

A knocking at the door,
the Dalai Lama and the Buddha,
hand in hand!

Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2012

Tuesday, September 11, 2012


                                                                    TWIN TOWERS


That year I saw the dust of new souls settle quickly on my window sill, life caught off guard, amazed at dying, wandering, perhaps looking for an attachment to a life ended in disbelief.

The residue of 9/11 sifted over New York City, and windows, in my apartment, shut tight, couldn't stop the silt from seeping in, graying my black phone, smudging a blue plate waiting to be filled with food, my hair, dull wisps, and my finger able to print my name on the table top.  I wiped all clean, only to start all over again in a minute.

Eleven years later, the air is cleansed, and ordinary, common detritus accumulates, takes over.  But in those first days, weeks, dust had a life of its own.  A death of its own.  We knew what that dust was made of.

And in New York City, you can count on it, sort of place a bet, that always, this date, this 9/11, would ascend as a beautiful day, from sunrise on, a blue clarity, a cloudless sky, a mild warmth in welcome contrast to a blistering summer.

On my tongue, a taste is discerned, a bit salty, tears caught in the flask of time, released every year on a New York City day of clear perfection.

Remember/ The Pentagon/ Shanksville, Pa.

copyright/all rights reserved/ 2011

Sunday, September 9, 2012

MAGPIE...Prompt #134

                                              BREAKFAST/ 1921/ Fernand Leger

THANK YOU, Tess, for Magpie Tales...


Daily sacrament:
a splash of perfume
on my hair,
twisting it into strands of silk,
braided purple band,
tying back loose ends
from yesterday.

Only then can I toast sun-up,
trace my thumb along
the facets of my glass,
yet still keep in mind the taste
of last night's Rose`.

This morning,
just Crayola orange will do,
juice squeezed and poured
from dimpled globes
into dowry cristallo,
sweetening the essence
of days gone by,
letting today arise
with a leap of intent.

Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2012

Sunday, September 2, 2012

MAGPIE...Prompt #133

                                        SUMMER NIGHT/ 1913/ Albert Bloch

THANK YOU, Tess, for Magpie Tales....


Come closer, this
is the place of chance,
where once in a blue moon,
you can stumble past betrayal,
and call out a spell,

"belew, belew",
ancient chant,
duplicity, be gone.

Clouds of indgo ash,
a sky dimmed by stain.

Stay by my side, gaze,
see light tossed anew,
hope for the sun to rise
in seventh heaven.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2012


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