Monday, August 26, 2013

MAGPIE...Prompt #183

                                            PASSING PLACE/ Steven Kelly

THANK YOU, Tess, at Magpie Tales...


Ready for cloud nine,

instead, barren arid landscape,
not the wrap up I'm expecting.

I'm floating
like a half-formed banshee,
asking veiled spirits
if this is Paradise?

Not a seraph in sight
to bundle me across
the path of good intentions.

Where's the tunnel of light,
or my spirit guide
swanning in the mist,
waiting to take my hand?

I expected
at the very least,
a beckoning angel,
face of a Gothic saint.

Maybe a chorus line
meandering up
the stairway to heaven.

Really disappointed.

Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2013

Sunday, August 11, 2013

MAGPIE...Prompt #181

                                                      Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

THANK YOU Tess, for Magpie Tales...


It will never halt,
this loop of jazz
sheathing my pulse,
my sweat stuck
to your cheek,
a briny recipe
for a singular hunger.

I pull away, glide,
a trickle
bounces off my breast,
enticing a glance
from your smoky eye.

Like a butterfly
just coming loose,
I alight on your rhythm.

Out of the blue
you're across the room,
then back beside me
in a stride.

Who is she?

Copyight/ all rights reserved/ 2013

Wednesday, August 7, 2013


Letting go, urged to do so by philosophers
of opposing hues.

Don't look back, never embrace your own
dark ages.

Brush the dust off, all that earth and high
heaven could ever measure out.

It's a first-rate saintly mission to keep
plucking those scales from our eyes.

Return attachments to the ocean of cosmic broth.
There in the waiting throng, ready to cool
my fevered brow, I dream my birth.

The heaviness of the burden fell into the
black hole a long time ago.  Sing: life is
but a dream.

All is reflection, a mirror.  Read this backwards,
start in the middle.

The beginning is on the horizon, the end
just slammed shut.  Not the first time.

Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2013

Sunday, August 4, 2013

MAGPIE...Prompt #180

                           DRAWING HANDS/ 1948/ M.C. Escher

THANK YOU, Tess, at Magpie Tales...


All art steals,
doesn't matter
who drew that smile first.

Hold it this way
and I can read Vermeer's mind,
skilled hands reaching into me,
weaving the gift anew.

Pulling a Daumier
from an etch-a-sketch,
perfecting my skill,
sculpting my thumb,
searching my hands,

finding a fingerprint
that proves it's me,
not guilty.

Grace is number one.
Reaching for my life,

Copyright/ All rights reserved/ 2013

Thursday, August 1, 2013


ONLY BECAUSE I seem to be suddenly allergic, am I presenting this recipe to you.
Figs.  Gorgeous figs, never nipped at the roof of my mouth before.  Last night, a bit of a tingle... can allergic reaction be far behind?  Well, yes/ no, but I've been neurotic for too long not to feel a bit of panic, a bit of "what if".  So I do what I usually do, suppress and start walking.  Through my apartment.  Because nothing can happen to me as I trip a light jog.  It's my life, ya know.  Sometimes even magic works.
I live on the Upper Famous Side of New York.  But I live for bargains.  About twenty paces past my front doorman, is one of dozens of fruit and vegetable stands in my neighborhood.  It's definitely like having my own green market, don't even have to cross the street.  Friendly vendor, nowadays all stands seem operated by exceptionally polite young guys from the Middle East.  Who needs the United Nations? 
Bought a box of lovely figs, nestled in a green plastic basket.  Picture perfect. You know the rest.
After the false alarm, didn't die of shock, figured it's best to sort of do a compote.  This AM, cut them in pay attention, this is the recipe:
Small saucepan, put figs in.
Sprinkle with brown sugar,
or honey.  Or both.
Pinch of salt.
Shake some cinnamon, nutmeg.
Small slice of ginger,
couple slices of lemon.
Water to cover.
Cook, for about 20 minutes,
covered, very low heat.
Uncover, cook down to syrup.
Cool. Chill.  Eat.
Vanilla ice cream, why not?
Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2013


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