IT MUST BE TIME FOR LUNCH NOW/ 1979/ Francesca Woodman
THANKS to Tess at Magpie Tales
NOT YET
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
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/lynxny
FLYING DOWN/ 2006/ David Salle
Thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales.
COLLAGE
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
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
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VENUS AND THE SAILOR/ 1925/ Salvador Dali
The rhythm of a Pantoum, feels like a dance to me....Thank you Tess, at Magpie Tales.
THE BODY'S DREAM
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
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/lynxny
Household Cleaning Book: Self Sufficiency
WHEN THE DALAI LAMA COMES TO VISIT
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
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/lynxny
TWIN TOWERS
AGAIN
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
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/lynxny
BREAKFAST/ 1921/ Fernand Leger
THANK YOU, Tess, for Magpie Tales...
GOOD MORNING
Daily sacrament:
a splash of perfume
on my hair,
twisting it into strands of silk,
braided purple band,
overstretched,
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
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/lynxny
SUMMER NIGHT/ 1913/ Albert Bloch
THANK YOU, Tess, for Magpie Tales....
BLUE MOON
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
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/lynxny
BIG ROOM/ 1948/ Andrew Wyeth
THANK YOU, Tess, for Magpie Tales...
SHADOWLESS
The rooms are draped
in the end game.
We are all dressed
and departing
for an untouched milieu.
A specter gazes
from a crack in the wall,
straddles its world,
with one ectoblastic foot
in dreamland,
the other set to frolic here.
A shadowless being
impatiently looks out
for the next wake-up call,
knowing that only
substance casts a shadow.
Just killing time,
reposing on the stuffed owl,
fluffing feathers,
waiting for the open door,
again to worm its way
into life's commotion.
Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2012
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/lynxny
Under Windsor Bridge/ 1912/ Adolphe Valette
THANKS, Tess, at Magpie Tales....
WINDSOR TOWN BRIDGE/ JACK
He rests against an arch of the town bridge.
Each night getting behind the wind,
waiting to pick out an approaching shape.
The rough granite
scrapes a stain across his back.
He prepares to shift
into his dream of flight.
A huge raven tonight,
more astonishing than a phantom,
cymbals suddenly hum some one's ruin.
An intention carries him
into each shadowy night,
thunder imprints a fresh cry.
Did she hear him
when he breathed
and stopped?
Last night, when sleep sealed lids
shut at midnight,
she leaned against the rain
sloping into her face.
Why didn't she run away?
copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2012
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
http://twitter.com/lynxny
Image/ Francesca Woodman
Thanks, Tess, for the intrigue at Magpie Tales...
RENOUNCE
I cannot rip your womb
any more, Mother.
Another tear,
and all innocence
is lost forever.
Waiting in the deepening tide,
the ocean deceives me
with its melody,
as if life is an opera.
Venus chants her seduction,
knows the words
to thrust me on.
Can't I float back,
avoid gratitude to the giver,
renounce the life,
take away all praise?
But you're waiting
to show off the gift,
to see a new blaze
and how I burn.
Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2012
http://www.minblu.blogspot.com
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