THANK YOU, Tess, at Magpie Tales...
PASS THE BUCK
According to Wikipedia, "Novus Ordo Seclorum", words lettered on each dollar bill in Latin, translates into "New Order of the Ages". Every day this legal tender slips through our hands, through our notice, with poetry.
From the fourth Eclogue of Virgil, (IV:5)
Now comes the final era of the Sibyl's song;
The great order of the ages is born afresh.
And now justice returns, honored rules return;
Now a new lineage is sent down from high heaven.
What you get for a dollar....still possible?
Copyright/all rights reserved/ 2012
A lovely Lady Magpie, dedicated to Tess Kincaid, sent to me because of my affinity for the Prompts, by Dori Hartley, a blogger for Huffington Post. Who happens to be my daughter. Thanks, Dori...
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MIDNIGHT SNACK/ 1984/ Curtis Wilson Cost
THANK YOU, Tess at Magpie Tales...
MIDNIGHT SNACK
Last night it hummed in the attic,
an idle Nosferatu
who's found a recurring song.
Biting my nails,
spitting fret,
writing a plea
to God or man,
that daybreak will rescue me.
Each and every light
switched on,
enfolds me like armor,
saves me
for tomorrow.
Then I'll invite somebody
to listen with me
to the screech,
whistling from that dim corner.
I desire a moment of embrace,
tendrils of morning fog
hold me close.
An advent of specters
dance around me.
I grasp a hand
cold as one that tosses earth
on an open grave.
I find the returning melody.
Copyright/ all rights reserved/2012
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SHAPE OF ZEROES
Sucking up bathtub spirits,
spitting them out,
mixed bag of stew,
too much hot sauce
disguises the content,
makes it seem, dream,
that my life
has real zest.
Still doesn't turn
into a four star restaurant.
Standing up straight
like a buttoned down shirt,
only my tongue
flaps in the breeze.
Leaves fly by,
shape of zeroes,
same color all year long,
icy blue,
don't change tint
with the seasons.
No color show,
this chance gone.
Wait till next May,
think of a new dance
around the pole.
copyright/all rights reserved/2012
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SICK WOMAN/ Jan Steen/ 1665
THANKS TO Tess at Magpie Tales...
A HUMOUR
What's turned her humour
to black bile?
Warped her cold and dry,
bound to earth,
forever in melancholy?
Tulips at the door
from the shy one
with the downward glance.
The wind sighs with her voice.
He begs for courage
to fetch some magic.
Perhaps a unicorn's horn
filled with tears of the stag
who trampled her ardor.
He longs to spill
the Satyr's blood
and wash away the tether.
The bonesetter
who heals fractured maidens
arrives, fills the kettle,
pours a flow into a lucent cup.
Melancholy sits,
she sips white tea,
stirring cinnamon, lemongrass,
a sliver of cardamom from India,
knobby ginger,
and a stain of beetroot
to brush her lips with sunrise.
Copyright/ All rights reserved/ 2012
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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