THE MILL, 1964/ Andrew Wyeth
THANK YOU, Tess at Magpie Tales
WINTER'S REVENGE
What stayed when you left?
Winter's revenge,
Loki's sting, an imp
doing handstands
on a frozen heart.
I'm tricked out
in saint's day regalia,
spinning snow angels
in the courtyard.
I find an improbable note
in a dead sparrow's mouth,
that spring,
beyond doubt,
lies beneath drab endings.
Pandora's box
sits on my hip,
emptied and icy,
lid up, without content.
I'm dreaming
that a bit of sin
is hiding in the corner,
stirring up a pinch of heat
for your return.
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MUSICIAN in the RAIN/ Robert Doisneau
THANK YOU, Tess...for Magpie Tales
NOTES
Easy to find blue notes today,
when the sky spreads
an electric ambiguity,
and chiaroscuro
sketches the clouds.
No shelter
can shield me
from a pounding
ancient god
singing bass.
The air hums
a Broadway melody,
tells the reason why
heaven chose us
to keep the beat,
to fancy a dance
in the storm.
I put my tongue out,
catch a drop,
drink the answer,
the music of rain,
the rain of music.
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LA JUMENT/ photo/ Jean Guichard
THANK YOU, Tess...for Magpie Tales....
FRENZY
Right into the roiling pot,
into the mouth of the whirlpool,
pasta will meet its destiny.
The water parts
like a biblical sea.
A salty reception
whips onto a frenzy,
as strands of lean beauties,
straight as straw,
fold into a fated
al dente perfection.
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NEW YORK at NIGHT/ Vivienne Gucwa
THANK YOU, Tess..at Magpie Tales
FIREFLY
In a silver drizzle
we seem the same.
Some mistake me
for a Mayfly.
Here today, cliche' tomorrow.
Well, no,
my wings are not yet
curled in prayer,
in a plea
for one more dawn,
half my life in supplication,
the rest in fancy.
I'm a Firefly, after all,
invisible at sunrise,
but a delight
in the nightfall garden.
I'm here in the dew,
there in the rose,
and suddenly
setting fire
to that distant heart.
Caught in a jar,
set out on the grass,
I will light the way,
become part of the parade
to a galaxy unknown.
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SELF PORTRAIT/ Francis Bacon
THANK YOU , Tess...for all the Mags...at Magpie Tales
BEFORE THE MURDER
This is me in front of the door,
the one where ghosts hesitate to glide,
and you said that was my portal of passage.
Little did I know.
Remember the day i plunged down the stairs,
and you said what more?
As if you had been hurt, not I?
Don't wish me bad I said,
but you laughed and whispered,
kill you most likely.
What more can befall me,
paintings building up in the corner,
stains bleeding onto the canvas,
sited where pain was lodged.
You want to know
how much will they pay
for the further torture of your eyes.
I didn't mean for my art to please,
I didn't mean for my life to please.
I should have embraced, "smile please,"
instead of painting hell stinging the canvas,
the snake of Eden slithering out of the tube.
Now you see me with my soul intact,
before you struck your blow,
and couldn't tell that I was smiling.
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Let's have a Happy New Year!!
MADONNA WITH the MILK SOUP/ 1510/ Gerard David
THANK YOU, Tess...at Magpie Tales...
FOR ME
Virgin, make me your child,
feed me from your cup
so that Spirit's light
pours over me.
Fold my hands
into a plea for harmony.
Pray that the constant storm
hums like a zephyr.
Virgin, stay near
all the children
in the garden.
Teach sinner or not,
your healing poetry.
When time slips
into darkness, Mother,
never search for me
with the voice of mourning.
Seek for me only in joy.
MERRY CHRISTMAS / HAPPY HOLIDAYS
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THE ICE CUTTERS/ 1911/ Natalia Goncharova
THANK YOU, Tess....for Magpie Tales...
COLD
I'm so cold without you.
My heart,
no longer a red fist
directing our traffic,
is lying in state.
My quiver is full of shards
that will kill,
if I release them.
Yet I pester to shake loose
from the ice house.
Once again,
waiting for your touch
to thaw my wintry blood.
I'll melt,
flow
into a wave of celebration.
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"SEAGULLS" / The Guardian/ Eyewitness
THANK YOU, Tess...still aloft...Magpie Tales
PLUCK OFF
Part of me knows what's real,
pain lets me know.
If this plucking happens
when I'm awake,
my feathers pulled,
I will say stop.
Cry maybe bloody murder.
But in my comfort,
when a feather
is yanked from my wing,
in the midst of it,
I will fly.
Pain is a concept as yet
unborn in my dreams.
A hand reaches
like a shadow,
made of less than matter,
making mischief,
ruffling my feathers.
I'm bleeding
in a Hitchcock chiller,
no pain.
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THANK YOU, Tess...Magpie Tales
COINCIDENCE
Either odd or expected, coming face to face with this week's Magpie photo.
I love ravens. My daughter loves ravens. We dont know why. This week's Magpie pic seems to be of my daughter. The image of her. Cannot be. But that raven wing...she might just say yes to that.
So she loved my poem last week. She always loves my stuff. We do that for each other. And she comments. Thanks, Dori. She writes a blog for Huff Post. Doesn't accept comments. What class!
Last week I ended my Mag #195 with a raven eruption. My daughter reminded me of the raven that flew down our chimney, years ago, at the ski house. Once we were posh.
I do that a lot, get ahead of myself, project, predict. Seems last week's poem, "Privilege", stood at attention, sort of waiting for this weeks picture to arrive. Nice trick, Tess. But I wrote that last week. This is how the poem ended..
" I'm hoping that my wings
will be a Raven's."
I do play a psychic game, coming up with the slightest glimpse of tomorrow. Still, after all these years. It's natural. it just is. I did it for years. For fame and fortune. Shhh. Short on the fortune part. Come to think of it, what fame?
Still like it when odd "coincidences" occur.
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AUTUMN on the RIVER/ 1889/ John Singer Sargent
THANK YOU, Tess...Magpie Tales
PRIVILEGE
Veiled within my swaddling,
I exhale a wish,
seekng a promise
that I become an icon.
I develop my heartbeat,
imagine what rapture I'll feel
when swathed in spendid regalia.
In the offing,
a chrysalis will peel,
thrust me out,
hang me by a thread
as my blood pumps.
I'm hoping that my wings
will be a raven's.
Copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2013
As you can see by my header, my heart belongs to JSS.
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