Image by and copyright Walter Parada.
Red rivers ride
A smile and a hand, freely offered
belie the tip—
it’s not a stick you know
that I’ll stick you with,
not a dream doused with dreamers.
God or Man
the mortar drips
beneath the marble—
just a dab of purity to hide
* A piece for this week’s edition of One Shoot Sunday. This week features an interview I had with the talented Californian photographer Walter Parada. I was very grateful for the images he chose to share with us, as I find them all to be absolutely striking, from his landscapes to his portraits, and on to the image featured above.
Inspired by all this silly Rapture business so many are apparently getting up in arms about today. Because, yes, that’s correct, the world is apparently going to end today…never mind the man that made the prediction made the same prediction in 1994…
Into my maw impart
All sympathy, with mild ecstasy
The will to persevere
It ends in a note
Was the hymn
Never mind the words
Rewritten by old hands
Every time the clock clicks past
The deadened hour.
Y2K rings no bells
But Heaven kissing you with earthquakes—
So what are you doing at the end of all times? Personally, I’m ushering things out with a BBQ. Seems the classy route to take.
when you would walk through moon beams
silver youth, in my mind,
your long-tossed hair that fleeting glimpse
unworthy hands would never know.
A dream-wrought kiss
for all sensation’s cheer—
a note to set the pen to dance
beneath your light.
What is your name?
Reality, but a longing and a life
no bearing on the yearning—
the dreamer’s supple realm.
A thousand ships would sail for you,
in mind, while your eyes turned—
it wasn’t till the flesh took my hand,
crowned in cruel identity
cast me out to sea
that all those ships were set to burning.
* My latest contribution to One Shot Poetry Wednesday. This piece was essentially the second part to the post I made yesterday, on muses and their very real, physical departure, in the form of people. Yesterday I gave other people’s thoughts on muses, but today I put forth my own thoughts on the muse’s withdrawal. For those with a physical embodiment to their own creative drive…
treason, foulest madness;
you thought that you could break my heart–
No martyr, in death
A shadow on a cave wall—
A symbol stretching.
Photo by and copywrite Rosa Frei, as acquired from last week's "One Shoot Sunday."
Just a Man
Lights erupt on
paved hearts and bloodbound screams,
the sound, the roar
breathless lines in broken
no words to mark
the dust in the wind,
the starlit flag
where planes and concrete fell,
bodies gathered in the mass
the flower of a shadow
planted in the towers’ ash
strains to desert sun,
painted by the people’s rage–
rots, like any other.
* My latest contribution to One Shot Poetry Wednesdays, obviously inspired by recent events. The Senryu derived directly from my send off quote on the night of the terrorist Osama Bin Laden’s death, and “Just a Man” followed early this morning. Both pertain to symbols, to mortality, with “Just a Man” adopting an almost cautionary tone…and I hope they stir some thought in my readers.
Master or mastered
youth drinks the twilight’s streaming—
spreads arms as wings in
the old man cries,
spares the young men to die
forcing wrinkled face to greet life–
* My latest contribution to the wonderful One Shot Poetry Wednesdays! If you get the chance, be sure to check out all the other talented One Stop poets posting there – and what about yourself? If you haven’t signed up yet, and you’re among the creative…what are you waiting for?