No dream may suffice
in lieu of waking glances.
Still life holds love destitute,
such that dreams become vision,
the lie on which heart relies.
* Oh I do so loathe my stomach, at times, for all its troubles.
Forgive this poet’s absence this evening. The above is my submission for One Stop Poetry, and it may not be my best work, but it was produced under a day of food poisoning…which consequently is the same reason you may detect a noticeable disappearing act from me tonight. I’ll likely read as I can, but I’ve been keeping quite to bed today, and given how my stomach’s still acting, I don’t foresee that changing shortly.
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.
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…
Picture copyright Fee Easton.
Feathered summer bright
In taloned march sing madness
Death—one season’s end.
A piece for this week’s edition of One Shoot Sunday. There’s no interview by me (had a couple weeks off, you know?), but several lovely prompt choices to select from a generous old friend of One Stop: Fee Easton. You may remember my earlier interview with her back in March. A wonderful woman with some very vivid photography. This was my response to her “option 3” photo.
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.
Picture by and copywrite Rosa Frei.
Sucking at the grains,
the eyes, weather-beaten portals
portray, in absolution,
the sifting sands in hourglass
like B-52 roar, the revelation
of dry ocean repetition,
the ships always setting sail never
finding anything but mirage—
blistered empty wounds
singing long after they have sung,
these eyes, these hands left
to cover blood and beauty.
* My submission to this week’s edition of the One Shoot Sunday Photo Prompt, with this moving bit of portraiture care of Rosa Frei. Check out my interview with her, and join in the poetry fun!
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?
Photo by (and copywrite) Greg Laychak.
It is a long hall we walk,
Reflections of decisions
Hung in windows,
Rain-spattered and sun struck
The stains of time rolling down
Like tears, never wept
In the dawning
When other voices rang
Rhythm, rhyme, reduced
Where they set us yet to roam.
Everything is painted now—
For my father:
Through yonder window breaks
Kneeling at the bedside table
Somewhere in the midst
The feet of death hang
Monument of the quiet man’s strength
Over hope, the sing-song memory
Through white-coat salutations
Little comfort in the night’s long hour
When he is naught but dreams
Night’s crystal rain
He is the only one, he tells himself
The wrinkles and the lines, in pallid sheets
If he can make it through the night—
Hope will find them in the dawn.
My father and mother, seen here at my brother's wedding rehearsal.
My submission to this week’s One Shot Wednesday, and one that holds a special place with me. I wrote this a few days ago when, if you will remember, I was caught in the throes of a massive worry in my own life, revolving around my ailing father. Since then, he has undergone surgery and is apparently recovering now…and while that recovery time will be long, it is still a comfort to know that he will be better again.
This work revolves mostly around the feelings of waiting, the uncertainty, the hoping…the great pain that comes with watching and being unable to do anything in those long nights.