tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76297187832391962452024-03-14T03:55:31.185-07:00a collection of music, art and literaturePoets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-46923415441798054062011-05-04T09:51:00.000-07:002011-05-29T09:55:50.997-07:00Three Poems by Catfish McDaris<b>Portrait At 37</b><br />
<br />
Living each painting<br />
in a dark palette of<br />
potato eaters & miners<br />
<br />
Colors drove him mad,<br />
lips quivering with emotion,<br />
tears filling his eyes<br />
<br />
His painting of Sorrow, a<br />
naked, pregnant, starving<br />
woman, he lived with in <br />
Amsterdam<br />
<br />
Capturing rivers, making<br />
flowers grow, old empty<br />
shoes dance<br />
<br />
His brother loved him <br />
& now the world. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>The Spanish Juggler</b><br />
<br />
Mandolin & Guitar,<br />
The Jester in bronze,<br />
Triumph of the Dove<br />
<br />
Three Musicians,<br />
Young Girl On A Ball,<br />
Family With Monkey<br />
<br />
Two Saltimbanques With Dog,<br />
Night Fishing At Antibes,<br />
Lanterns & Spears.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>No Remorse</b><br />
"A nest of vipers is not as deadly as the hunger of one man." an old Shinto proverb<br />
<br />
Often I sit in <br />
the parking lot<br />
at work<br />
<br />
Watching the sea<br />
gulls & tug boats,<br />
with men wearing<br />
blaze orange caps<br />
at the helm<br />
<br />
Listening to David<br />
Baerwald with his<br />
bloody hands on <br />
the cover of his <br />
tape, Triage<br />
<br />
Always thinking<br />
about how easy<br />
it would be to<br />
just drive away<br />
from my job<br />
<br />
Head for Taos or <br />
Mexico & look<br />
for my amigo, <br />
Torres the matador<br />
<br />
I think I too<br />
could kill bulls<br />
<br />
Then I look up<br />
from my daydreams<br />
& see a beautiful<br />
woman in a black<br />
patent leather coat<br />
with matching stiletto<br />
high heels<br />
<br />
She walks by &<br />
stops in front of<br />
my car & smiles<br />
<br />
& I forget who<br />
or where I am.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-46052574342353560322011-04-16T22:05:00.001-07:002011-04-16T22:05:50.403-07:00Morning JewelsRichard Hartwell<br />
<br />
Swung from tips of tender cypress boughs,<br />
Beads of brilliant dew bejewel the morning:<br />
Fairy ointments, night oils on new growth,<br />
Globular prisms gather to split the new day,<br />
Light from the narrowly degreed dawn<br />
Hastens horizontally across the garden,<br />
Compressing shadows with each moment;<br />
Illuminations of diamonds and emeralds<br />
Explode from feathered, evergreen tips,<br />
Regally attired, awaiting supplication.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-6574987225806074372011-04-16T22:00:00.000-07:002011-04-16T22:00:35.904-07:00The LA MoonAmit Parmessur<br />
<br />
The pregnant American moon dies away<br />
from the unkempt LA sky<br />
From the wide window,<br />
perched in near emptiness, I can see<br />
an empty page<br />
in the bittersweet sky, one upon which<br />
I am trying again to decipher the pledges<br />
made by an unfaithful angel<br />
<br />
I have traveled from clime to clime,<br />
from sky to dark caves,<br />
like an orphaned heart<br />
chiming with sorrow and dread,<br />
and the American moon is nothing different<br />
<br />
To every place I’ve gone,<br />
the moon is suffering enormously<br />
from those intent looks of hungry folks,<br />
<br />
She is suffering from the severe scars that<br />
exaggerate what she wants to unveil,<br />
her sore flesh looking like a very<br />
pale reflection of a confident Goddess<br />
<br />
Is the stained Los Angeles moon<br />
another unsuccessful project?<br />
<br />
Is she another incomplete canvas deserted<br />
by a painter tortured by visions too<br />
beautifully painful, just like those<br />
<br />
I regret when<br />
I think of what has vanished from my life?Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-29201430861081451592011-02-26T14:35:00.001-08:002011-02-26T14:35:19.488-08:00DisruptionsCarmen Rabil-Eichman <br />
<br />
Let me disrupt you, <br />
whip my bellicose bead upon, <br />
secure you in a Jacque Louis David <br />
vexing vision. I carefully place pearls of <br />
clarity, hindsight rhinestones <br />
hammered against equivocal edges, unbalanced <br />
Neoclassic beauty, our deep hues inhaling <br />
stark shadows desecrating diaphanous dimensions, <br />
cut-chipped diagonals gouged, a heavenly attempt <br />
to direct lackluster moments, dictate Romantic shifts, <br />
force us to die-cast dynamic motions <br />
that rival Napoleon commanding winds and fate <br />
while crossing the St. Bernard. Our passion-storms of antiquity <br />
raise his stallion, his arm compels us to follow, our historic <br />
battles hurling straight into hell.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-5534737884343622232011-02-26T14:31:00.000-08:002011-02-26T14:31:05.413-08:00MicrobismPeter Magliocco<br />
<br />
Now I wonder how the stars<br />
regard us majestically<br />
during the long midnights<br />
of summer, when we contemplate<br />
the enormity of space.<br />
<br />
Do astral sentient beings stare<br />
back through their own telescopes?<br />
Those living in stellar architecture<br />
vacuum stardust from the cold<br />
landscapes of desolate silence,<br />
<br />
perhaps like ghosts waiting<br />
to manifest themselves someday.<br />
Draining energy from our future<br />
digital instruments, waiting<br />
for our knowledge to equal<br />
<br />
their own erudite sciences. <br />
Those ancestral gods will awake<br />
from a long, cosmic hibernation<br />
to scan the heavens at last.<br />
Will their bulbous eyes be peeled<br />
<br />
through squamous orifices, <br />
writing new testaments in<br />
words of alien language<br />
describing the last remnants<br />
of earth's inhospitable barrenness? <br />
<br />
A geography toppled by some<br />
civilization nearly extinct,<br />
except for the lingering microbes<br />
of human origin, now hiding in<br />
terrestrial oceans of dust.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-43396572891554106882011-02-04T18:13:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:26.408-08:00MY ISLANDLuis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal<br /> <br />I was never clever,<br />never inspired envy.<br />I found my own island,<br />closed up my feeble mind.<br /> <br />I learned how to float one<br />morning with my face up <br />to the sun. Shadows all<br />around me. My island<br /> <br />was sinking. My island<br />was without fish. There were<br />wild birds in the sky. They<br />started to talk to me.<br /> <br />I longed to fly like them.<br />I wanted to fly to<br />the sun. I wanted to<br />catch fire, be the sun’s food.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-42611480704805600322011-01-15T06:38:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:26.413-08:00Chattahoochee River in Morning Fog Russell Streur<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTx2nWbhozQ3b-aQbm9-d5hv1WbwjHikSYcVGAY5CzPmpIl2aijMsxuhH_zmeVEcQTZn2oOWeGy-eWuNTGaVYPf_baiA-S4HcYhEJ5miabUI0ASn90hKmaEAzT8O_XBx3_1Fs7dVt7Vjc/s1600/ChattahoocheeRiverInMorningFog-4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTx2nWbhozQ3b-aQbm9-d5hv1WbwjHikSYcVGAY5CzPmpIl2aijMsxuhH_zmeVEcQTZn2oOWeGy-eWuNTGaVYPf_baiA-S4HcYhEJ5miabUI0ASn90hKmaEAzT8O_XBx3_1Fs7dVt7Vjc/s400/ChattahoocheeRiverInMorningFog-4.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-65648556680765404392011-01-14T15:38:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:26.414-08:00Gossamer ThreadsCarmen Taggart<br /><br />Disappointment, and frustration erupt,<br />Words as sharp as the knives you so carefully tend sever the ties that bind,<br />Neither of us knowing how to fix them or even if they should be fixed,<br />You simply drive away.<br /><br />I can’t see your smile to know that you are still mine,<br />The voices in my head tell me that you are moving on,<br />The phone a poor substitute for the feel of your embrace,<br />A tentative thread binds us still.<br /><br />I want to be in your arms,<br />Your hands cupping my face,<br />Eyes locked as I tell you that I love you, <br />That you will always own a piece of my soul.<br /><br />I settle for phone calls and laughter,<br />Weaving a net of gossamer threads, <br />Our spirits dance across the divide, <br />Cold comfort as we relinquish our ties.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-49992946931111921172011-01-13T17:36:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:26.426-08:00AmbulancePanos Panagiotopoulos<br /><br />I'll be reborn tonight, into the streets I'll be reborn<br />tonight, I have a thought, it's pouring out of my eyes<br />it flows down from the open window like a desire but it's a thought<br />and it sprawls like a red stain across wet asphalt.<br />Take me on an ambulance ride into the night, <br />tonight, I'll be reborn and we can spread ourselves like a <br />red stain on wet asphalt, chasing that thundering thought down,<br />I want the sirens howling above and behind us,<br />a trail of smoke and sirens behind us, tonight the city is <br />a red stain on wet asphalt, into the streets I'll be reborn<br />as a thought pouring down the open window like a thunderous desire.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-89266667885863457982011-01-12T20:49:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:33.185-08:00Gossamer ThreadsGossamer Threads<br />Disappointment, and frustration erupt,<br />Words as sharp as the knives you so carefully tend sever the ties that bind,<br />Neither of us knowing how to fix them or even if they should be fixed,<br />You simply drive away.<br />I can't see your smile to know that you are still mine,<br />The voices in my head tell me that you are moving on,<br />The phone a poor substitute for the feel of your embrace,<br />A tentative thread binds us still.<br />I want to be in your arms,<br />Your hands cupping my face,<br />Eyes locked as I tell you that I love you,<br />That you will always own a piece of my soul.<br />I settle for phone calls and laughter,<br />Weaving a net of gossamer threads,<br />Our spirits dancing across the divide,<br />Forever entwined.<br />My Bio ~ Carmen Taggart writes and photographs when the muses speak from the mountains of Pennsylvania. Most recently Carmen's writings have been published at The Camel Saloon, Ink Sweat and Tears, and Ink Bean. More of her ramblings and musings can be found at her virtual home http://www.musidoras.comPoets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-75840518421675064222011-01-09T17:38:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:26.430-08:00Cold FeetRebecca Gaffron<br /><br />my feet are cold but my hands are warm,<br />rejoicing in sentient flames reawakened,<br />fearing this too will pass.<br />your tear drops into the corner of my eye,<br />a drowning man's cold fingers clasp mine<br />one more time.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-17743092021027700772011-01-09T17:30:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:26.432-08:00Two Poems by Zaina Anwar<b>Fragment XI<br />(The Oyster)<br /></b><br />One day, the oyster<br />would give birth to a pearl<br /><br />so white and glistening,<br />it would cultivate light<br /><br />as if through a prism<br />in the anonymous depths<br /><br />of the raging<br />sea.<br /><br /><br /><b>Fragmentation<br /></b><br />He came to me <br />with hot caresses<br />and lilies and solemn<br />promises.<br /><br />By the time he left,<br />my heart<br />was a broken mirror.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-18024997362937007192011-01-05T03:00:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:26.433-08:00True ArtJoseph Farley<br /><br />you paint yourself<br />and others<br />blue, green, orange,<br />making exotic beasts<br />from women and men<br />already carved<br />in bone and sinew.<br />even this wild beauty<br />can be made<br />more sensuous,<br />more animalistic<br />with zebra or<br />tiger stripes,<br />fur and fangs,<br />and then the descent<br />into nature<br />begins.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-30701905639070270942011-01-05T02:43:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:26.434-08:00MALE SUPREMACYLarry Ziman<br /><br />boys trying to prove they’re men,<br />men trying to prove they’re heroes,<br />heroes trying to prove they’re gods,<br />gods trying to prove they’re worshippedPoets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-5233828782854805052011-01-04T17:39:00.000-08:002011-02-05T12:40:26.436-08:00CarnivalSandy Benitez<br /><br />Miscreants and midgets amble <br />ahead of me. I fall behind. <br />Soles of my converse sneakers<br />sticky with bubble gum and taffy <br /><br />droppings. A red velvet curtain<br />parts like a rose in bloom<br />and I pick up the pace so as not<br />to miss the bearded lady's show.<br /><br />She appears in a long, black gown.<br />An hourglass figure reminiscent of<br />Marilyn Monroe. My eyes become magnets,<br />attracted to the surreal image<br /><br />standing before me. I imagine Dali<br />courting her, asking her to smile<br />as he paints her face among landscapes<br />of melting clocks and cracked eggs.<br /><br />Behind me, a lizard man snaps his tongue<br />like a whip. Flies swarm away.<br />In the distance, a werewolf howls<br />at the tapioca moon. The crowd <br /><br />dissipates into fog, leaving remnants <br />of footprints--some human, some animal. <br />Things better left unknown.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-2256736628104076822010-09-26T08:20:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.437-08:00TO TELL THE TRUTHAlan Britt<br /> <br />What’s this?<br /> <br />Concrete particulars without waists,<br />without hope of contracting STD’s,<br />without possibility of guilt?<br /> <br />Nonsense.<br /> <br />Touch not,<br />see not,<br />hear not,<br />taste not,<br />but smell the exhaust of abstractions!<br /> <br />Such is the plight of the literati <br />forever shivering in a sea<br />of nothingness, as if tubercular verbs<br />& anemic adjectives<br />could pour the bristling wine of intelligence<br />from an albino flask,<br />as if desire alone<br />could rattle the angels of reason<br />from hibernation,<br />as if, only, as if words,<br />naked, or half-dressed <br />in tailored Italian suits,<br />words in Victorian nightgowns,<br />words stitched together<br />as bombs, IED’s, switchblades,<br />words pulled from color-coordinated cardboard boxes<br />popping like popcorn or newly improved tissues<br />guaranteed to soothe<br />the cumbersome souls<br />of humans vaguely hot on the trail<br />of something hitherto unknown,<br />or at least lethargic<br />like the government drugs of choice.<br /> <br />I say inhale the feathers<br />of lightning-streaked, ochre-winged<br />words the size of an index finger<br />flocking the imagination’s branches,<br />chattering, otherwise preoccupied,<br />words dying, staining the psyche<br />with the purple berries of the crowberry bush<br />bleeding the sidewalks of…ahh… whatever,<br />you know, words, words, words,<br />that shiver their archetypal hindquarters<br />whenever they spot the aberrant hyenas of truth<br />loitering nearby.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-52535962526479118402010-09-26T08:00:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.439-08:00Music by Suchoon Mo"Violin_Concerto_In_D_Minor"<br /><br />For music, please click on the post title.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-58807084929325317932010-09-19T08:47:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.441-08:00Three Poems by Anna Donovan<b>Hands</b><br /><br />Sometimes her hands rest <br />pale and poised<br />as deep desert doves<br />on age polished sand,<br />every gesture soft<br />as grass under a moonlit night.<br /><br />With mournful countenance<br />she tells of eleven windmills lined<br />as soldiers on a hill<br />to guard an ancient pine forest<br />where Moors still harvest<br />sacred saffron crocuses<br />and olive groves behold<br />orange and lavender clouds.<br /><br />And I wonder,<br />as my grandmother turns<br />the frail pages<br />of a most precious book,<br />if she took the old world<br />with her when she went<br />beyond the hills.<br /><br />She looks up <br />from the rolling vines<br />of a watermelon patch,<br />all round bearers of sweet joy<br />in her mind's eye.<br /><br />"It is fragile things<br />that continue."<br /><br />She says, as she folds<br />her hands in the shape<br />of a tall steeple<br />before morning prayers.<br /><br /><br /><b>No Mountain Climbers</b><br /><br />They pose before a glacial valley<br />with the mountain rising in the distance,<br />their complacent smiles tell<br />of amenities, cheap female companions<br />and a steady flow of whiskey sours.<br /><br />They're no mountain climbers<br />my father and his best friend,<br />but mountain climbers<br />celebrate with them.<br /><br />Perhaps team players<br />secretly admire<br />the few who go about<br />unencumbered by bonds<br />and filial attachments,<br />or the simple matter<br />of the wealthy<br />carelessly spending<br />on vacation.<br /><br />They all know,<br />even soccer players<br />down in the city's heart<br />will share the spoils<br />of this mundial.<br /><br />A crimson pink sunset lingers<br />in the distance,<br />and my father looks like a man<br />shrinking in his own clothes,<br />trying to be who he was<br />and exhausted by the effort.<br /><br />And his best friend<br />stands a few feet away,<br />already removing himself<br />from my father,<br />lest Death also chooses him<br />by mere proximity. <br /><br /><br /><b>Ambivalence</b><br /><br />Even as we cross<br />every line ever drawn<br />on the sand,<br />with a want flailing<br />our bodies<br />into the eye of the storm,<br />the two-eyed violet<br />golden and nubbed,<br />I see the end<br />from the beginning.<br /><br />The bleary eye<br />of a spent storm<br />will pause ripened<br />with second thoughts.<br /><br />Troubled you'll linger<br />in an absent touch<br />and stand still<br />while the day blurs<br />furtive oranges<br />a rustle away from fire.<br /><br />Cloistered and conjoined<br />in accumulated ambivalence<br />we will move manacled<br />by manic passions,<br />secretly longing for <br />the piercing scream,<br />the flaying flares,<br />shrapnel and flesh wounds<br />round the seething monster,<br />the bare light bulb, <br />pendulum in the crime scene.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-57344864250054521662010-09-19T07:00:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.443-08:00Two Poems by Donal Mahoney<b>Sounds of Summer</b><br /><br />If you can hear<br />as I can now<br />the rose of noun<br />the bee of verb<br />the hive of mind<br />then you can hear<br />as I can now<br />everywhere<br />the zither<br />of the siphonings<br />of day<br />everywhere<br />the last<br />letter of<br />the alphabet.<br /><br /><br /><b>Meeting Dad Again</b><br /><br />Thirty years later, Dad came back<br />and we met for Ham and Yams at Toffenetti’s.<br />Pouring his tea, he told me he had<br />to restore power once<br />at a newspaper warehouse<br />and the storm broke again<br />and the lightning cracked his ladder.<br />He spent the whole day, he said,<br />sitting in that dark warehouse,<br />waiting for the lightning to stop<br />and for the truck to bring a new ladder.<br />He had a great time, he said,<br />sitting next to a flickering lantern<br />and reading for hours the Sunday comics<br />printed and stacked<br />six months in advance.Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-20574300443000591532010-09-19T06:00:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.445-08:00Three Poems by Gordon Mason<b>Lot 208 <br />A Russian lacquer novelty box in the form of an armchair, painted with a woman and a cat, 12cm high </b><br /><br />cat and barinya<br /><br />share golden gloss,<br />glazed diamond eyes,<br />and dreams of a chair carved<br /><br />by a moon-chipped sickle,<br />where a secret compartment<br />will take them on another path<br /><br />to spot the first star<br />in Russia’s icy sapphire sky<br />and she will become<br /><br />Pushkin’s Tatiana<br />and the cat will return<br />to the Siberian forest<br /><br /><br /><b>Lot 312<br />A 1920's child’s chain driven Alfa Romeo P2 pedal car, with spring suspension and rubber wheels, 150cm long </b><br /><br />Ascari’s ghost weaves<br />through a dusty sunrise.<br />Fingers grip the shifting skin<br /><br />of his silver coffin.<br />Uncertain yellows skim<br />fields of ripe grain.<br /><br />His burning ears are heckled<br />by the rush of wind.<br />Red crystal tears <br /><br />blur wounded eyes.<br />Gulps of black rubber stun<br />his heartbeat at thirty-six.<br /><br /><br /><b>Lot 596<br />Kathleen Haldane SSWA Sentinels Watercolour, signed verso, 34cm high x 24cm wide </b><br /><br />sentinels<br />intrusive silhouettes<br />on peeling carcasses <br />of mountains<br /><br />that fold to a horizon<br />shaded<br />by another language<br />stiff fingered<br /><br />to split the sky<br />at its seams<br />in January’s <br />sullen light<br /><br />frozen dumb<br />in chiaroscuro silence<br />for crows <br />to hang their musicPoets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-46687786096642730302010-07-07T20:26:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.447-08:00DIORAMA<span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Howie Good<br /><br />1<br />The horse collapsing on the bridge,<br />the fire in the background,<br /><br />the use of the moon,<br /><br />its flesh and fur stripped away<br />with elk-bone scrappers<br /><br />and its hide made pliable<br />with the buffalo’s mashed brains.<br /><br />2<br />The wolf sits back<br />on its haunches and watches.<br /><br />The eye is the hammer.<br /><br />To polish a diamond,<br />there is nothing like its own dust.</span> </span>Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-12435249449374662922010-06-26T17:44:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.448-08:00Snapdragons Crackle<div style="margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Donal Mahoney</span></div><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Snapdragons crackle </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">in the air for Maura</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">and her flowing gait, </span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">a swagger neither Nora</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">nor Maureen would ever </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">let a suitor savor.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Maura knows </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">that in her wake</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">men with scythes </span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">and burlap sacks,</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">creep like gators,</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">eyes afire, jaws agape.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nora and Maureen </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">can smell these men. </span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Unlike Maura </span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">and her flowing gait,</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Nora and Maureen will smile,</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">take their time and wait.</span></div>Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-19639070884721101722010-06-13T07:42:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.450-08:00Approbations 449—after Mal Waldron’s Nervous<span style="font-family:georgia;">Felino Soriano<br /><br /></span><pre><span style="font-family:georgia;">Deportation my<br />silence erupts<br /> anti<br />innate, cloistered closure<br />my tongue aptly denies<br /> charring<br />commentary, collocated<br />ending rivalry with reflectional<br />depictions of mind’s wandering<br />unaccepted glory.<br /> Démodé moments<br />those of temporal<br />constants<br />deceiving modes of a life’s<br />unlived hitherto, inebriating<br />slurs of rhythmic devotion<br />my doorknocker knees<br />clash and destroy<br />ambulation’s<br /> pivotal enjoyment. </span></pre>Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-70511156096760500692010-06-02T19:02:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.451-08:00Kabul<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Ross Vassilev<br /><br />memories<br />of gone empires<br />in the opiate<br />dreams<br />of fakirs and sages<br /><br />gone religions<br />are mountain flowers<br />while the faiths<br />of Abraham<br />wait to join them<br />in eternal sleep<br /><br />the only constant<br />is the rape of the people<br />and the blood-red<br />poppies at the doors<br />of the angels.</dev></span>Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7629718783239196245.post-1861950449485920032010-05-16T11:03:00.000-07:002011-02-05T12:40:26.455-08:00Blossom Eight - We Meet Again<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Russell Streur<br /><br />I was born in Peach Blossom Month<br />You when Morning Glories Bloom.<br />After all these years it is no accident we meet again<br />In the other land, with pomegranates ripe.</span>Poets Democracyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11377631072370138790noreply@blogger.com1