Tuesday, August 26, 2014

On My Way to My Muse

On my way to my Muse
I must clean off the kitchen table
And put the dishes in the dishwasher
And load clothes in the washing machine.
On my way to my Muse
I must get my favorite pen
And find a special journal
And finish writing out the bills
And pick up my messages
So I can have silence.
On my way to my Muse
I must get rid of all my doubts
And my share of not being good enough
And not being organized
And not being ready for success.
And so on my way to my Muse
I must call for a session to remove my doubts
And get a massage to relieve my tensions
So I know that I am the best I can be.
Then I reach out again to my Muse
And I find my hands aren’t quite clean enough
And my space isn’t clear
And I haven’t finished my chores,
And so I write her a letter
And ask her to forgive me
And to come again when I am ready.


© Hilda Ward, 2014

The Muse of Poetry by Konsantin Makovsky
from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, August 11, 2014

THOREAU’S BELIEF (REALLY!): A SONG (HE SAID, “WHY SHOULD NOT A POET’S CAT AS WELL AS HIS HORSE HAVE WINGS?”)


Winged cats exist.
Must exist!
Sublimely promiscuous,
They can’t not exist!
They don’t regard difference
Between earth, air, and light.
Borne up by silliness,
By faith, by similitude,
By their analogy to any shape,
They are lazily limitless
And may further their fur
Into petal or wings
Pluming through fable.
If winged cats don’t exist,
Clouds won’t blossom,
Grass won’t be kissed,
Water won’t be gardened,
And rocks, once curvaceous,
Will refuse affection.
Fire won’t be sinuous
If winged cats can’t exist.
Thoreau thoroughly knows
Winged cats must exist,
Uplifted by the hybrid
Serene weddings of wildness.
Furry wings are allowed
A unique perfume:
Earth, air and light insist
This trespass is wisdom.

© Stephen Margulies, 2014

Cat Graffiti in Prishtina
Photo by WikiPri
from Wikimedia Commons

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

Seeb Road by Night


Not far from the sea
In the north of Oman
A dreary two-lane road
Winds through the gravelled sand flats
Dark and heavily trafficked
Lined by a few scraggly dusty palms
A scene unworthy of a painter’s brush
And yet
And yet
Each night on this darkened stage
A tiny drama worthy of our time

Two boys, all of eight years old
Fan a makeshift charcoal grill
With a piece of cardboard
Grease-laced smoke rises from the grill 
And flames sometimes hover
Above the glowing gray-black coals
Lighting up their earnest faces

Cheap cuts of skewered lamb
Darken and sizzle on the grill
And cars pass by
This little stand
Between two palms
So dark it isn’t seen
So cars pass by

For more than one hour 
I watched them brown the lamb 
And set it aside
Waiting and hoping
Their obscure labor
Would cause a car or two to stop
Their expectations low

Sent out by their parents
Who knows how much they count on 
This hopeless, little stand
Who does their marketing?
Their advertising? 

© Bill Sypher, 2014

"Street Urchins"
oil on canvas
by Karl Witkowski
from Wikimedia Commons


Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Minesweeping


Picking through now: my
god I was running so fast then, leaving behind time bombs and land mines as I fled
to make sure I would never look back or slow down or god forbid turn around and try to walk sanely again through this madwoman's minefield, now grown over with goldenrod and meadowsweet. 

I ran a slick path toward other choices, to hide in the city, to pretend among fumes and pavements that I was fresh and ready, that there was nothing behind me but the wide ocean... 
That there was no home waiting... 

Within a day I missed soft green under foot and soft eyes of family, so I soon returned to them,
but stayed apart from this field, walked only the perimeter, monitoring, until I trusted my eyes and my footing. 

Picking through now: in my treacherous meadow of old mines,
I am stepping, guessing, testing disturbed spots one by one. 
Slow work, careful work, through thick sedge that shadows and tangles my feet, that hides the triggers and trip lines. 
I am fearless, though, and slow.
As I find each snare I choose my fate, knowing that blowing everything open is the only way to be whole. 

© Laura Seale, 2014

Click link below to watch brief video of land mine explosion:

Land mine from World War II
from Wikimedia Commons




Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Simile and Metaphor


On the dance floor,
holding you at arm’s length,
Simile, with one finger,
will twirl you like the last leaf
spinning in Autumn wind.
When the song ends,
he is content with a quick hug, 
a tiny peck on the cheek.

Metaphor, on the other hand,
holds you tightly enough
to take your breath,
gives you the deepest French kiss.
It all happens so fast
that before you can say “stop!”
you find yourself in an unfamiliar bed,
pregnant with images
ready to be born.

© Jean Sampson, 2014

A couple dancing tango
Photo by Jorge Lascar
from Wikimedia commons

Monday, July 7, 2014

First Breath


At the Bang
there is breath
a singular point
God willed into being
inhales into consciousness
cosmic vibrations now manifest
nature's cycles unfold

At the moment of creation
the universe awakens
darkness recedes
across space and time
evolutionary forces unleashed
life exhales deeply
and exits silence's fertile door

© Bill Vollrath, 2014

The Phillip Medhurst Picture Torah 3. Creation. Genesis cap 1 v 10
from Wikimedia Commons

Monday, June 30, 2014

Martha and Mary


Martha in the kitchen...
The practical one.
Mary more the maid of thought,
The contemplative,
Maybe the lazier of the two.
But nevertheless,
Her mind was on matters
Other than pots and pans,
Food and drink,
The necessary things of life.

It would be nice to be Mary,
Seated on the cool floor,
Away from the kitchen's heat,
The bubbling pots,
Listening to the teacher,
Who had come to visit,
That once in a lifetime chance
To hear and sense
The mystery of the rabbi
Claiming to have come from God.

© Peggy Latham, 2014

Johannes Vermeer's "Christ in the House of Martha and Mary"
at the Scottish National Gallery
from Wikimedia Commons