The Complexity of True Things   Wednesday, August 06, 2014






I picked up several new books last  week and will be  pulling from all of  them, including this week's anthology, Ain't I a Woman, sub-titled  "A Book of Women's  Poetry from Around the World." The anthology was published by Wings Books in 1987.

It's still too hot (triple digits) to be out taking pictures so I'm still with old stuff, doing what I can  with them to  make them at least interesting, my own kind of art.

My stuff, too, of course, old and new, along with poems from  several of my poet-friends (three, in fact, all of whom you will recognize as having been  here before). All of my old poems this week are from my first book, Seven Beats a Second. It is the only book that I have published in print; the rest are all eBooks. Although it is nearly 10 years old it is still available on Amazon. I also have a few copies available at the IAMA coffeehouse.


Me
the complexity of true things 

Anna Maria Lengren
Other Fabrics, Other  Mores

Me
gotta dance

Joanna M. Weston
untitled  series

Me
60 years

Mary Lonnberg-Smith
Cartwheels

Me
red planet rebirth
how it all comes about
through the 100 meter  lens

Me
An appreciation of Alex Stolis

Me
well, I did it again  

Grace Nichols
In My Name

Me
Piggly Wiggly promenade

Maria Landowska  
I. At the Line Camp

Me
Alice asks why

Kim Namjo
My Baby Has No  Name Yet    

Me
cowboys and indians 

Dan Cuddy
Obscurity

Me
an interesting experience

Tahereh Safffarzadeh
Birthplace

Me
 meanwhile in the Hydra Constellation
hymnal
brotherhood of the forever  spreading stars

Jodie Graham
Two Days  (5/2/ 97 - 5-3-97)

Me
my kind of people

Me
the long walk    













 Here's my lead-off for the week.











the complexity of true things

the haze
shrouding downtown last  week
was dust  blown from the sands of  the Sahara Desert

I  read that in the newspaper last week, making
me think of wind in  the Texas panhandle
blowing tumbleweeds the size of a Volkswagen bus
across the highway, and I think  of a dust storm
in Utah, so thick  as I drive through it that nothing
alongside the road can be seen,
not even the rocky monuments
made famous in the cowboy movies I saw
on Saturday afternoons when I was young,  and when
I was older, the  Northwest Frontier, and the dust
on the desert between me and the  Hindu-Kush - far away,
all those places, all those dusty storms, yet even so,
not so far as the seeming endless Sahara, and I think
of the far-travel the dust downtown made to get here,
and I think of all that must be carried in that dust,
remnants of oasis palms, DNA of Bedouin travelers
and their obstreperous camels, all in a mix drifting
down the streets of my city and I begin to appreciate
the complexities of true things, how more intricate
and complicated our world, each piece  a  part of the whole,
the whole a confederation of all the parts,and the relation
of each part to the others, not always seen, like relatives
who live far away, never seen even though they
in their parts are also you in your  parts...

such a world we live in;
such lives we lead...

hard to remember  the complexity
of all that's out there
when wisdom is found for so  many
in bumper sticker simplicity
and the shallow cleverness of Facebook memes,  so that,
while all of life and our world and the universe
around us seems to grow more and more into a tangle,
the forces of the tangle and our fear of it
seem to push us more and more
into simple-mindedness...

~~~

the truth may be out there,
as  was said one time,
but, god,
what a maze there is between t
and me









                                                     

My first poem from the anthology is by Swedish poet, Anna Maria Lenngren. Born in 1754, the poet died in 1819. One of the best  known Swedish woman  poets, she was also translator and salonist.

Her poem was translated by Nadia Christensen and Marianne Tiblin.










Other Fabrics, Other Mores

"When I was young," said Aunt to me,
"Women then, about the year
Seventeen-thirty, Betty dear,
Dressed in decent linsey woolsey!
No painted faces would one find,
No flimsy gowns on women folk.
The fairer sex possessed a mind
Of sturdy fabric, like a cloak.
Now all is different in our lives -
Other fabrics, other mores!
Taffetas,indecent stories
Of young girls as well as wives!
the path of lust they boldly walk;
Shameless manners, daring ways,
Make-up, muslins, brazen talk
Go hand-in-hand with modern days."









Here's my first old  poem  of the week,  taken  as explained above from my first book, Seven Beats a Second, published in print in 2005.

In the late  1990s/early 2000s, my son was in a ska band in San Antonio. It was a good band, with a good and loyal following, playing in gigs in a variety of venues large and small around San Antonio. One the places they play several times was the old train station, a grand old building, re-purposed  as an event venue.

I like the music and the band (six piece,  including three trombones, which insured that when they started there wasn't anybody sitting still) and went to most of their gigs. This poem is from one of them, from the old train station.



gotta dance

shirt off
chest  glistening
sweat-wet hair long
swinging as he dances
atop the amp rack
twenty feet in the air
arms pumping feet pumping
skanking
lost in the island beat
oblivious
to the black-shirted bouncers
sweeping across the  room
like an ebony tide
converging on him
when he jumps down
and breaks for the door
smothering him
like a black  cloud
on a sunny day

it's the music
he says
can't you hear it

gotta dance
man








                                                


 The first of my poet-friends this week is Joanna M. Weston. From British Columbia, Joanna has been publishing  poetry, reviews and short stories in anthologies and journals for twenty years. She has also published two middle-readers and a book of poetry.

Here she  presents an untitled series of short poems.








night-light -
every house
on the block

~~

she blows out
eighty-two candles
fallen petals

~~

the cat walks
across my body
the alarm

~~

heaving hay bales
into the truck -
storm clouds

~~

fruit flies
buzz the peaches
airport

~~

his face
blurred by rain...
again he forgets









                                                                     


Ten years ago, I was asked to write a  poem for the 50th anniversary of dear friends. Now,  ten years  later, I'm asked again, this time for their 60th.










60 years

     For Rollin  and Barbara

60 years
in galactic time 
is like a pinch of  sweet nectar
in a vast salty sea

but those who know the truth
of nectar and great seas
and life,  know that
we do not live in oceans of time
but in a small space within
those broad saline waters
that is ours, and in that space
a pinch of sugar
is all that is required
to turn  sixty years
into a long life of celebration,
a festival of love and companionship
and the contentment of a time and a space,
however small or large,
fulfilled...

so celebrate the sixty years
that has been given
to you together
and know
that the deep's vast reach
is sweeter
because of your time
in it...








Next from the week's anthology, here's a poem by American poet Mary Lonnberg-Smith. Although I could not find a picture or any other information on the web, I learned from the biography at the back of the book that she attended Cornell University and graduated at UC Berkeley with a major in English. She worked as a social worker. She lived in Santa Cruz with her husband and son until she died as the result of an auto accident.



Cartwheels

We never  laughed much:
there was something solemn
about your  mother's  gleaming kitchen, the cake
displayed like a rare museum piece
under its plastic dome.
Though we spent afternoons reading comics,
practicing cartwheels on your sunny lawn,
and making up  rhymes about the boys we knew,
I was almost relieved to go home.
Your mother was tight-lipped,disapproving,
older than anyone else's mother,
and when she took her long leap
into the  bay, I avoided you,
I  could not step across the lawn
where we did our acrobatics
without the sudden  vision of your mother
turning slow, silent cartwheels through the fog.








When I returned to writing in 1999 after 30 years not,  I had a store house of science fiction tucked away which I wrote about as a poet. Several of the poems were published in a science fiction web journal. I include a number of those early poems in Seven Beats a Second. Here are three of the ones in the book, the first one responding to the first photos from the surface of Mars, the second from discussion of the possibility of multiple universes (the matriverse my own extrapolation), and the third from reading about the construction of the largest  telescope ever build (incorporating a little bit from Seuss' story, Yertle the Turtle).

I think the first was one of those published at the time. 

 


red planet rebirth

Oxidized remains of cathedrals and commerce
brought to dust by the savage rub of time

red dust so fine it spreads like a cloud
across the plains and hills all around

virgin bride again

ready for life again after millennia
alone in the cold, black crypt of space



how it all comes about

out there somewhere
is the mother of all,
the prime,
the matriverse,
defying all vocabularies
of science and faith,
existing 
in some indefinable dimension
of simultaneous is and is not,
mother-of-all-gods,
creator-of-all-creators,
spewing  from her womb
all this is that is not her,
creating a cosmos
of time and space and energy
and matter such as you and I,
multiplied a million billion-fold,
always creating, brewing elements
for new-born stars,
grains of sand in a desert ever growing,
from the essences of nothing
making all



through the 100 meter lens

we will see it all

the beginning
and the end before
the beginning
and beyond
to all beginnings
and all endings
until finally
we will see  it,
the face of it/who/what
started all the dominoes falling
the god of all
maybe/maybe not
for it is what it s unchanging
until before the greedy eyes
of man it will be seen and known
no longer a question
for philosophers and mystics
but a paragraph
in a middle school textbook
a thrill ride in a theme park
a comic illustration
on the side
of a second graders lunch box








My next poet-friend is Alex Stolis. A chemical dependency counselor in Minneapolis, Alex has been published on-line (including here, often) and in print. He just added two new chapbooks to his long list of chapbooks, Without Dorothy There Is No Going Home and Justice for All. 

I had a couple of poems by  Alex that I meant to use before but that, one way or another, managed to  get lost in clutter of my desktop.

Actually, I just checked and discovered that what I thought I had I  don't have anymore. So instead of that, here's something I wrote about Alex some time ago in response to one of his chapbooks. A kind of appreciation.





So here's the first thing:

I cannot not read a book of  poetry that begins like this -

"It is between the blink of an eye
and Apollo;  a winged messenger-god
her veil  lifted
by a cold-blooded moon.

"There is a palette, voices long and golden
a scarecrow missing a leg
arms akimbo.
What's the bird? What's the wing?"


And here's the second thing:

I've been reading Alex Stolis for several years, just about everything he's written, I  think, and have come  to expect this kind of precise, arresting imagery.



But two questions remain. 

Is Alex a reincarnation of the  beat poets of  the mid-twentieth century tradition or does he write from an older tradition, the blues, a kind of Lightning Hopkins of today's  poetry.


I see some of both in his poems, the fresh,  clear, clean, why-didn't-anyone-think-of -that-before
language and images of the beats and the deep and dark sorrows of the lost and forever down  blues.

Whatever it is, it works for me.

(for information on Alex's latest book, go to http://www.booknook-eljpublications.com/store/p16/Without_Dorothy%2C_There_is_No_Going_Home.html)








                                                                                     




Here's another new piece from last week.










well, I did it again

well,
I did it again...

I dreamed an ending
to a book I had been reading
before I went to bed
and now I'm up
at 3 a.m.
drinking  orange juice,
thinking,
my, what a good ending
I dreamed

(it turns out,  aliens aren't invading
and aren't alien after all, just
first on the scene
way back when,
returning
now
after a ten million year
week-end
at the beach)

and now I  don't want to finish
reading the book
because it will  either not end
as I dreamed
and will therefore be inferior,
not nearly as good as
I  dreamed it,
or it will end  as I dreamed,
presenting  a serious deja vu
all over again, been there done that
situation
which would be a bore of
twice-chewed cabbage
magnitude...

so there's the rub,
as that other fella said,
a conundrum,  to  read or not to read,
to  take a chance of being either
bored
or  disappointed
or to just get another
book

since
I've finished this one,
so to speak,
I'm
thinking
another book








                                                                            


Grace Nichols was born in Guyana in 1950. She lived in a small village on the coast until her family moved to the city when she was 8 years old. She graduated with a degree in Communications from the University of Guyana and subsequently worked as a teacher and journalist before moving to the UK in 1977. This is her poem from the anthology.









In My Name

Heavy with child
belly
an arc
of black moon

I squat over
dry plantation leaves

and command the earth
to receive  you

in my name
in my blood

to receive you
my curled bean

my tainted

perfect child

              my bastard fruit
              my seedling
              my sea grape
              my strange mulatto
              my little bloodling

Let the snake slipping in deep grass
be dumb before you

Let the centipede writhe and shrivel
in its tacks

Let the evil one strangle on his own tongue
even as he sets his eyes upon you

For with my blood
I've cleansed you
and with my tears
I've pooled the river Niger

now my sweet one if is for you to swim








Another from Seven Beats a Second.

I tell other poets, get out of your house, away from your desk, put aside your lonely poet's anguish mode and get out with people and you'll never lack for something to write about.

Piggly Wiggly, if  it's  not  obvious in the poem,  was a  small  supermarket chain when I  was young.







Piggly Wiggly promenade

walking across the parking  lot
in high heels and black Capri pants
that draw attention  to hips
going a little broad and ass
on the way to droop
and a white cotton blouse
tucked tight into her pants,
small breasts,
nipples round and hard as marbles,
nodding with every step

she struts as she passes me
and smiles and you know
she's having the time of her life,
giving all the little bag boys
mid-afternoon hard-ons,
free in this parking lot
for at  least a while,
free at least until the groceries
are safely loaded into her Volvo
and she's on her way to pick up
little Brittany at ballet








I don't have a photograph, but I do have an interesting poem by Maria  Landowska from her book Threads, published NortexPress in 1985 and winner of the eleventh annual Nortex Press Book Award. The book is a collection of 5 poems, including a very long last poem. I use the first, shorter poem for this post.



I. At the Line Camp

The girls and I were working
the crosscut saw
when Joe rode in.
The old sheltering oak
had come crashing,
reasonless,
in the night, and we
thirsted to thin
the branches of
nocturnal fright.

I was telling them
not to push,
but pull
enjoying  the continuity
of saying what
Father had said to me.
We were full of
the together-laughter
that  comforts mothers
and daughters after
their parting.

Joe's horse was scarred
with foam flecks and dust
so  I knew he must
have been riding hard.

His eyes met mine,
then flitted  down,
and away, and my heart began
its last  crying,
even before I heard him say,
"Ma'am, it's your Daddy;
he's dying.

Shuddering winds
of change
blew across my plain
as I was buffeted
by a hurricane
of pain.

There was not time
to fill emptiness
with tears;
no time to lag.
We had not washed
and there was
such a lack
of clothes,
I could only pack
one small bag
to fling on
saddle horn.
I kissed the girls.
Later, later,
we  would mourn.

I could feel
him calling
as I attacked the
raw-tongued road.
In Horse Canyon,
I vaguely recall
a black bull
bawling
on the hill,
his voice echoing
in the still
morning  air.
I did not care.
I  was propelled
into the future,
wondering how
I would  suture
the wounds of now.








                                                                                       

A poet-friend named Alice asked, in relation to the current murderous stuff going on in the mid-east,  "Why?"

My answer - because it profits someone, not necessarily in actual money (that's just a symbol here) but in other ways, some obvious, some more mysterious. Sometime because there are sufficient insane  people in charge to make murder impossible to avoid.








Alice asks why

Joe
will give me $10 to  punch you in the face

George
will give you $10 to kick me in the balls

how 'bout we make some money here?

Wonderland rules,

me first...








                                                        



In a similar  vein as the last  one, the next poem from the anthology  is Kim  Namjo, born in Korea in 1927, she graduated from Seoul Teacher's College in 1951, taught in high school and later became a professor at Sookmyum Women's  College where she is currently a Professor Emerita.










My Baby Has  No Name Yet

My baby has no name yet;
like a new-born chick  or a puppy
my baby is not named yet.

What numberless texts I examined
at dawn and night and evening over again!
But not one character did I find
which is as lovely as the child.

Starry  field  of the sky,
or heap of pearls in the depth.
Where can the name be found, how can I?

My baby has no name yet;
like an unnamed bluebird or white flowers
from the farthest  land for the first,
I have no name for this baby of ours.








                                                                                                    


This one also from Seven Beats a Second. I have no  idea  what brought it on, probably an old  cowboy movie on TV.










cowboys and indians

redskins on the warpath
           whooping
chasing cowboys
            across
bonyback ridge
            down
sidewinder trail
             past
that same big saguaro cactus

look
there it is again

war bonnets streaming
cowboy hats flapping
               in the wind
shooting  forward
shooting back
               whooping
horses falling
               goddamn
               ain't
it fun to be
a movie star








                                                                   

The last of my poet-friends this week  is Dan Cuddy, one of the Baltimore poets. Dan's work has appeared frequently on "Here and Now" and I read him even more frequently as an occasional housemate at Blueline's House of Thirty.









Obscurity

fight as we might
against the black vapors
that chill mind heart whatever
human
revolt is like slaying
a volcano's shaft of fumes

all but the few
are born and die obscure
leaves of grass
a season of green

fame?
it is not  immortality
it is the shallow image
of a mirror
and fame can quickly
change to shame

all  the excess and the failure to achieve
or  maintain
ashamed of being so stupidly proud
quarrelsome
selfish
but many aren't
many have no mirrors
they view walls
their blood is paint
it glistens, surface pigment

fame is not immortality
but why else look for recognition

love?

screw them all
be satisfied with a little life
comfortable fairly happy
a tasty inexpensive dinner

God is or is not in Heaven








                                                                                 


I did my long anticipated cataract surgery last week. It was interesting.












an interesting experience

it's
an interesting experience,
watching someone poke you in the eye
from inside your eye,
watch the little vacuum tube
as it passes over the inner surface, breaking  up
the old cataract encrusted  lens, suck, suck
sucking up all the little shattered
pieces,
the vacuum  providing strangely melodic
background music
to the action,  varying pitches, indicators, I suspect,
that tell the surgeon how it's going...

then the tube no longer sucking, but laying out,
smoothing the new lens, laying it  in the new place
where it will  permanently and clearly rest...

a twenty minute procedure,
from inserting  the IV in my hand, to sticking
on the little  EKG monitors, to  wrapping
the arm for continuous blood
pressure monitoring to placing
a plastic hood over face, making a little hole
where the doctor  can peer through at my single eye
and  the beginning and continuing song of the suction
until it's over and the eye is unwrapped
and seeing light through it, all a beautiful, bloody
red, and my hands finally freed,
so I can scratch  the itch beside my nose
that tormented me throughout...

an eye patch,, a gauze under a plastic shield,
taped as if preparing to mail to
the furthest street address  in Timbuktu...

I had expected an eye patch, was hoping for something in more of a
black and fierce pirate theme








                                                            



Now, another poem from the Ain't I  a Woman anthology. This one is by Tahereh Saffarzadeh. Born in Iran in 1936, she studied both in the UK  and in the United States and worked as a poet, writer, translator and prominent university professor. The poet died in Tehran in 2008.













Birthplace

I have never seen the place where I was born

the place my mother
laid beneath a ceiling
her womb's cumbrous load -
The first tick-tocking of my small heart
still  live in the chimney fittings
and in the crannies of the old bricks
and there still visible on the door and walls
is that look of shame,
my mother's look
at my father
and my grandfather
A choked voice murmured
"It's a girl"
The midwife trembled
unsure of her birthing fee
- and goodbye to the circumcision feast

The first visit I make to my birthplace
I'll peel from the walls
that shamed look of my mother
and there where the bold rhythm of my pulse began
I'll make confession:
my clear hands
bear no urge to clench and strike
Brawling drunk isn't my language
I take no pride in killing
Male supremacy
never fattened me at its table









Here's a couple more short SciFi's from the book. The first after reading about two constellations in the very slow process of colliding to a conclusion so far in the future our kind, probably even our home is long forgotten. The second,  okay, I admit it, I stole it from  Star Trek (with a tiny bit of religious undertones) and the third, a kind of affirmation I think Whitman might have liked.








meanwhile in the Hydra Constellation

a storm of stars
passes soundless through the void,
crossing unimaginable distances
to meet, to crash in a flash
of exploding suns and primordial fire
stretching across a billion years,
a furnace unlike any
since the first great eruption
that came from less than nothing
to  blast a cosmos into being

and around those speeding suns,
orbiters like our own earth home ,
and on some of them, creatures
like ourselves, products of an evolutionary
trail from muck to self-discovered glory,
inventions of  their own histories, periods dark
and light, times of cruelty, death and genius flowering,
seeking grace, forgiveness, and salvation of love,
seeking honorable life and an honorable end

that end comes from them  now, across the void
in a storm of stars colliding, an end ablaze
with the light of creation deconstructing



hymnal

from somewhere in the very deep
a great blue sang today, a song
of salty tides and bright mornings
fresh with sun and ocean air

a love song
among the giants

from somewhere in the other deep,
a growing choir responds, sings
of star-blinks and novas flashing,
songs of creation, songs of despair,
songs of spinning little worlds
that come and go and leave behind
the poetry of  their time in passing

each 
another song
recorded for time never-ending



brotherhood of the forever spreading stars

a million billion
you's and me's
in never ending
varieties of
size and shape
and unimagined
chemistries
scattered in places
we can never be,
places so far,
so  strange,
so contrary
to all we know
that only minds
vanity free
and welcoming
impenetrable mysteries
of all our fellow
you's and me's








                                                                     

Next from my library, another of the books I bought last week, Swarm, poems by Jodie Graham. The book was published by The Ecco Press in 2000.









Two  Days (5/2/97 - 5/3/97)

Full moon; lays his hand
onto her throat, into his mouth
takes her whole ear.

Noon: this pen hovers
over this empty page. One is
free to forget.

Noon. The gate  fills to
its edges  with the two sides of
opening. Move.

Noon. Regardless of
the gate, buds open all around,
stare at each other

Noon: evaporation is taking
place.

Full moon: you body before me
a nameless hill.

Full moon:  seeing, being-seen;
the cold lies in us all night long

In one spot most especially.

I am not seeking altitude.

Noon:  we push until
like a third party
matter rages between us.

Noon: pushes us
into the midst to where
Spring stops.

Noon: pushes us
to where a crown emerges and begins to lower
all round our bodies
tiny nips of buds.

Noon: then even the buds push out
into this emptiness.

Noon. The only heaven plays and leaps.

Dusk,  with its down-slope,
a bride, and one above her
all shivering of mind.

Late dusk: a communication
between what exists and what
is visible (that shore) (who knows

what can be said) -

Full moon;
lays his hand  onto her throat, into his mouth
takes her whole ear.








                                                                                            



 Also took some time in the book for some fun.










my kind of people

fat girls
need not apply

no skinny
bucktoothed boys
who masturbate
while reading historical
romance novels

no krinkly, wrinkly
old people,
drooly-chinned
babies
with foul smelling
diapers,
no bankers
who count their money
in a dark little room
at midnight

no judges, no fire chiefs,
no social workers,
no grocer store clerks,
bankers, bakers
or used car salesmen

also, no candlestick makers
if they're still around

none of them either

no blonds
with dimples
and no swarthy skinned
men with mustaches

no bald-headed men
with beards
nor women
with brittle hair
piled higher than
six  and one half inches

none top short
none too tall
none too big
and none too small

and none too
in-between

no men in tangerine
bermuda shorts
and no women
in pedal pushers
(any color)

no arabs, no blacks
no wops or jews

no russians, maldavians,
limeys, frogs,  krauts,
poles, czechs,  hunkies,
greeks,swedes,
irish sots,
nor tight-fisted scots

they just need not apply

and no chinamen either,
and none of their oriental 
cousins

no africans,
no egyptians,
and damn sure no syrians

no mexicans,
peruvians, chilians,
panamanians,
pomeranians,
argentinians,
and canadians, too

and kansans, califorians,
new yorkers, iowa
porkers, nevadans
or any of the rest

all of them 
just need not apply,
all that riffraff
just need not apply
cause now we're 
getting down to
my kind of people

me

and, maybe

you









                                                                                



My last new  poem for  the week, a self-indulgent ramble.












the long walk

returned this morning
to our long walk route, across
the bridge, along
the creek, past the swimming pool,
and down Evers until we  turn
the  circle  back -

a treat for Bella
since she will be left behind for the morning -

we used to do this route every day,
for years,actually, pre-Bella,  back when it was
our old friend, Reba, until her arthritis got so bad,
week by week, we had to shorten the walk until, finally
she couldn't even make it to the front door, such pain
to see in her eyes, we babied  her, let her sleep
in her favorite corner until she could no longer do even that...

Bella joined us several months after Reba was taken, and we began
that extended walk again (the same long  route we took
this morning) when, after just a few weeks,  the feral, front-porch cat
joined us, (the cat, charcoal gray, lost sometimes in the dark
we walked through, falling, it seemed, in love at first sight with golden Bella,
following us, sometimes beside us, sometimes behind us, rushing to catch up,
sometimes ahead,  waiting for us, the two of them, the dog and the cat
stopping along the path at  least  once to nuzzle and play before
proceeding on...

months of this, the three of us in the very early morning,
startling the birds nesting in the trees
as we passed under, great  flap-flaps of wings
of half-asleep birds leapt from their perch, los tres amigos,
even though one, the cat, was there for the dog
and would have nothing  too do with me,  so maybe, los dos  amigos,
instead, with me a groupie hanger-on...

and then,
one morning,
the cat was not there, for a week, two  weeks,
a month, the cat was not  there until the two of us remaining
accepted that the lost member of our small battalion
would not  be joining us again, and without her to make us three
the pleasures of the morning  walk began to fade,
the missing shadow a shadow on the new
day as our morning walk became shorter and shorter,
becoming not much more tan the walk
from our front door to the car  door, succumbing to the loss,
to the pressure of time, previous serene-time becoming dead-time
at the beginning of a busy day...

but this morning  we made the long walk again, compensation
to Bella for the lonely morning to come, finding all the same
sniff and  pee spots so long neglected...

startling the sleeping birds again, startling us  again,
with their explosive flap-flapping
of wings in panic
retreat










As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and me.



I mention it every week and it's  still true, I'm Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:




Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, eBookPie, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)



´╗┐Poetry
New Days & New Ways
 Places and Spaces



Always to the Light






Goes Around Comes Around





Pushing Clouds Against the Wind





And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio




Seven Beats a Second






Short Stories



Sonyador - The Dreamer




0 Comments:

Post a Comment



Archives
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April 2010
May 2010
June 2010
July 2010
August 2010
September 2010
October 2010
November 2010
December 2010
January 2011
February 2011
March 2011
April 2011
May 2011
June 2011
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011
October 2011
November 2011
December 2011
January 2012
February 2012
March 2012
April 2012
May 2012
June 2012
July 2012
August 2012
September 2012
October 2012
November 2012
December 2012
January 2013
February 2013
March 2013
April 2013
May 2013
June 2013
July 2013
August 2013
September 2013
October 2013
November 2013
December 2013
January 2014
February 2014
March 2014
April 2014
May 2014
June 2014
July 2014
August 2014
September 2014
October 2014
November 2014
December 2014
January 2015
February 2015
March 2015
April 2015
May 2015
June 2015
July 2015
August 2015
September 2015
October 2015
November 2015
December 2015
January 2016
February 2016
March 2016
April 2016
May 2016
June 2016
July 2016
August 2016
September 2016
October 2016
November 2016
December 2016
January 2017
February 2017
March 2017
April 2017
May 2017
Links
Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Tryst
Poems Niederngasse
BlazeVOX
Eclectica
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
zafusy
The Blogging Poet
Poetsarus.Com
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet