Random Scramble   Wednesday, February 04, 2015





The  title of the  post this week refers to the photos, a whatever-came-up-next collection from my photo files.

The week's anthology is Twentieth-Century Latin American Poetry, a large bilingual anthology published by the University of Texas Press in 1996.

The rest of the post is all as  usual, me, old and new, and poets from my library.

Again, a note:

I know I get a lot of  readers here and would enjoy getting more comments from them. Just click the comment button at the end of the post, or if you prefer, email me at allen.itz@gmail.com. If you don't want to comment, but  would like to be on  my mailing list, let me know via that email. If you are already on my mailing list and would just like to be left  alone, let me know via email. I you have poems you would like me to consider you can also  do that via the email. If you do, please include the work in the body of the email. Formats sometimes gets screwed up if  sent as attachment.




Me
I'm just not going to write a poem today

Nicanor Parra
I Move the Meeting be Adjourned
Roller Coaster
Piano Solo 

Me
El Paso at an  early hour

Ursula le Guin
Incredible Good Fortune
San Jose Palms

Me
my iron cross

Octavio Paz
Here
Certainty
Village  

Me
sunspots

Elizabeth Alexander
Compass

Me   
pressed like rain

Gabriel Zaid
Song of Pursuit
A Furious Clarity
Cloister
Sundial

Me
flying

Marsha Pomerantz
Cow in a Gallery

Me
Lord, could you at least  do this one thing for me

Roque Dalton
Looking for Trouble

Me
El Paso at an early hour, again 

Semezdin Mehmedinovic
Deserter
No Man's Land
Martyr's Resting Place
Lilies

Me
abuelita de los todos

Pablo Neruda
1. Body of a Woman

Me
themes from a triptych for the early riser

Rengetsu
Living Near the Great Buddha
Mountain Village Fog
Field of Wild Flowers
Autumn Rain
Insects Chirping in the Moonlight

Me
not a fit day for man or beast

Gabriela Mistral
A Woman

Me
poems for a day when six lines see  like long-haul trucking  

Dan Cuddy
The Unquiet

Me
the virtue of patience in a slow-moving world  
      

Now, here's this week's show.













I'm starting this week  with a tiny declaration of independence (humorous,  I hope).











I'm just not going to write a poem  today

it is mid-morning
and I have not written my poem
and I feel like such an outlaw -  Jesse James
and Billy the Kid and Rimbaud
all rolled into one root'n, shoot'n, toot'n,
rule-defying, schoolmarm terrifying poet-bandit, rider
of the free verse plain, hiding out in metaphor gulch,
waiting to ride hell-for-leather, raiding all those  little box poets
in little box towns and little box banks brimming with obsolete literary allusions, not to mention,
illusions, fortress and all the  pusillanimously perverse guardians of poetry's black soul of
tired
convention...

a rebel,  a revolutionary, an avant-garde radical, get-your-face-out-of-my-face box-buster
is what I want to be today...

in face -

to all those critics  who  proclaim this is poetry and this  is not, here is a poet and here is not, to
all those who make all those  rules that I'm bound to break,,  here's what I have to  say...

pbbbblttt

instead,
I'm going to give them a day off and not write a poem
today

~~~

and I don't care comb your hair








I start this  week from the anthology, Twentieth Century Latin American Poets, with three poems by Chilean poet, mathematician and physicist Nicanor  Parra.

Though Parra describes himself as an "anti-poet" because of his disdain for poetic pomp and convention, many rank him as among the most important poets of Spanish  language literature. At the end of each reading, he often closes with, "Me retracto de todo lo dicho" (I take back everything I  said).

I'm reading him for the  first  time. I'm pretty sure I'm going to like him.







I Move the Meeting Be Adjourned

Ladies and gentlemen
I  have only one question:
Are we children  of the Sun and the Earth?
Because if we are only Earth
I see no reason
To continue shooting this picture!
I move the meeting be adjourned.

     (Translation by Allen Ginsberg)


Roller Coaster

For  half a century
Poetry was the paradise
Of the solemn fool.
Until I came
and built my roller coaster.

Go up, if you feel like it.
I'm not responsible if you come  down
Bleeding from your mouth and nose.

     (Translation by Miller Williams)



Piano Solo

Since man's life is nothing  but a bit of  action at a distance,
A bit of foam shining inside  a glass;
Since trees are nothing but moving trees;
Nothing but chairs and  tables in perpetual motion;
Since we ourselves are nothing but beings
(As the godhead itself is nothing but God);
Now that  we  do not speak solely to be heard
But so that others may speak
And the echo-preceding the voice that produced it;
Since we do not even have the consolation of a chaos
In the garden that yawns and fills with air,
A puzzle that we must solve before our death
So  that we may  nonchalantly resuscitate later on
When we have had woman to excess;
Since there is also a heaven in hell,
Permit me to propose a few things:
I wish to make a noise with my feet
I want my soul to find its proper body.

     (Translated by William Carlos Williams)












Another old travel  poem, this one written early in 2010, another of my travel sketches.










El Paso at an early hour

deep desert
blue
seeping
through the black
night sky
even before
the first peach of sunrise
shows behind
the mountains

a quiet  Sunday morning

just like in the
movie








I had been a reader of science fiction books by Ursula K. Le Guin, for years, not ever realizing she was as good a  poet as she is at everything else. I learned different when I picked up this book, Incredible Good Fortune, at a used bookstore. The book was published by Shambala in 2006.

Le Guin, winner of ever prestigious prize there is for science fiction and fantasy writers, won the National Book Foundation Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters in 2014.

This  is the poem from which the book's title  is drawn, plus a second short poem.








Incredible Good Fortune

O California, dark, shaken, broken  hills,
bright fog reaching over the beaches,
madrone  and digger pine and valley oak,
I'm your dry hearted daughter.
I listened when the earthquake spoke
and learned what the quail teaches.
the stony bed the rain of winter fills
waited all year for water.



San Jose Palms

Palms
in  sea wind
licks of light
flickers, flashes
clicketing of high
fronds, dry steaming
water-clatter, wind sound
rattle-rustle of the air-trees
the sway-trees,, the calm trees














Here's another poem from last week, about a gift and what it means to me.













my iron cross

I  have a cross made of two rough iron  nails,
each about 4 inches long,
hanging over the door to m office, give
to me by a friend, a believer
who has affection for me and who wished to share with me
the peace she finds in her faith

though I am not a believer
I have similar affection for my friend
and respect her unassuming an deeply held beliefs
and was honored  by her gift
and the peace she hoped to bring to me

and pleased, also, because the cross is a beautiful  piece
rough-hewn art, the long iron spikes,
elementary truth in the integrity of their coarse construction,
as if the hands of their maker, the purpose and life of the iron-worker artist
is imprinted on every ridge and groove  of their irregular surface

and because it is an illustration of how art
can embody the essence  of meanings,the iron nails,
old and heavy and sharp  and crude as the nails belief  says pierced
the hands and feet of Jesus Christ, relics, almost, placed on my wall,
a great story hanging over my head every time I pass through the door,
a reminder to the poet that,  true or not, believed or not,
great stories have great  power...

and that it is this poet's job to find the stories that bring power to all who read  them

one does not have to believe the stories in order to respect and honor them
because they are a reflection of our human desire for a better place
and a better time, our search for a better self,  a glimpse
of the diving...

some stories are bloody and  cruel, but the need to believe, whatever the story,
reflect the human  thrust to find a place beyond the restrictions
of our evolutionary heritage, to find a more human way
to  be human...

it is the way, through one story or another, all of us find our way








And a collection of Latin American poets that didn't include Mexican poet Octavio Paz wouldn't be much of a collection at all.

Paz is first of three Nobel Prize winners included in this post. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1990.

Here are three of his poems, all translated by Charles Tomlinson.









Here

My steps along this street
resound
             in another street
in which
             I hear my steps
passing along this street
in which

Only the mist is real



Certainty

If it is real the white
light from this lamp, real
the writing hand, are they
real, they eyes looking at what I write?

From one word to the other
What I say vanishes
I know that I am alive
between two parentheses



Village

 The stones are time
                                The wind
Centuries of wind
                                 The trees are time
The people are stone
                                  The wind
turns upon itself and sinks
Into the stone  day

there is no water here for all the luster of its eyes











This is  another travel sketch from early in 2010. In this one, I  think we were  on our way home from the trip  to Lake Tahoe that I had  pictures of a couple of weeks ago.











sunspots

past
white-robed mountains
the virgin-brides
of  western California

past
San Bernadino,
and the car-choked
debris
of Los Angeles

to the dry, brown
hills of north Arizona

bright yellow
flowers,
brushy and thick
climb the hills like
sunspots
across
the rising drab  and deary








 Next from my library, this poem by Elizabeth Alexander.

Born in Harlem in 1962, Alexander is a poet, essayist, playwright and university professor (University of Chicago and Smith College), and for a brief time, a reporter  for the Washington Post.









Compass

I

I swing
the thin tin
arm to mark
an arc
from pole
to  pole:  my
mother's compass
spans the world.
It  marks
the globe from east
to west on this
white paper as
I twirl
the compass,
hear the hush
of graphite:
a horizon.

II

It feels freest
at  its widest set,
held just by a pin -
prick on the page,
moored and  precarious,
like  Mathew Hinson's flag.

III

Even the dog died.
His Eskimo grandchildren cried

when, years late, the black man
they prayed was a Henson

came looking to  figure
what makes a man hazard

ten lifetimes of snow. Hayden
imagined your arguments, hunger,

delirium. The fur of your hood
frames your brown face like petals or rays.

To stand where the top of the world curves.
To look all around in  that silence.

To breathe in cold air that has never
been squandered, breathe out again.

To breathe in cold  air, breathe
in...out...

breathe in













This poem is  from  early last week, early in the series of days of really lousy weather.












pressed like rain

the moon
a blood  edged scimitar
pushing a cloudburst west
rolling  dark and dense

the Gulf's gift
to the desert, blooming
in all the shades of cactus
transcendent

it would be a time  to be there

I'm not
but would like to be

running with the clouds
across the desert
and into the mountains

pressed
like the rain
by the blood-edged moon








Next from the anthology, four short poems by Gabriel  Zaid, another Mexican  poet  I'm  not  so familiar with. Born in Monterrey in 1934,  Zaid was a poet and intellectual who studied Engineering. His Wikipedia entry says he rarely appeared in public or allowed his picture to be taken  because he though the emphasis on a poet's work should be his poetry, not him.

Don't know about  the not  allowing pictures thing since I found a bunch of them. Can't say he looks happy in any of them though.







Song of Pursuit

I am not the wind, nor the sail,
but the rudder that watches.

I am not the water, nor the rudder,
but he who  sings this song.

I am not the voice or the throat,
but that which is sung.

I don't know who I  am , nor what I say,
But I go following you.

     (Translation by Monica Hernandez)



 A Furious Clarity

We accept no  givens: from here on illusion.
The light of my eyes: a world apart, but mine.

Whether you're present or not, the present is given.
At times a light pours down, our daily bread.

Thoughts are given you, yours like the birds.
Solitude is given you, yours like your shadow.
Black light shuddering at the thump of day.

     (Translation by George McWhirter)



Cloister

Between to  live and to think,
the door is ajar.
Seeing:  being wide open.

     (Translation by Monica  Hernandez-Cancio)



Sundial

Weird hour. It's not
the end of the world,
but it's dusk.
Reality,
the tower of Pisa,
tells the hour
on the verge of falling.

     (Translation by Adrian Hernandez)












Here once more, traveling again, same trip as before, Lake Tahoe to San Antonio via California, Arizona and New Mexico.







flying

a cold mean
day

rain blown
like bullets
by a hard
north wind

on the road
I enter
an underpass
and pigeons

a flock of ten
or  twelve

fly down
from the girders

fly in front of me

and
for a moment
I am in the cold
rainy sky

flying with them









Here's a poem from my library by Marsha Pomerantz. It's from  her book The Illustrated Edge, published by Biblioasis in 2011.

Pomerantz grew up in New York, lived in Israel for twenty years, and now lives in Boston. Her work has been published in journals in the US, UK and Israel. She has also translated poetry, short fiction, and a novel  from Hebrew. She is managing editor at the Harvard Art Museums.










Cow in a Gallery

Thicker slices than you'd ever think,
no pink lights in the meat  case.
This is me with precision plastic pins holding
hide and all under utter incandescence,

me here, continuous  through all interruptions,
through people  crossing through my spine,
my only straight line.
This is my spleen, this is my underwater liver

that, eating slow, I worked so hard to grow.
These are my mutabilities of brown, my surface
absorptive in all senses, my anus  urging  wonder
in ever-new directions.

I'm doing all this for you, consumer:
only you can get  out of this
something like alive.

Feed me, please,
your possibilities,
and I will fatten you.













Bad weather and a call to the heavens for help.













Lord, could you at least do this one thing for me

it's a bright, beautiful day outside
and the dog
waits
in the car for a walk but
three weeks into three weeks
of head cold and cedar fever allergy
miseries
I am so weak  and disoriented
(in the sixties and seventies, people
would have paid good money
for a hit of this other-worldly inter-dimensionality,
this stepping over clouds beneath my
feet,  this had-butting the late-setting moon,
this twisted lattice
of space and time and fear of flying and
just plain old reality-slippage, like sand
draining through my ears)
but then is then and now is now,
at  least I think so,
and the fun is gone and I would really like
a hit of bed, instead, pillow-plumping-covers-covering
sleep, days or at least long enough
for this damn minds-eye
muddle
to subside...

someone call  in the developers,
strip the north hills of all cedar trees
right down to the  limestone,
free me O Lord of snifflers of thy
heavy hand of allergens

or, if  that's too much to ask,
O  Lord,
you could at least
take fifteen minutes
from your celestial obligation
to keep the stars
burning and bright and
walk
my poor dog for
me











Here's a poem from the anthology by Roque Dalton. Born in 1935 in San Salvador,  El Salvador, Dalton was a poet and reporter, a political activist eventually, a member of one of the leftist guerrilla groups that later became a part of the FMLN. In 1975, before the various parties came together, he was assassinated by one of the rival groups.










Looking for Trouble

The night of my first cell meeting it was pouring rain
Four or five characters out of the world of Goya
were very impressed with the way I dripped
Everyone there seemed somewhat bored
perhaps from the persecution and the daily nightmares
     of torture.

These somewhat hoarse-sounding organizers
     labor unions
and strikes told me I'd have to
find a pseudonym
that I was going to have to pay five pesos a month
that we had to agree to do this every Wednesday
and how were my studies going
and for today we were going to read a pamphlet by Lenin
and that it wasn't necessary to say "comrade" every minute.

When we broke up the rain had stopped
Mother scolded me for coming home late.

     (Translation by Richard Schaaf)











 From a second morning in El Paso.











El Paso at an early hour, again

the air is desert
chill -

a pink thread
on the east horizon
suggests the coming
of a rising sun -

stench of low-grade diesel carried
by low morning
winds
crosses the border
from Cuidad Juarez,
its people
a million strong
waking in the dark,
their yellow lights
flicker
like stars flung
across
the mountainside -

the pink thread
widens -
a shadowing  light
spreads -

from the north foothills
a coyote
howls








Here are four short  poems from my library by Bosnian  poet, Semezdin Mehmedinovic, a writer, filmmaker and magazine editor. The poems are from his book Sarajevo Blues, published by City Lights. Books in 1998, translated by Ammiel Alcalay.

In 1996, after the end  of the siege of Sarajevo and the conclusion of the Bosnian war, Mehmedinovic emigrated to the United States and  currently lives in Virginia.









Deserter

Only then -
not before you have coffee
at the train station;
the dispatcher tapping the sheels
of the locomotive with a hammer;
the paper tucked under your arm -
leaving the city in peace -
you'll never be true to yourself anywhere
unless your very life is the only truth
unless the empty air calls itself freedom -
unless you're a deserter
with an uneasy conscience
unless you're Billy the Kid



No Man's Land

For over a month now, over where the dividing line is, the
bodies of the dead lie. You can't get close to them; the white
UNPROFOR transporters don't go there to pick them up:
the unburied lie  and  their souls wander with the city crows.



A Martyr's Resting Place

A body just about  to be buried. I see  a soldier on his knees,
still a kid. His rifle rests in his lap. You can hear the guttural
murmur  of Arabic. Sorrow gathers in  circles under the eyes;
the men  pass their open palms across their faces. As the rites
continue, I feel the presence of God in everything; when this
is over, I will take a pen and make a list  of my sins. Now
everything in me resists death; as  my tongue passes  over my
teeth I can sense the taste of a woman's lipstick. No one is
crying. I keep quiet. A cat jumps  across the shadow of a
minaret.



Lilies

1)     Dream: I'm going down the steps towards the Old
City. As I cautiously head over to the north side of town, I
feel  some warmth at the back of my head. I move ahead
carefully, so I don't trample the flowers growing on every
step. The shells have gauged out the level surfaces on the
steps and with the rainwater, dirt has gathered in the
hollowed cavities. I make sure to stand only at the edge
so I don't plunge into the abyss or squash the weak, pale
flowers, the sickly flowers.

2)     Which Fassbinder film was that in?
                   A one-armed
                   man
                   goes into a florist and asks:
                   which flower shows that the day is passing?

                   And the florist says:
                   white lilies













This one from  last week  also, a little  poem of the moment of the kind I'm always looking for.












abuelita de los todos

the rotund little crossing guard, silver curls
trickling under the back of
her white crossing-guard cap,
commands the intersection
with the authority of her orange vest,
parades sternly across the rush-hour street,
little feet paddling fast against the cold asphalt,
like a mother duck
she pulls in her wake a gaggle of
tiny ducklings, all bundled, head to toe,
against the cold

whatever else might befall them
as the day progress,, her little charges are safe for now
under her fierce shield

abuelita de  los todos -
la guarda bajo el sol naciente








 As with Paz, you can't have a collection of Latin American  poetry without including Chilean poet, politician, diplomat and 1971 winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, Pablo Neruda.

This is one of Neruda's wonderful love poems. From Twenty Love  Poems and a Song of Despair

Though it's not clearly stated, I think it was  translated by W. S. Merwin.



1. Body of a Woman

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look  like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant's body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.

I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from em,
and night swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,
like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.
Body of skin, of moss, of eager and firm milk.
Of the goblets of he breasts! Oh the eyes of absence!
Oh the roses of the pubis! Oh your voice, slow and sad.

Body of my woman, I   will persist in your grace.
My thirst, my boundless desire, my shifting road!
Dark river-beds where the eternal thirst flows
and weariness follows, and the infinite ache.











Traveling done for this week, two last  back-at-home poems from 2010, this one and one more coming.












themes from a triptych for the early riser

 the sharp knife
of a rooster's
crow
cuts free the sun
from the black
sack of winter night

~~~

tiny birds
flutter
behind thick branches

little twits
and tweets
exercise
coldly feathered
throats

~~~

the creek at sunrise -
running water bubbles
blue
beneath the ice








Next from  my library this week, several poems from Lotus Moon - the Poetry of the Buddhist Nun Rengetsu. This is one of a series of books by White Pines Press, this one in 2005.

At the age of thirty-three, Otagaki Nobu (1791-1875) renounced the world that had brought tragedy to her - the death of two husbands and  three children - and, taking the name Rengetsu (Lotus Moon) and was ordained as a Buddhist nun. In 1832, she began to make and sell  pottery inscribed with her poetry. The combination of beautiful poetry, calligraphy and pottery were highly prized in her lifetime and continue to be even more so today.








Living Near the  Great Buddha

My night: autumn chill,
A steady drizzle
Of cold rain and
The flicker of
Lonely shadows

**The Great Buddha is housed in the colossal main hall of the temple  Todaiji in Nara.



Mountain Village Fog

Overgrown kudzu vines,
Not  a visitor for ages;
Along the hedge
Autumn fog wells up
In the mountain village.


Field of Wild Flowers

Rather than cutting them down
To spread out or gather up,
Let the wild  flowers  of autumn be
And enjoy the field
Just as it is...


Autumn Rain

The sun sets,
And the shadows deepen
Around the pines of Irie -
Lonely memories
In the autumn rain.


Insects Chirping in the Moonlight

From a crack in the wall
Of my mountain hut:
Katydids announce themselves
And moonlight too
pours in.













Another lousy weather  poem from last week.













not a fit day for man or beast

heavy rain
driven  by a hard cold wind,
thrown
like river pebbles
against my bedroom
window, walking to the car
through ankle deep
puddles, my feet soaked
inside my socks soaked inside
my shoes soaked
top to bottom soaked
top to bottom soaked
like my hat is soaked and the portion
of my nose which sticks out
from my hat
soaked
not a fit day for man nor
beast
and if you don't  believe me
just ask the beast
waiting
in my car, Bella Beast
who took one look out the door
this morning and said
"HELL NO! I WON'T GO,"
and hid behind the
sofa
until I told her I was going to leave
without her
and so she  finally went to the car
and now won't come out of the car,
waiting for the rain to stop
which it's not going to do
all day
and she didn't go out to pee
all night and she hasn't this morning
either so I guess I'll  just wait
until she  gets the panicky look she gets
wen random strangers or other relatives
who might want to kill  me come  into the house,
which works  out to when anybody but me
comes into the house
or when she really really wants to pee
and I'll just watch for that  look
and take her out then...

meantime
it's not a fit day for man or beast









I had to look to find a female poet in the anthology and the one I found is the same one I found  last time I used the anthology. But a distinguished find she is, Gabriela  Mistral, another Chilean and the only female Latin American  poet to win the Nobel Prize for Literature (1945). Born in 1889, the poet, diplomat, educator and  feminist, Mistral died in 1957.

The poem, written in 1954, was translated by Doris Dana. The poet  died three years later.











A Woman

Where her house stood, she goes on living
as  if it  had never burned.
The only word she speaks
are the words of her soul;
to those who pass by she speaks none.

When she says "pine of Aleppo"
she speaks of not tree, but a child;
and when she says "little stream"
or "mirror of gold" she speaks of the the same.

When night falls she counts
the charred beams of her house.
Lifting her forehead she sees
the pine of Aleppo stand tall.


(The day lives for its night,
the night for its miracle.)

In every tree, she raises the one
they laid upon the earth.
She warms and wraps and holds him close
to the fire of her breast.












Home. A last old poem from 2010.












poems for when 6 lines  seem  like long-haul trucking

              in Barqu mode

sunshine
storm
wakes the day -
bright morning
crowds out
night

```

many shades
of spring
green -
stately oak
to neon
mesquite

```

summer hides -
spring's dark
secret
skulking
behind every
green tree

```

spring break
beach -
pale skin
exposed -
lots of it -
reddening

```

squirrels
hide behind
new spring
leaves  -
hiss
at the cat

 ```

 cat
casts appraising eye
at chattering
birds,  skulks,
calculates
cat-like











Last from my library this week, this poem by Dan Cuddy, one of  my poet  friends  from Maryland.















The Unquiet

so taken for granted
like waking up
pouncing gently on the floor
sliding into slippers or shoes
rushing in and out with breath
but like a stream's current
almost unperceived
maybe a leaf
like a cough now and then
tumbling down the course
of  breaths
bobbing up  and over moments
around bends of activity

the sun

is picking at the edge of ice
rubbing softly its skin
scooping  infinitesimally
the water on top
that slippery duplicity
tossing the melt
into the air
letting the cool
if not cold
atmosphere
content with vapor

the sun

like breath
moves through the day
doing its unseen
well, u perceived
respirations
like the breath keeps
the mind pleasantly comfortable
so the mind
can lord it over the predictable
but usually not though  about
universe

how  we rely on the sun
on our breath
on waking  up
in or cycles
doing what we always do
making orange juice
and saying contentedly
to ourselves
usually don't want anybody to hear
don't want to  be ostentatious or weird
"mmmmmm"

and so it is
until we die













I  don't just observe people,  I watch dogs as well.













the virtue of patience in a slow moving  world

for a dog,
she's a bit of a scary-cat,
doesn't really trust anyone but me,
on her guard even  around Dee,  but she understands
that whenever Dee makes noise in the kitchen
there is a pretty good chance some scrap of something edible
is going to fall on the floor

(understanding
if you  see the ugly, rotten stuff she'll pick  up from the ground to eat 
when we're out for a walk, that she  has pretty low standards
for  what is edible and what is not, so that  even though Dee's food  scraps
are always tasty, they don't have to  be to capture her  attention)

she lurks, right around the corner from the kitchen,
waiting like a mendicant the Virgen de San Juan Basilica
right off Highway 83 near San Juan, Texas, a place near  from which I grew...

she waits,
front paws crossed as if in prayer, like one of the faithful preparing
to  do  the stations of the cross before confession
and the host, alert  to the tiniest  thud of portion of food
to land on the floor, patient when it does, waiting for Dee
to  go to the other end of the  kitchen so that she can do a  flash-raid,
pick up said fallen goody  and be out of the danger zone
before the possibly murderous Dee
even knows
she's there,full-bellied and safe, too, knows
if she can just wait...

I consider going to get a scrap  of something to give her,
but,
what would  be the fun of that?







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 to me.
 




As always, I am 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, 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








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