Journal: fitting your heart and soul into ruled lines.
-all posts-
Aaahhhhh!
The only thing I want
a subscription to
is the winter chill and
an evening view of Venus
and those are totally free!
The only thing I want
to pop up in my face
is a beautiful flower
in springtime bloom
and that, by the way
never gets in my way.
I just want to read a recipe
not look at a baker’s dozen
hyperenormous photographs
and read a culinary novel
so now please can I cook?
I don’t need to know
the fifteen best this
or 36 surprising thats
it’s free (with purchase)
but hurry, only 2 left!
Bah, no thanks. Is there
an app to make it all stop?
I’m not made of attention
time nor clicks nor money
so I am logging myself off
from the world to walk to
the grassy park with a book
and enjoy a nice simple day.
Old soil, new green
My own prescription for health is less paperwork and more running barefoot through the grass.
Rippling
in nature i am
water in the breeze
going with the flow
in society i thrash
every cell halting
resistance grows
i become boulder
thrown off cliffs
accelerating through
no choice of my own
landing hard
splitting open
shattering into
everything wrong
It’s a dry heat streak
full moon monsoon clouds
glow pale light through windy trees
parched leaves shadow dance
Inching along, leaving behind
the poet is a sensitive snail —
wandering along the path of life
leaving a glittering trail of words
Anticipation
It’s peeking round the corner
Playing hide and seek
I see its icy fingers
A frost’d rosy cheek
Days fall ever shorter
Autumn’s air is chilling
Warmth no longer lingers
Wild things are stilling
In{j}ured
they say i am sensitive
and that i’m not tough —
enough. but — i made
it this far — ain’t i have?
amongst y’all, who are.
Self-expression
in the desert southwest
doves call themselves out
and say their own names
in self-identifying syllables —
two in “ink-uh” of the little inca
eurasian’s 3-noted “you-ray-zhun”
four of the “white-wingèd dove”
and the unmistakable five notes
of the song “mourning dove i am”
April morning
My favorite weather is bird-chirping weather.
P.S. Thank you to everyone who let me know about USA Today and King Features Syndicate using this for their April 18th Cryptoquote.
Literary LOL
This tweet from a guy named Ben had me laughing harder than I have in a long while. —
Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick” has perhaps the most memorable opening line in all of Western literature:
“I hope you motherfuckers like reading about whales”
—Ben, @pixelatedboat, 2018 August 12, onegianthand.com
2018 August 21
Ex Libris R. Le G.
“…multum ille et terris jactatus et alto
Vi superum, saevae memorem Junonis ob iram,
Multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem
Inferretque deos Latio:…” —Virgil, The Aeneid
Having no home, what should I do with these,
Tossed as I am about the sounding seas,
Sport of exiling winds of change and chance—
Feet in America, and heart in France.
Homeless, ’tis meet I find my books a home:
Coffined in crates and cases long they lay,
Distant from me three thousand miles of foam
Dungeoned in cellars cold and nailed away,
As in a sepulchre, till Judgment Day.
Lost to their gentle uses in the tomb,
Cobwebbed companions of the spidered gloom,
At last they rise again to live once more,—
Dread resurrection of the auction room.
Books I have loved so well, my love so true
Tells me ’tis time that I should part from you,
No longer, selfish, hoard and use you not,
Nor leave you in the unlettered dark to rot,
But into alien keeping you resign—
Hands that love books, fear not, no less than mine.
Thus shall you live upon warm shelves again,
And ‘neath an evening lamp your pages glow,
Others shall press ‘twixt leaf and leaf soft flowers,
As I was wont to press them long ago;
And blessings be upon the eyes that rain
A tear upon my flowers—I mean on “ours”—
If haply here and there kind eyes shall find
Some sad old flower that I have left behind.
—Richard Le Gallienne,
Fight for our lives
like wild animals, I am happy hiding
the artificial frightens my being —
but it is time to fight for the earth
scrambled blackout poetry created from Rafe Martin, Birdwing, 2005