on the 7th day of christmas

From Hymn 8                                                               

Blessed is the Messenger who came bearing
a great peace.  By the mercy of His Father,
He lowered Himself to us.  Our own debts
He did not take up to Him.  He reconciled
[His] Lordship with His chattels.

Refrain: Glory to Your Dawn, divine and human.

Glorious is the Wise One Who allied and joined
Divinity with humanity,
one from the height and the other from the depth.
He mingled the natures like pigments
and an image came into being: the God-man.
O Zealous One who saw Adam
who became dust and the accursed serpent
eating him.  Reality dwelt
in what had lost its flavor.  He made him salt
by which the cursed serpent would be blinded.

 Blessed is the Compassionate One Who saw, next to paradise,
the lance that barred the way
to the Tree of Life.  He came to take up
the body that would be struck so that by the opening in His side
He might break through the way into paradise.


                                 Ephrem the Syrian

a medieval beatitude

Happy, indeed, is she whom it is given to share this sacred banquet,
to cling with all her heart to Him
Whose beauty all the heavenly hosts admire unceasingly,
Whose love inflames our love,
Whose contemplation is our refreshment,
Whose graciousness is our joy,
Whose gentleness fills us to overflowing,
Whose remembrance brings a gentle light,
Whose fragrance will revive the dead,
Whose glorious vision will be the happiness of all the citizens of the heavenly Jerusalem.


                                                  St. Clare of Assissi  (  Francis' girlfriend )

see the woman

See the Woman
She has a young face
An old face
She carries herself well
In all ages
She survives all man has done

In some tribes she is free
In some religions
She is under man
In some societies
She's worth what she consumes

In some nations
She is delicate strength
In some states
She is told she is weak
In some classes
She is property owned

In all instances
She is sister to earth
In all conditions
She is life bringer
In all life she is our necessity

See the woman eyes
Flowers swaying
On scattered hills
Sundancing calling in the bees

See the woman heart
Lavender butterflies
Fronting blue sky
Misty rain falling
On soft wild roses

See the woman beauty
Lightning streaking
Dark summer nights
Forests of pines mating
With new winter snow

See the woman spirit
Daily serving courage
With laughter
Her breath a dream
And a prayer 





     John Trudell      + 8 Dec. 2015











...

Depression

So proudly she came into the subway car
all who were not reading their newspapers saw
the head high and the slow tread—
coat wrinkled and her belongings in a paper bag,
face unwashed and the grey hair uncombed;

simple soul, who so early in the morning when only the
poorest go to work,
stood up in the subway and outshouting the noise:
'Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I have a baby at home who
is sick,
and I have no money, no job;' who did not have box or cap
to take coins—
only his hands,
and, seeing only faces turned away,
did not even go down the aisle as beggars do;

the fire had burnt through the floor:
machines and merchandise had fallen into
the great hole, this zero that had sucked away so many years
and now, seen at last, the shop itself;
the ceiling sloped until it almost touched the floor a strange curve
in the lines and oblongs of his life;
drops were falling
from the naked beams of the floor above,
from the soaked plaster, still the ceiling;
drops of dirty water were falling
on his clothes and hat and on his hands;
the thoughts of business
gathered in his bosom like black water

in footsteps through a swamp;
waiting for a job, she studied the dusty table at which she sat
and the floor which had been badly swept—
the office-boy had left the corners dirty;
a mouse ran in and out under the radiator
and she drew her feet away
and her skirt about her legs, but the mouse went in and out
about its business; and she sat waiting for a job
in an unfriendly world of men and mice;

walking along the drive by twos and threes,
talking about jobs,
jobs they might never get and jobs they had had,
never turning to look at the trees or the river
glistening in the sunlight or the automobiles
that went swiftly past them—
in twos and threes talking about jobs;

in the drizzle
four in a row
close to the curb
that passers-by might pass,
the squads stand
waiting for soup,
a slice of bread
and shelter—
grimy clothes
their uniform;
on a stoop
stiffly across the steps
a man
who has fainted;
each in that battalion
eyes him,
but does not move from his place,
well drilled in want.



                    - Charles Reznikoff












.

felize navidao

Para isso fomos feitos:
Para lembrar e ser lembrados
Para chorar e fazer chorar
Para enterrar os nossos mortos –
Por isso temos braços longos para os adeuses
Mãos para colher o que foi dado
Dedos para cavar a terra.
Assim será a nossa vida:
Uma tarde sempre a esquecer
Uma estrela a se apagar na treva
Um caminho entre dois túmulos –
Por isso precisamos velar
Falar baixo, pisar leve, ver
A noite dormir em silêncio.
Não há muito que dizer:
Uma canção sobre um berço
Um verso, talvez, de amor
Uma prece por quem se vai –
Mas que essa hora não esqueça
E por ela os nossos corações
Se deixem, graves e simples.
Pois para isso fomos feitos:
Para a esperança no milagre
Para a participação da poesia
Para ver a face da morte –
De repente nunca mais esperaremos…
Hoje a noite é jovem; da morte, apenas
Nascemos, imensament  


                                  Vinícius de Moraes-                           





trans.


For that were we made:
To remember and be remembered
To weep and make weep
To bury our dead –
That is why we have long arms for farewells
Hands to receive what is given
Fingers to dig the earth.
Thus shall be our life:
One afternoon always forgetting
A star disappearing into the darkness
A path between two tombs –
That is why we must keep vigils
Speak in low voices, tread lightly, gaze
The night sleeping in silence.
There is not much to say:
A song over a cradle
A poem, perhaps, of love
A prayer for  those who leave –
But may that hour not forget
And may for this our hearts
Be left grave and simple.
For that were we made:
To have hope in the miracle
To take part in poetry
To see the face of death –
And suddenly we will no longer hope…
Today the night is young;
 of death we merely are
Born, immensely.






......

THE STREET'S KISS

Poetry is news from the frontiers of consciousness

A poem is a mirror walking down a high street full of visual delight

Poetry is the shook foil of the imagination. It should shine out and half blind you

It is the sun streaming down in the meshes of morning

It is the white nights and mouths of desire

It is made by dissolving halos in oceans of sound

It is the street talk of angels and devils

It is a sofa full of blind singers who have put aside their canes

A poems should arise to ecstasy somewhere between speech and song

A poem must sing and fly away with you or it's a dead duck with a prose soul

Poetry is the anarchy of the senses making sense

Poetry is all things born with wings that sing

Like a bowl of roses a poem should not have to be explained

Poetry is the voice of dissent against the waste of words and the mad plethora of print

It is what exists between the lines

It is made with the syllables of dreams

It is far far cries upon a beach a nightfall

It is a lighthouse moving its megaphone over the sea

It is a picture of Ma in her Woolworth bra looking out a window into a secret garden

It is an Arab carrying colored rugs and birdcages through the streets & a great metropolis

A poem can be made of common household ingredients. It fits on a single page yet it can fill a world and fits in the pocket of a heart

A poet is a street singer who rescues the alleycats of love

Poetry is pillow-thought after intercourse

It is the distillation of articulate animals calling to each other across a great gulf

It is a pulsing fragment of the inner life an untethered music

It is the dialogue of naked statues

It is the sound of summer in the rain and of people laughing behind closed shutters down an alley at night

It is a bare lightbulb in a homeless hotel illuminating a nakedness of minds and hearts

Let the poet be a singing animal turned pimp for an anarchist king

Poetry is the incomparable lyric intelligence brought to bear upon fifty-seven varieties of experience

Poetry is a high house echoing with all the voices that ever said anything crazy or wonderful

Poetry is a subversive raid upon the forgotten language of the collective unconscious

Poetry is a real canary in a coal mine and we know why the caged bird sings

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations

It is the voice of the Fourth Person Singular

It is the voice within the voice of the turtle

It is the face behind the face of the race

Poetry is made of night-thoughts if it can tear itself away from illusion it will not be disowned before the dawn

Poetry is made by evaporating the liquid laughter of youth

Poetry is a book of light at night dispersing clouds of unknowing

It hears the whisper of elephants and sees how many angels dance on the head of a pin

It is a humming a keening a laughing a sighing at dawn of a wild soft laughter

It is the final gestalt of the imagination

Poetry should be emotion recollected in emotion

Words are living fossils. The poet should piece the wild beast together and make it sing

A poet is only as great as his ear. Too bad if it is tin

Poetry is perpetual revolt against silence exile and cunning

The poet a subversive barbarian at the city gates constantly challenging our status quo

He is the master ontologist constantly questioning reality and reinventing it

He mixes drinks out of the insane liquors of the imagination and is perpetually surprised that no one staggers

He should be a dark barker before the tents of existence

Poetry is what can be heard at manholes echoing up Dante's fire escape

Poetry is religion. Religion is poetry

It is the humming of moths as they circle the flame

It is a wood boat moored in the shade under a weeping willow in the bend of a river

The poet must have wide-angle vision each look a world glance and the concrete is most poetic

Poetry is not all heroin horses and Rimbaud
it is also the powerless prayers of airline passengers
fastening their seatbelts
for the final descent

Poetry is the real subject of great prose

It speaks the unspeakable it utters the unutterable sigh of the heart

Each poem is a momentary madness and the unreal is realist

A poem should still be an insurgent knock on the door of the unknown

A poem is its own Coney Island of the mind its own circus of the soul its own Far Rockaway of the heart

Let a new lyricism save the world from itself








                                    Lawrence Ferlinghetti






















.....

o sweet decadence

California Plaza                                                                                                

I have seen the weakest martyrdom

scrawled into the margins of a ledger,

seen tear stains on a checkbook

where wet paper bends the balance more sharply than

my skinny elbows on a midnight library railing.

I’ve suckled a privilege so soured

with second-hand agony slobbered on by

someone in an apron or a star piece wedding ring

that every bite of café sushi tastes like a waste of time,

  

And 3 a.m. follows you around in an ink-stained hoodie and a

gas station snow hat until you’re forced to bed yourself in a sidewalk snowdrift

with nothing in your hands but your mother’s chain-linked fingers and

a plastic tally of an older man’s forgotten hamburgers and lab manuals,

And you squint upward through a soap scum

of halogens and bedroom windows at three or four runty stars

peppered with an acne of helicopters and spotlights,

begging for a reason to say

“Thank you,”

And no small eternity in those familiar kneelers

just ten steps off the cobblestones

can do more than ferry that rusty homesick plea

to its veiled harbor of resonance and burnished metal

until tomorrow’s tired eyes and debt-softened hands

ship more,

by lapfuls,

whole shoeboxes of

oil and

concrete and

glass,

tie them with neat bows of hourglass cursors and decimal points,

smile at you, assuring,

“You’ll need this,”

then unstaple their grins and in tears ask so urgently,

“But what in the world makes you think so?”

                              Dan McIlhon

....

inquiry tending to the serious

the erratic love of flan                                        








Tell me,
My avid, god-avenging friend,

You have never changed your mind, ever?
You have never abandoned, once even, what you held deep and true?
Maybe you loved chocolate ice cream once and then moved on to vanilla?
Strawberry?
Hating ice cream altogether?

Changing your mind ever happened to you?
Loving pencils and moving on to pens?
Loving rainy days until you saw the homeless, drenched, and now only wish for eternal warmth and sunshine? Or is that too sentimental?
How about loving Pepsi until discovering Coke? Well, try, if you haven't.

Are these you? The love of Coke and strawberry and pens?
Are they attached to your neck? To your left arm?

You can't even locate it.
It's somewhere in your mind, and only when awake (I take it you are always sober...).

Opinions are funny that way.
They are loose in the air, they come and go, settle and shatter.
They are a cross-section of your time. A mere moment in a mere mortal's life.
They don't last. They don't matter. They are erratic. And not attached to your body.

Would you erase my body if I loved vanilla ice cream?
Maybe I could change. Or even grow. Maybe the desire for ice cream would fade.
You don't know. You can't know.
Opinions are funny that way.

So tell me,
My avid, god-avenging friend,
May I keep my body if the faith has faded? If I turned against the faith? If I fight the faith?
If I have moved on to strawberry? Flan even?






      Sahar   Hooshdaran










..

options for a cold winter day

The Only Flag                                                   

Our mornings indict us.
I have seen it in your eyes,
stark as streets swarm
with sterile savages.

I have no one but you
& you none but me--
& Baby the mathematics of it
are frightening.

Let's go back to bed
lie down together
& forget our fears,
hearts pounding
to the rhythm of love

    & your flaming hair
our banner
for that brief moment.

    - William Hawkins   (  Ottawa poet  )

....

Entering The Virgin's Heart

A mother came to mould … limbs like ours.
                        — Gerard Manley Hopkins












She was born without hands;
her feet made music on harp strings,
each toe-pluck sounding with
the confidence of a dancer’s pose.


How quickly it was
she saw surety and beauty,
as she gazed upon the statue of Mary
and entered into the Virgin’s heart.


Afterward she insisted
that standing en pointe
on moss on the cliff’s craggy edge—
like the picture that hung in Grace’s kitchen,
but with rounded nubs
instead of the usual long, slender fingers—


is perfect worship.






                          Helen Losse












......

tools

Tell me, how do the manufacturers of tools
turn a profit? I have used the same clawed hammer
for forty years. The screwdriver misted with rust
once slipped into my young hand, a new householder's.
Obliviously, tools wait to be used: the pliers,
notched mouth agape like a cartoon shark's; the wrench
with its jaws on a screw; the plane still sharp enough
to take its fragrant, curling bite; the brace and bit
still fit to chew a hole in pine like a patient thought;
the tape rule, its inches unaltered though I have shrunk;
the carpenter's angle, still absolutely right though I
have strayed; the wooden bubble level from my father's
meagre horde. Their stubborn shapes pervade the cellar,
enduring with a thrift that shames our wastrel lives.










                                           John Updike


























.....

State of Mind

NORTH DAKOTA

east

the whole moon

burns behind jamestown

seven wings of geese

light the thin ice

west

the asian sun

bloody on the interstate

spring flowers

break on the gray prairie

exit

fingerprints

on the rearview mirror

feral shadows

transposed near fargo

               - Gerald Vizenor

.

always room for a ghazal

                    




                       What of It   ?                                            




                          Nesimi


                          

I myself took up the cloak of blame;
I smashed the bottle of honour and virtue on a stone.
        What of it?

Sometimes I rise up and watch the universe from above,
sometimes I go down to earth and lose myself in love.
        What of it?

Sometimes I study life’s meaning in the holy books,
sometimes I go to the tavern and get drunk.
        What of it?

Sometimes I enter my garden to pick roses for my darling;
I grew those roses and I gathered them.
        What of it?

The wine of this love is a sin, the orthodox think--
The sin is mine, I fill my glass and drink.
        What of it?

The pious bow to the niche in the mosque;
I bow at the Beloved’s doorstep, pressing my face up close.
        What of it?

My enemy says loving beauty is sinful.
I love my beloved so I’ll gladly pay that price.
        What of it?

They ask Nesimi,
are you and your beloved getting along?
Whether we get along or not, my Beloved is mine.
        What of it?






    

translated by Latif Bolat and Jennifer Ferraro

a toast

        Wherever the Catholic sun doth shine,

There’s always laughter and good red wine.

                    At least I’ve always found it so.

                                   Benedicamus Domino!

― Hilaire Belloc

life to be drunken in

So many are alive who don’t seem to care.

Casual, easy, they move in the world

As though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces

Of those who know they thirst.

You cherish those

Who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it’s not too late

To open your depths by plunging into them

And drink in the life

That reveals itself quietly there.

                                     Ranier Maria Rilke

banal ultimatums

THE EMPEROR OF ICE-CREAM                                                                              












Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale' of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal.
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. 






                                     Wallace Stevens








...
                      

the incessant tinge of honesty

APOLOGY TO MY UNBORN




                     by






           Alison Apotheker










of my making and unmaking -

my little stowaway,
my shipwreck,
my unmooring -

my seedpod, my tadpole,
my apostrophe -

my come again some other day,
my unnameable unnamed one -

my beloved
unwelcome visitor,
my could have been
chickadee,
my what if...what have you -

my lost forever palimpsest,
my anonymous love-letter,
my cracked egg, my empty basket of weeds -
my secret,
my sorrow, my undoing.


































....

the shortest poem in the english language- reputably

One Question                          

I —

Why?

  Eli Siegel

untitled

birds
color the sky
beyond the door

the stone
lions

the museum
parkinglot

                   David Gitin








..

tomtomtomtomtomtomtom

  




  White Girl Powwow Love, 1978                                                                      






She was skinny and buttermilk-pale.
She wore her hair with a rattail.
And I knew I'd two-step to jail


For her love, which was the no-fail
Pick-up line that year. "Me in jail,"
I said. "Only you got the bail


To rescue me." She smelled like stale
Everything, and though I was frail,
I talked her into chucking the bale


And "later"-ing her Dad, a whale
Who thought everything was for sale,
Especially the sacred. So we sailed,


Her and me, on the powwow trail,
Until my dirty joke splat-failed—-
The porno punchline was "Snails."


White Girl Angry, she dug her nails
Into my skin and said, "Why males
Have to heave and hove and dog wail


Such awful shit?" She was a gale—-
A storm through a trailer park vale—-
An F-5 on the tornado scale—-


And I wanted to aside her veil
And touch and memorize her pale
Skin like a blind man touches Braille,


And so I did. Damn, I went flail
On her breasts, and that tough rail
Of a girl went all weakness and quail.


I thought I was all rez-prevail,
But then she put on her chainmail
Armor and golf-ball-sized hailed


Me with this confessional tale:
"My Daddy is a goddamn Whale
Killer," she said. "Ain't no scale


To weigh his evil. His devil pail
Is filled to the brim." She wailed
Tears like anvils and then bailed


On me. She ran back down the trail,
And I ran after her, but I failed
To catch her. Her pain gave her sails.


And though I never saw her pale
Self again, I pray, without fail,
When I think of her stuck in jail,


Or maybe still walking powwow trail—-
A white girl, skinny, hard, and frail—-
And likely wed to a killer of whales.




                    Sherman Alexie


















.......

Soldiers Bathing

 










The sea at evening moves across the sand.

  Under a reddening sky I watch the freedom of a band

  Of soldiers who belong to me. Stripped bare

  For bathing in the sea, they shout and run in the warm air;

  Their flesh worn by the trade of war, revives

  And my mind towards the meaning of it strives.

  All's pathos now. The body that was gross,

  Rank, ravenous, disgusting in the act or in repose,

  All fever, filth and sweat, its bestial strength

  And bestial decay, by pain and labour grows at length

  Fragile and luminous. 'Poor bare forked animal,'

  Conscious of his desires and needs and flesh that rise and fall,

  Stands in the soft air, tasting after toil

  The sweetness of his nakedness: letting the sea-waves coil

  Their frothy tongues about his feet, forgets

  His hatred of the war, its terrible pressure that begets

  A machinery of death and slavery,

  Each being a slave and making slaves of others: finds that he

  Remembers his old freedom in a game

  Mocking himself, and comically mimics fear and shame.

  He plays with death and animality;

  And reading in the shadows of his pallid flesh, I see

  The idea of Michelangelo's cartoon

  Of soldiers bathing, breaking off before they were half done

  At some sortie of the enemy, an episode

  Of the Pisan wars with Florence. I remember how he showed

  Their muscular limbs that clamber from the water,

  And heads that turn across the shoulder, eager for the slaughter,

  Forgetful of their bodies that are bare,

  And hot to buckle on and use the weapons lying there.

  –- And I think too of the theme another found

  When, shadowing men's bodies on a sinister red ground

  Another Florentine, Pollaiuolo,

  Painted a naked battle: warriors, straddled, hacked the foe,

  Dug their bare toes into the ground and slew

  The brother-naked man who lay between their feet and drew

  His lips back from his teeth in a grimace.

  They were Italians who knew war's sorrow and disgrace

  And showed the thing suspended, stripped: a theme

  Born out of the experience of war's horrible extreme

  Beneath a sky where even the air flows

  With lacrimae Christi. For that rage, that bitterness, those blows,

  That hatred of the slain, what could they be

  But indirectly or directly a commentary

  On the Crucifixion? And the picture burns

  With indignation and pity and despair by turns,

  Because it is the obverse of the scene

  Where Christ hangs murdered, stripped, upon the Cross. I mean,

  That is the explanation of its rage.

  And we too have our bitterness and pity that engage

  Blood, spirit, in this war. But night begins,

  Night of the mind: who nowadays is conscious of our sins?

  Though every human deed concerns our blood,

  And even we must know, what nobody has understood,

  That some great love is over all we do,

  And that is what has driven us to this fury, for so few

  Can suffer all the terror of that love:

  The terror of that love has set us spinning in this groove

  Greased with our blood.

  ................................These dry themselves and dress,

  Combing their hair, forget the fear and shame of nakedness.

  Because to love is frightening we prefer

  The freedom of our crimes. Yet, as I drink the dusky air,

  I feel a strange delight that fills me full,

  Strange gratitude, as if evil itself were beautiful,

  And kiss the wound in thought, while in the west

  I watch a streak of red that might have issued from Christ's breast.






                                                               F.T. Prince














.....

I Love Your Crazy Bones

Even your odds and ends.
I love your teeth, crazy bones,
Madcap knees and elbows.
Forearm and backhand
Hair makes you animal.
Rare among things.
The small of your back could pool rain
Into water a man might drink. Perfect,
From the whirlpools your fingers print
On everything you touch
To the moons on the nails of all ten toes
Rising and setting inside your shoes
Wherever you go.    








                                 Barton Sutter      












....           

THE INSTANTS                                                 

After last night’s rain, the world begun again—

                                                    you know what I mean, you have been here often—

I go to the window. For a moment the world

                                                    is my only backyard, such gold as I have seen

enclosing saints’ heads in medieval paintings,

                                                    illumination surrounding every flower.

 

This summer I woke too as a child

                                        after my long fall into sleep, black rain

which never ceased until my eyes could open

                                        first light an expectation without words.

 

You remember this. You knew the same morning.

                                                    I’m four years old for both of us right now.

The window runs with gold. There was a time

                                                    when morning was enough for everything.

                                                              Peter Cooley

it's beautiful and sweet to taste

The Bees, the Flowers, Jesus, Ancient Tigers, Poseidon, Adam and Eve                  






Huh! That bumblebee looks ridiculous staggering its way

across those blue flowers, the ones I can never
remember the name of.  Do you know the old engineer’s

joke:  that, theoretically, bees can’t fly?  But they look so

perfect together, like Absolute Purpose incarnate: one bee
plus one blue flower equals about a billion

years of symbiosis.  Which leads me to wonder what it is

I’m doing here, peering through a lens at the thigh-pouches
stuffed with pollen and the baffling intricacies

of stamen and pistil.  Am I supposed to say something, add
a soundtrack and voiceover?   My life’s spent

running an inept tour for my own sad swindle of a vacation

until every goddamned thing’s reduced to botched captions
and dabs of misinformation in fractured,

not-quite-right English:  Here sir, that’s the very place Jesus

wept.  The Coliseum sprouts and blooms with leftover seeds
pooped by ancient tigers.    Poseidon diddled

Philomel in the warm slap of this ankle-deep surf to the dying
stings of a thousand jellyfish.   There, probably,

atop yonder scraggly hillock, Adam should’ve said no to Eve.








                                                      Michael Hudson
                                                           aka :   Yi-fen Chou












.....

The quality of your thoughts

 






With every stroke of the alphabet,
I search through cyberspace,
Looking for someone,
Whose face I do not know,
Whose complexion I do not care,
Whose money don't phase me,
Whose culture I don't mind learning,


But whose thoughts complement all my senses,
Even the ones that make me feel good from time to time,
Leaving me mesmerized,
Thinking about the feelings of yesterday,
To relieve the moments of tomorrow.


////




As far as I search through cyberspace,
It never ceases to amaze me,   Each time I look around,
And scroll up or down,  I get nothing but psychological script,
Parading in style like madigra on a mockery band.
Yet as I continue to navigate the cyberspace of thought,
Where the temple of great minds just might flourish,
It brings hope knowing that I can find someone,
Whose thoughts intrigue me,
And whose wisdom illuminates me.






I try to entertain the thoughts that fulfill me,
And see what I can get from it as it moves me,
Like the stories  the horseman tells,
The flying balloons of the sky where married couples kiss,
--Scattered like pigeons,
Blending  the blues like the rainbow,
Waving the wind goodbye,
As they disappear in a cloud.




I search through your thoughts,
  Looking for comforting words,
(You colored me with nice prose,)
I then realized that kind words can bring joy at everyone's end,
So I control my words in respect to those at my end,
So that they experience the same joy like everyone else.


//////




As hard as I try, I can't convince myself that time is of the essence,
There is no time,   But there is movement,
Like two end points on a map,
The distance traveled is the time I'v spent looking for you.

Trying to reach you on a higher level was of course my first mistake,
You live your life like a bird without a niche,
Looking to make a home with a branch that ain't yours to house,
Hoping that a strong wind helps you out along the way.



The tree leaves falls, Forming a path to follow,
And as they turn into rich soil,
The environment becomes the habitat,
Ah, But not all relationships can flourish there.




/////


Then I realize --maybe I'm not aiming high enough,
So again, I bring my sentiment one step closer for your love to be felt,
And there you were waiting to welcome me,
You knew it all along,
  Had I tried hard enough,
I would one day elevate myself,
To a place where great thoughts are once again valued,
And that we would finally meet,
And be able to communicate,
Beyond the cognizance of any visionary sense,
On a lower level,
Where association of culture  thrives in relationships.


Mold us, bond us into the one we were meant to be.




......   the poetry thief lifted this from a comment stream
           while researching the song  Autumn Leaves
             and lost the thread and thus the name of the poet








]
.....

aligned we are to corporeal reality

THE INTRUDER                                                    ACROSS my book your hand augustly reaches—
Thrusts it away.
I turn impatient to the window, watching
The tossed trees’ play,
March sunshine glinting on a chilly rain-pool
That snow-banks frame.
A lusty wind comes gusting on its errand
And names your name.
Captive, defeated, having striven I yield me
To thought awhile;
Letting the sunlight on the roughened waters
Bear me your smile;
Hearing the mischief-making wind that named you
Question afresh
If spirit find in spirit full contentment
Only through flesh.                              Grace Stone Coates                               ( eloquent voice from Montana circa 1921 ) ....

something sort of personal

haiku                                    




hear cicadas hum
sitting on a bench with you
laughter fills my heart










   from a geologian poet






   

mennonite poet

      








                    The Lamentations)                                        








The oracles were false, misleading

The crown has fallen from our heads

Baby, I got the hard time killing floor blues
My sins have been bound into a yoke;
they have come upon my neck

                            ____________

In iron lung, and skull balloon, oxygen, like sorrow,

in the brain of the willing villain, of the reluctant hero,

death whispers, come-go little sorrows, come-go little joys,
when comes the Glad Day, golden girls and boys,

the zillion vanities of vanities, blown to zero!

golden dreams like lies, bad air and history,
how fares the world good people? Our prophets, too pissed to pee,

angels, are ye somewhere standing in the majestic mystery?

Chattering on helium, forgetting to breathe, I beg, bugger, borrow,

and still the wind's whistling lilli bul lero

don't know how it goes, what it means, don't know what I think,
whatever Revolution my head had — a little wind, a mighty stink.








                                            Larry Nightingale














....