Uncategorized10 Aug 2014 12:57 pm

I haven’t forgotten you, I am just having a hellaciously busy summer. I will be back as soon as I can.

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poem09 Jun 2014 08:47 am
202px-A.C.La_Primavera
Meet me on the edge
Of my frozen world where
Your green is tipped in
White
So I may speak my love
For you before Time’s tides
Drag me away

Even our toes may not cross
Into one another’s space
But if our lips brush
Feather-gentle on the line
We’ll share lightning in
The snow

 

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poem02 Jun 2014 08:19 am

William_Blake_-_Abraham_and_Isaac_object_1_Butlin_382

Before my mother died, a visit from Athena─
“For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror”
─Rilke

There are moments: A veil is lifted and we see
through eyes of the immutable: Call it fate
or play it safe, imagine it was a waking dream;
then you evade believing in this terrible awe . . .
But inside that dream you wake, and change
is here; you saw Her face and knew Her power.

Now all the names used to describe this power
are tamed. It is a Lamb of God we see,
not the God of Abraham whose sword of change
spared Isaac, who sent the Ram of Fate
to die in Isaac’s stead. Abraham shook with awe
and Isaac lived. The iron sky was no dream.

The Ram bowed in obedience to the dream
in Abraham, that from his seed a nation’s power
would grow. And when that faith made way for awe
another question grew. Was Isaac the first to see
God’s mercy stay a father’s hand, or had fate
denied lay in wait for the Lamb? Beyond change

and bargaining prayers, nothing could change
death that was sealed in that sacrificial dream;
no deed or love availed to bend that Son’s fate . . .
They watched Him dragged and nailed to power
as Isaac might have died; that Son would see
the face hidden from Isaac and enter into awe.

The one I called She was a herald to awe.
I saw the wings of her helmet and the change
in her eyes from blue to imperious gray and did see
what she revealed. I saw the future in my dream;
a mercy then. Death came with indifferent power
and took one I loved. Events moved on with fate

seen as murals for the passing of a queen, her fate
prepared by those who rule the realm of awe
where fear and love share transcendent power . . .
And we wait as children for days that will change
our daily lives by the prescience of a dream . . .
Where rams with golden horns die so we may see

a change in those who turn blind suffering to fate . . .
The gods who dream our lives give the gift of awe
that we may see with hope, and dare to live with power.

 

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poem26 May 2014 08:04 am

30_Doradus,_Tarantula_Nebula

Properly, it should be
seductive
- repay all the
trouble
of perception.

It should have no
beginning, must
at the very start
be already in
motion;
and no end.

Its theme should be accessible.

Whether it should have Time
is a question;
the pathos
and Death, its companion,
so often betray
poor taste.

Properly, it should
resonate
- clear; like all the
bells ever cast,
intertwined,
purified.

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poem19 May 2014 08:57 am

“Aliens exist,” that’s what you told me;
By the gnarled oak tree where we used to meet,
Careful and discreet, for our nightly tryst.

“Don’t believe the lies they tell us,” you said,
Enraged, as you spread your arms in the air,
Fingers aimed up there, pointing to the skies.

Gently I soothed you, wiped away your tears,
Held you, calmed your fears, swore you would be fine;

If you would be mine, I would see you through.

Joyful by your side, I reached for your hand,
Knelt down as I’d planned, fumbled with the ring;

Love was everything, I thought in my pride.

Morning, noon, and night we were together.
No lovers ever held their love as dear,
Or held it so near, for we held it tight.

Perhaps too much so, for you were afraid;
Queer talk of a raid, ships set to deploy,
Ready to “destroy everything we know.”

So you insisted right up to your death;
Till with dying breath, you made your wish known:
“Upon the headstone, write ‘She Resisted.’”

Very soon, all lips bore a single strain;
Whispers of “Insane,” “Nut job,” “Dementia,
“Xenophobia.” Then we saw the ships.

You were right, you see. An army from space.
Zappers leave no trace of those who resist.
Aliens exist. That’s what you told me.

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poem31 Mar 2014 09:08 am
Whale Tile Mural by Makena Tile Murals

Whale Tile Mural by Makena Tile Murals

The world ends like the whale falls
to the ocean floor: slowly, unencumbered
by life, supported by water, sinking
into the strata of scavengers
until hunger and fear turns everyone
to hagfish and sharks, teeth and odors,
opportunity and opportuned.

In the fin-frenzy, there is no future.
The stomach rules all.
But once the blubber is gone
the bones are so white
they dazzle even the sunlight
silting the eggs of mackerel.

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poem24 Mar 2014 08:57 am

Cetus_Hevelius

Man never did learn to fly, but
for one or two cases that
were quickly relegated to
the medical curios box.

Whales, though—whales we modded
’til they were giant zeppelins,
bones thinner than the birds
that now bore our weight as couriers.

The whales merged with cities
made of platinum and tungsten,
neuro-wired for power and control.

Great herds of whale cities flew
like dreams of children, man
dreaming of his days
as children
beneath the great blue sky.

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poem17 Mar 2014 09:27 am
Leonid Meteor Storm by Edmond Weiss
Leonid Meteor Storm by Edmond Weiss

This universe stalled

stunted, well-nigh aborted,
Barely a light year across,
We’re all neighbors,

And all relations,
One world, one sun,
That’s it,
And when the Empire of Frost
Stretches out its long shadow,

To assimilate every last hectare,
You surrender,

Give up your dreams, because
There is nowhere to run,

To start afresh,
But somewhere in the darkness,

When work’s done and the sun’s hid,
We are sharpening our sickles,
    and telling each other
        that anything
            is better than this.

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poem10 Mar 2014 09:14 am
The Israel Museum, Jerusalem Collection; Purchase, Boxenbaum-Neta Fund; Artwork copyright of the artist ; Photo copyright The Israel Museum, Jerusalem

Column VII by Larry Abramson

I don’t think the Moon wants
to go home.  You have cosseted it,
given it cake and cookies,
admired its fullness as a function
of time.  It has kept you up
late with its returned volley
of flattery and I desperately want
for you to come to bed,
warm depression in the mattress
beside me as we co-pilot into sleep.
From the darkness I hear your laughter
and know it has fooled you
through one more story, tenderly
wiping the dust from your eyes.
I’m a poor lover, voyeur
in my own home, unable to take
the stairs and step into the brilliance.
I believe in choice.
When you ran away with me
my metal heart nearly burst.
Choose again, choose me again.
Moon and spoon may rhyme
but we are worlds apart.

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poem03 Mar 2014 08:52 am
Oya by Steve Gravel, shared under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

Oya by Steve Gravel, shared under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

Coming of Age

She shakes a red-brown hip jangling with clamshells,
her shimmering thighs bright with the out-flowing tide
and calls to me in a loon’s voice.

“Don’t be afraid of the mud, honey.
It’s so good for your complexion!”

She is lip-smack salty and trade wind persuasive.
The furrows of her hair are slick with chlorophyll
that stains the string of corals at her throat.

“Just leave your clothes there. Great Mother!
Haven’t I seen you naked before?”

Not like this, bared to the bluefin sky,
flesh cold as a crested wave waiting to fall
into the rip current, tongue like a sand dollar.

“I’m…I’m not going to drown, am I?
You said I can breathe under water now.”

Pearly teeth flash behind a grin wide as a dolphin’s.
Fingers like rockweed tendrils reach out to tug me in.
Her laughter is a fall of rain on a brine pool.

“Trust your body, little minnow.
It knows what it’s doing.”

Stumbling into the sea foam, the transformation takes me;
skin to glistening scales, neck to slitted gills,
and we dive, a pair of salmon swimming home, always home.

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