ALL RESPONSES |
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like ravens circling 'bove a field of corn
'gainst crimson coated clouds,
cobalt patches sewn into a wrinkled quilt.
There are many things to say.
Some will hurt
but give voice to my pain.
I know it's wrong to hurt you
with these honest words
or with my silence.
Thoughts go 'round my mind
like leaves sailing b'neath maples
looking for a lap on which to land,
mine invites them.
If there is no love,
we have neither gained
nor lost a thing.
The blade of truth pushes deeply into our past,
and leaves its steel inside us.
Our scars burn each night alone,
and thoughts go yet around my mind. |
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It is a small thing, crossing over,
steps taken without much thought,
just a laying down of one foot, then the next.
The sun’s reflection dances on the thin water—
I love how sun and moon, like to lie
on the back of ripples and waves. I like to lie
on my back on grassy ground, watch the sky
shift, feel the sun sink beneath my skin, mingle
with my favorite pieces of you. You’ll find them
here, between my ribs. Here, at the bone of my hip.
Here, on my lips where every kiss you’ve given me,
every word, every sigh, crosses over.
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What she does she does
through a column of light
and air, cradled in her arms.
Put on your slow motion
beams. Her arms expand
into a wheel of eight or ten,
an ecstatic carven deity.
The sea swims round
in the rhythms and dyes
of her dress. Her feet,
out of sight, hold the floor
one heel, one sole.
Her Third Eye looks at you.
She is creature and hunter—
fish, bow and arrow—
embodiment of beauty
and emptiness.
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Maybe you don't use a capital G,
or call it He.
Could be you're Lutheran,
and follow all the rules.
Some people worship nothing.
The god of nothing isn't there.
It never speaks
or answers prayers.
There is no source,
it all just is, The End.
Some would like to stop the questions.
Drugs and alcohol work best,
a quick fix, just short of death,
and death is something we'd like to bury.
It's scary.
If you're a dog or cat,
you worship They Who Give Me Table Scraps.
But if you're not a pet,
you can read a book.
Just take your pick.
Read them all!
Consult the masters of interpretation,
logic, fate and fancy,
throw sticks into the air,
peruse the entrails of a goat.
Wear robes. Go naked.
Pierce yourself all over. Write a poem.
A poem about God?
That might not be popular
and could be a flop.
But I'll make it my job. |
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I’ve always admired your arches
how tall you stand, knowing you span worlds
defy gravity and the tide’s constant
tug,
but today I see how each roping strand of wire,
slant and lean, carries the weight of the moon,
the electricity of lovers, & the song of a girl
who fell in love with a gull
perched there, on your shoulder. She never knew
wings nor weightlessness, never knew
the sound of her own footfall
could startle beauty.
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based on a photo of Steps
Steps of Sin
My spiral staircase to God
circles against the clock
With each step of sin
the center circles an axis
On the bottom of that axis
an auger
On the top,
a propellor
My Steps turn both
Each an inclined plane
Density of atmosphere
Rigidity of earth
Like the steps
they determine my direction
Down
or Up
Viewing the spectacle
Heaven tosses me a rope
Every sin breaks this lifeline from above
God reaches down each time
to knot the rope in repair
Each knot
shortening the rope
Bringing me closer |
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to a Photo
The hum of the sewing machine keeps
the one sewing focused on pink satin
soon become a kerchief with matching bikini
Made in the corner of a small room
without the assistance of a fan
but with a solemn pattern of forget-me-nots
above the machine that is above the woman
bent over her material cut within an inch of its life.
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no one
ever
told me
the one
about the girl
who once
put words
into my
arid throat
the one
with long red
fingernails
that reached
all the way
to my heart
working her
silver needle
and her thin
black thread
mending all
the broken
letters that
said softly
i love you |
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Hunger is
always lying
in wait,
silent and still,
but the dancer,
like a cobra
rising on its tail
and swaying,
like the wind
in a many-armed tree,
the dancer’s
movements
kiss the earth
for its shadows.
A million, million years old
they are, often tiger
versus snake.
Do not hesitate,
the music says
through its instrument,
fill yourself now.
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Within a dance there is stillness
within a song there is silence
within love there is surrender
Saraswati
A dance a prayer
a woman with divine spirit
a man with ancient song
a spiral a ripple a dance
emptiness then fullness
unity then separation
a lotus heart opened to catch
the pearl, the golden
mudra, the silvered bells
dream and awakening
within you without
call her many names
call her stillness
call her ecstasy
the monsoon deluge will
cause you to surrender
to tears and to joy
succumb to her mango limbs
offer kisses to her fig mouth
as she ripples in silk veils
give me your hand, she cries
swirl solitary and whole
chant kirtan in Sanscrit
a gift and a prayer
spiral to the center
only One awaits us there
The photos in the gallery are so luscious and beautiful, they took my breath away. It was hard to find words. Thanks, Steve, for sharing them! |
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In response to: This Photo
Does the step exist
as sole meets brick,
as brick itself,
or as foot suspended,
hovering over
the rings it has made? |
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The body suggests
but the hands and the fingers,
they do the talking. |
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for this photo
FRIENDS
We lean against each other
youth in our pockets
no worries but to finish
a day of playing in the sun.
I feel the breath of time
running alongside
chasing a soccer ball in dusty roads
laughing with us at the stumbles
and the goals.
Our shadows now resting in the shade,
sweat rolling, salty drops
licked from upper lips,
hair sticking on forehead,
smiles lingering in our eyes.
Your arm over my shoulder
we look at the street
bathed in mellow sun.
Another ending day
slowly slides away,
but with you on my side
I am not afraid of time. |
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I saw
the dotted line
that crept between
us two
made up of
spices so foreign
that I could not help
but taste and taste again
and there
in the bottom of your bowl
were the coins
of imperial domination
left as if they need be named
when truly all I wanted
to see were the spires
of your lost religion
and with my aged colonial
pantomime I lusted after
the natural design
of your hips under scrutiny
this mutiny against
my own country
something new to me
but the fairy tale
rode high in my mind
with reason left
behind in the wake of
my eyes
opened on the lies
of conquest and dung
that both fed some
of the children
that work endless hours
for fat white men in America
oh stilt this America
and watch it tumble and fall
empire destined to eat
all that we could feed
its fat craw
oh beauty
forgive me
for being one of the names
that buys Nikes and gives up
the hope of shame
to be in style and free
please forgive my digesting
your outsides
when inside the arms
of my lover is
the only blessing
as we both desire
the movement of your dressing
to fill our plates
we are the reprobates
that push you down without hope
and in the pose
of an ancient doll
I see the mockery of self
that must be me
blind
white
male
alone
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In response to Steve Peterson's Pilgrims photo folder.
What does a pilgrim do?
Gathers in groups, travels far.
Wears embroidered headgear, nehru jacket,
neck tassle.
Dips fingers in a ritual bowl.
Drapes body with paisley scarf.
Poses with friends before mosques and minarets.
Walks into arches, searching.
Listens to flute songs.
Journeys to a shrine.
Founds Plymouth Colony.
Wanders.
Drives the river valley to childhood's home.
Listens to wind playing with lilacs.
Washes in mock orange essense.
Hears screen door slam.
Sees the moon on the kitchen floor.
Walks the path by grandpa's shed
to the alley
to the world. |
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There is a horned cow trudging across the square
jerking, as if at the whim of a puppeteer.
A man leads the cow, going, coming, working.
The tongue is that well-served cow
and the man who takes him and the breeze
from the mountain that licks his sweating skin.
On the west side of the square is a temple
White with gold framed arches, open door.
From it shining bodies pour.
The tongue is that temple and in each one
who waits in the square the tongue
is a fearless bird.
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the geese are in the empty fairground field.
contemplating the tether of their instinct.
the wind has died. even the leaves
seem to know when to drop to a cold ground.
without you this evening, the drapes
sweep the floor through the south
open window. i step the floor
back and forth. wondering.
it is true when you are late, i worry:
you have stalled in traffic. you
have found someone else
to laugh with this evening.
it is true, i ask your forgiveness.
that you cannot cancel and enter
on behalf of this solitary evening.
life would be so simple
if we both lived the instinct
of the geese gathered
in the empty fairground field.
maybe then, and only then,
would worry seem so unnatural. |
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He asked me if there was anything liquid
hazardous or dangerous in the package
Just poems, I replied.
His eyes met mine, a long, narrowing gaze.
Those can be dangerous, he said, balancing
the envelope in his hand. How many you got?
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A heart, completely in poetry
and poets.
Why hold back?
For fear of not having.
When, without art,
we are nothing.
We are nothing,
not even cattle feeding on grain,
maggots eating dead,
locusts devouring all.
With our words, we fly.
I found a way out of here.
Come on, let's go! |
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“Within a dance there is stillness
within a song there is silence
within love there is surrender”
Saraswati
A dance a prayer
a woman with divine spirit
a man with ancient song
a spiral a ripple a dance
emptiness then fullness
unity then separation
a lotus heart opened to catch
the pearl, the golden
mudra, the silvered bells
dream and awakening
within you without
call her many names
call her stillness
call her ecstasy
succumb to her mango limbs
offer kisses to her fig-mouth
as she ripples in silk veils
give me your hand, she cries
swirl solitary and whole
our chanting becomes kirtan
a gift and a prayer
spiral to the center
Saraswati awaits us there
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...
we fill our canvases
with multiple images
and colors
we work for weeks
to capture a moment
yet there is
more beauty
more strength
in two brush strokes
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There is nothing she wanted more than
to feel the earth under her feet, responding to
each step of her prayer. Her hands traced
mudras and she knew not what
they meant as they twirled with the
grace of wind, spirit breath
pulsating through her
to flame into light.
There is nothing she wanted more than
to feel the ancient ones dancing
in her bones, her steps precise
as the dawn gliding down
the Holy One’s tomb
where pilgrims came to leave
a trace of themselves,
become the prayers they scatter
at her feet, blossoms of fire
amidst the serenade of doves.
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for this photo
You hold the camera, point and click.
The shutter of your Canon EOS, blinking,
has captured what you think is me,
but it is only another image you have halted
not the essence of my soul.
I am not sure why
you look at me through your camera.
Perhaps because you can't look at me
without hiding behind the lens of the culture
you live in,
and use to see the world through.
In this way my reality is only surface deep
as the semi monocromatic softness of my image,
but I know you want something from me
for which I have no answer. |
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we lotus
our roots born in muck
stems traveled
depths of muddy waters
but when we reached &
broke surface
we bloomed radiant
like lotus blossoms |
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to this photo
this is no time for prayer
unless it is together
and once you show us how
and once you let us in
we can sit down
with covered and uncovered heads
crosslegged on the hard ground
or at a busy dusty street cafe
and talk not to god, who never talks
back, but to each other.
we will wake up the next
day, and do it over again. |
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we have this idea
of people as works of art
to be viewed from the side;
this concept has been handed down,
with skill and with patience,
for hundreds, maybe, no definitely,
thousands of years;
so is it unique
that I stare and make eyes at
the frame of a picture,
at a human that is already
objectified?
and is it awful
that I can distance
myself since objects
have no feelings--
no opinions or questions--
not to say that we should stop:
documentation;
painting the portrait;
which is always somehow genuine--
but maybe I must
remember that each hour
there is another picture
with meaning hidden or lying |
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