ALL RESPONSES |
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Shadows
You can take into account the height of the sun
Or not
Shadows lie
You could never be that tall
Or even that small
There is never
A perfect you
Seen in monochrome
Outstretch your arm
Touch your nose
Somewhere a part of you fades into shade
You will always be this flat
Non descript ghost of yourself
Try lying down
Anyone there?
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| When you are so pure that your shadow spreads light, and your feet touch down as puffs of smooth silt--when you are so pure that your shores drain fear from the sky and redistribute it underground as perfect tension--when your are so pure as to needlessly define blue, just because--when you are that pure, I am swallowed by the floral cascades or your words, your art, your hands coddling paper and pen--when you are so pure that your words are seen, and mend mine that are broken. |
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At the high of noon
the emptiness in clarity
devoid of fog and clouds
waits for a weathered skipper
to lift anchor and
to beg the wind
quickly!
put up the mast!
put up the sail!
before her voice betrays
before her voice catches him
again in the murk
of her failed dream
tethered to her sullen shore
and her shipwreck rocks
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I’ll never follow the piper’s wail,
the liquid molten catapult to Greece,
never know if beneath the sea
the stones of a city point east
unless I drift into the current
corked in a bottle, meaning to live
in the belly of the sea
or be taken to another shore
Through water space where words
must pass, always reaching, the way
the top branches of oak trees
lean against a larger air—their tips
scratch the moon, a weeping mask
from the House of Atreus
Always reaching where stars
far from their first light
hurtle through space like a long, late train—
so long to see and hear their music
All these years and I can’t tell
what one bird says to another—
or what fish flashes silver
in the heron’s beak, that strong
bird’s neck a question mark
More than sixty years and all this time
cities beneath the sea, stars reeling above—
in daylight I missed them,
most nights I forgot to look
I bend my neck into sky,
become one immense eye—
imagine wings against the sea,
imagine rolling against fits and starts,
hear the ululation beneath
the corrugated surfaces of things.
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Who made you up
Your orangine prow, oars lost and floated away
Satisfied to curl beneath the walls of mountainous sky
Here, in the bay of living better than so many kings
Here the grip of ocean floor to water
Green as the first of spring
That is forever, and yet nothing
Too far gone from me—I do not know how to gnaw you
But behind the once CRT, now LED
The hills are still electric pulses
The houses are bending light like sucks do air
And reflections are only as calm as you let them be |
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White and red
Above the emerald green water
Only its shadow touching.
Enchanted,
An illusion
Of perfect peace.
Bob Passi
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
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I would like to believe all
earth’s creatures, and all the world’s
objects have moments of
intense pleasure
kin to human love making.
And in such moments
when even the air stands mystical,
a single skiff, tethered overnight
in a bay, transcends the daily paddling
and with its other uncommon
gesture, levitates over
glass clear water,
the way a man or woman may
shiver out of love and
fall asleep from sheer pleasure.
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Water so clear
your greek island boat seems
airborne,
lifted by hidden currents--
its reality proved by
a shadow.
Does your boat fly?
Did a certain small aircraft swim,
or try to--
leaving white bones
on an island beach
eighty years ago?
Truth and imagination
travel the world
aching to be first. |
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Her calming influence
childhood climbing
Of these, place olives
sawed off, left open
gathering Sun
where we skinny dipped under thee
my big toe dangles lover to you
island time, who are you to include me
orange for the swim,
from the ships on the sea, are listening,
no less as a man, as me – now, an old man dreaming.
drifting across, hear her skattered kur’plunks!
drooping into it - the moons of Saturn rings,
kairos ticking Bou- yant.!
Regina, maketh, and transfigure as a calm zeal,
sealing over to Me, the blue-er, blowing with
thankful horn, for you for laying inside me
a beach, your nakedness includes.
Hope, if for your village - that its brightening
Find this is the savior - green sea, and jump into
To hear Greek, an ancient fish to the island of Santorini!
Eclipse, all this is now, all that is done, everything cued
and everything lost by the Moon.
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Homeric Hymn to Poseidon, translated by Hugh G. Evelyn-White
Εἲς Ποσειδῶνα
ἀμφὶ Ποσειδάωτα, μέγαν θεόν, ἄρχομ᾽ ἀείδειν,
γαίης κινητῆρα καὶ ἀτρυγέτοιο θαλάσσης,
πόντιον, ὅσθ᾽ Ἑλικῶνα καὶ εὐρείας ἔχει Αἰγάς.
διχθά τοι, Ἐννοσίγαιε, θεοὶ τιμὴν ἐδάσαντο,
ἵππων τε δμητῆρ᾽ ἔμεναι σωτῆρά τε νηῶν.
χαῖρε, Ποσείδαον γαιήοχε, κυανοχαῖτα,
καί, μάκαρ, εὐμενὲς ἦτορ ἔχων πλώουσιν ἄρηγε.
I begin to sing about Poseidon, the great god, mover of the earth and fruitless sea, god of the deep who is also lord of Helicon and wide Aegae. A two-fold office the gods allotted you, O Shaker of the Earth, to be a tamer of horses and a savior of ships!
Hail, Poseidon, Holder of the Earth, dark-haired lord! O blessed one, be kindly in heart and help those who voyage in ships!
**********************************************
We keep coming back for more.
Ripples that move and speak,
Blue waves from myth-blown breeze.
Bouzouki melodies for sad lovers,
Sitting on a terrace, looking at the sea,
Sung in our perfect language.
There, below the cliffs,
Is a cavern where Poseidon sits,
A black hole where all power flows
To the center of his throne.
It’s an obsession, a hunger
That wants to suck everything in--
The what’s possible, the what’s not,
And the anything that is.
So we sink down, and drown, not
from want of earth or air,
But of the things we love
To hear, even when we swim. |
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Rocks at the bottom of the clear green
sea; their veins remind you of other
lives
Shells at the bottom of the clear green
sea tell of thirst, yet you can hold
them in your hand
Fish at the bottom of the clear green
sea, deep beneath two oars; for years
you didn’t know her
You once wrote her name in sand;
the sea breeze blew and the writing
vanished by morning
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Crisp and clear
no muddy waters
no cloudy sky
It was the middle of the day
that long day
years in the making
but really only a day
with countless wavelets
speaking faint laps
against the hull
I shall try to remember
even in your absence
the brilliance of it
the pure, the clean
the charm
the possibilities
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You said a boat in Greece,
on hot white sand in sunny
Athens, was where you wanted to be.
I said a boat in Greece reminds
me sadly of Jackie O marrying
a rough and tumble shipping
magnate, sailing on his yacht
in the Med, smiling for the
camera but still reeling
from the loss of Camelot.
That is why I can't go with you.
I've given Greece all the meaning
it has for me. Were I to step into
the shoes of all the daddy love
starved women in the world,
consort with those who could
only break me in two again,
I would be stepping into
her sad little life, ermine jacket,
white pearls, little cocktail dress
and blue blood crust all failing
to save her from that one
desperate search, dipping her
toes in the warm waters of
the Med but pointing her bow
toward disaster. |
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The invisible exists!
Odd how that space appears
to have nothing in it
yet the shadow travels it
arrives at its end point
always at its end point
it appears nowhere else
But insert a surface
any surface
between the beginning and the end
and the image relocates itself
jumps at light speed
from one plane to the next
from one surface to the other
How is that possible
nothing but light travels at light speed
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I will stay with you as a wife, not a mermaid.
You are a husband who needs someone waiting
loyal and true. I will not be the wife of your
Dolphin dreams. Devotee of Neptune, you slip
out to sea, invisible and strong, deep clean
strokes to a clarity that seems
Missing while you sit on the beach sipping drinks
and flirting with everyone who walks by. Dolphin
is your true nature and the mermaid would love to
Play but she knows at the end of the day she will walk
cobbled streets while your indifference breaks down
her scales to human form, feet on sand.
The ties binding us come from hanging sheets,
cooking meals, mopping the floor of the sea
water and starfish you have trailed behind.
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I did not ask to be ugly––
my nose bent, my breath
of fish heads, frightening
the shades I ferried one way
across a black river.
They gave me a grimy
dinghy, a nasty dog,
made me work in a dark
world beneath graves.
Why would anyone make
a myth like that when
imagination can create
a last passage in a boat
colorful as a slice of fruit,
over water as clear
as the souls of babies?
If you were able to see
the passengers in the boat––
robes clean as sails,
faces open like flowers
on a lemon tree––you might
more easily release them
to this other place.
I promise I would require
no coins from the mouths
of the dead, only songs
we’d sing together,
as I row toward a village
of white-washed homes,
humming with warmth
and bees spinning
their golden honey
from evergreen trees.
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nowhere left to go
the perfect day finally arrives
work is done
cash in the pocket
no one asking where you are
no one expecting your return
the climate has been found
the comfort zone surrounds
fair air
fair sea
fine goat cheese
moussaka and ouzo
so many have have come to stay
centuries attest
and you ask me to leave
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I'll be on vacation in northern Minnesota for the week of 1/15 - 1/22. Please continue to post your responses! I leave you with a few thoughts to keep the wheels turning.
No matter what the world throws at you, you will triumph.
One day I looked myself in the mirror, and said, "There's a man, who tells the truth, and is not afraid of it."
Death comes to everyone, but when it does, they act like they're surprised. Let it come, and let's live like gods.
Be careful when using the word "love." It means many things to many people, and few of them know its truth. |
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Green-blue water as thinned and clear as a dove’s breath
Hills fertile from the ash of burning bygone ages
Buildings plowed into the earth, and raised like knuckles of the sky
A child fishes from the rocks of one beach
His father throws stones into the water from another shore
Instead of the death, the life of peace |
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This is what we know.
Song came first. Of birds,
of rain, of the love we’ve made,
the song you placed in my ribs.
Then the fragrance of lilies
& mud, damp and hungry
the air, before rain, and after
Earth, in love with the sky.
We know the taste of dirt.
Know the glory of a catching
a snowflake on our tongue.
Know the weightlessness of death
in the shape of a bird and the
shadow of the moon when
waning we blow a wordless
kiss. & we know, this.
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Alyse sat on her bed looking at travel brochures.
She had grabbed every fun-in-the-sun pamphlet offered, but the one from Greece held her gaze.
On the cover was a boat seemingly levitating in the clear water of a small bay.
A photographer, she considered its composition.
But really, she was overcome by her strong urge to dive into the warm sea water and swim away her pain.
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It’s a silent film, really, that space
in water in which dreams take place
my own thoughts return to you—
absent, an air bubble below the surface
Here, a ring now, a single call of consolation
on her cell phone, she might exit into white
sand; it’s as if her body could wash up
to shore; her skin out-of-place
Because I am alone now, it does not
follow that every word is flawed
It’s like a sailor coming home from the sea,
wondering if she will still be there
happy and wordless
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I feel you on a beach
Distant
Trying to fathom feelings for me that run like sand through your fingers
Feelings a little less blue than the sea
that creeps between your beautiful toes
You question the choices you made
Always searching for impossible perfection
Always reaching for the sun
Never satisfied with just the rays
You want the burn
Until all you are left with is another winter
A mirror reflecting yesterday
One hand on the rudder
The other waving goodbye
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Ink smears on wet cocktail napkins
after a night of improbable mischief.
The next morning I find peace in the rhythm of the hangover.
Humans are known for their propinquity towards throbbing.
The continent is a myth.
Precious people in smokey cafes seeking Moksha with Mattisse.
or, on occasion, Molotov cocktails.
No, none of that. The seafood is great, though.
So I wrap some shrimp up in the ruined napkins,
and I walk out to the shore
and I lie down
and I don't particularly care
if I'm being precious. |
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She stands in the water
Pointing cross the bay
daring us to climb aboard
and be cast away
Her shadow edge of sharp detail
in sapphire liquid clear
pointing us a new idea
to overcome our fear
Chorus:
Are we always tied to docks
never floating free
Could we follow nature's tides
pulling out to sea
Currents draw us out beyond
Daily ports mundane
Floating down along a coast
a gentle shower of rain
Drying off the cleansing wet
with soaking rays of sun
We find our lives reborn anew
Past worries undone |
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He washes out the sand
from between his toes,
the dust from his mussy hair,
when he steps into your dream,
and dives parallel to the floor.
His body is an orchestra
conducted by the ocean -
each muscle a refrain
and all he leaves,
when he swims to shore,
is the little dingy,
wavering just far enough
his trouser-legs will be soaked
(but only for a half hour, in this sun).
But on his way out of the harbor,
after he's flipped his right leg,
then his body
onboard, and set the oars in the locks,
his shoulders will echo what his feet say
and the dingy will laugh against resistance
put up by the water.
His whole being will laugh at the sound
and the vibrations under the gunnels.
I can see only, from here,
that the spectrum of light filtered
is the kind that causes total
and uncontrolled contentment
through every atom of my being,
yet I know, when I see this,
how peaceful his body is
when he catches
and rows his boat.
How focused he is
on a particular tree,
on a shelf of waves,
on the horizon,
for guidance.
How his conductor knows exactly
how to guide him.
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Suspended
in the clear teal water of Greece,
I can see the shadow
of the boat right below it.
White against the sun,
the boat glimmers.
A fading orange trim defines it.
Floating without care, on its own,
in a bay trimmed by the houses of Assos
watching in the midday heat.
Everyone is at rest in the shade
but the little wooden boat,
that not anchored down,
is drifting free in the hot summer day. |
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