ALL RESPONSES |
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Filled with trees
Flowers fruits and grass
Birds and lions and elephants
Sun bright enough to color jungle
Sky blue enough to
Silhouette palms and oranges
Charge air with exotic fragrance
Throw deep shadows hiding curious eyes
Wild, yellow, prowling
Place and moment, eternal, unmoving
Measured by cool notes from pipe played to
Purrs, for our perfect, unadorned pleasure. |
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I came upon St. Paul in the midst of
a raging snowfall; her cathedral’s dome
beset with pallor, glaciated behind
the churning mass. And in that swirl creatures
peered, too fantastic for life in barren air,
or heartless frozen earth. They were born,
made love, and raised their young in the time
of my drive from Kellogg to West 7th.
Their realm was the cold jungles of the air,
and the temporary creatures dreamed of
warm yellow flesh, of the laps of women
reclining, of summers which did not kill. |
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Three dreams came to me today,
one dreamt, one told, one seen,
and so I consider
the thoughts that prowl like jungle cats,
the wild fruit of serendipity:
Is this Eden? Am I filled?
We walk in this dark, fertile world,
thinking perhaps that we are unnoticed,
but the moon casts her eye upon us:
our every edge is tipped with light.
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Kiss my alabaster face
and stroke my heavy hair;
tuck me safely in at night,
angel, mother, devil, child,
vixen, sweetheart, snare.
Wrap your father hand in mine,
steady as she goes. Cinch in
corsets, split like cells into
a dozen roles. Line me up
in all my outfits: teacher, muse,
and nurse; beach blond pinup
poster dream, geisha girl, or
worse.
Wrap your hero heart
round mine, dazzle me with
hope. Hunt me down with
robust poles and take my life
away; stalk my fledgling, tender
dreams and wipe them
clean away.
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Does it give embedded clues
to what my options are
or does it collect
in image
what I have already done
what I am doing today
or both?
Does it matter?
Could I not
sit back
enjoy the movie?
I picture lately as I sleep
being alone
gathering then bringing the fruit
or rocks or stones
to a crowd
augustly meeting.
In my dreams
I bring stones to stone
flowers and trees to flowers and trees.
I bring.
Must I analyze and sort?
Truth lurks here.
All kinds of eyes peer at me.
Mouths open to speak.
No lie.
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It will end soon,
all of it. It will
end, eventually
with sun. After
her mangos
are emptied,
after lions
have eaten
someone
else’s soul
and her hips
have closed
behind wings
of yellow birds
All dreams are
ancient mysteries,
play strings of blue
harps, sip gin
in a jungle
just outside
dark eyes hidden
in shadows |
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| This painting makes me uncomfortable, as did the last selection, in that it objectifies the woman (the last one portrayed a woman as a victim). This painting seems very much a product of a man who believes white people are superior to those they colonized, and who also believed the Eden myth of nature as servant of humankind. In other words, the narrow world-view it illustrates bothers me. |
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Enjoying my garden so lush.
I rarely tend it and all specimens of weeds and winged critters find refuge here.
To the west Vicki is vigorous as she tugs and pulls at plants
and chemicals ants.
But not me, I am languid.
The roses bloom nevertheless as do the herbs.
And ahh the scent in the breeze.
Sparrows summer in the eaves and baby cardinals sing from their nest in the lilac bush.
Sally’s Hawk is silently perched on the roof watching the boys.
I should be after them not to hunt but they so enjoy feeling ferocious in the ferns and gutting rabbits under the deck.
Free
To read my book with my feet in the pool, I’ve decided to sun in the nude.
Hush
An awkward and unfortunate event for us both,
Meter Reader Man how you spoil the mood.
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Il Sogno
Henri Rousseau, 1910
That is not my dream: low-hanging fruit,
Mild-favored beasts half hidden in the grass,
Bright flowers open to invading birds,
Hypnotic music from a strange device.
And here a woman waiting on a couch,
Her face is stern, I do not see her eyes.
Is it Eve, or is it Something worse,
An ancient hag from old mythology?
This is my dream: a gentle riverbank.
Midstream an island, turtles on the rocks,
Hot summer. Nothing stirs the water plants,
But fish make dimples in the perfect surface.
At once a barge appears, pulls to the shore,
On board a beautiful and smiling girl,
Who nods. I try to rise. I cannot move,
Cannot explain. She gestures and is gone.
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For awhile we were on fire—
all of it inspired by the body
on which the senses hang like fruit.
And didn’t we pluck them
night after night--
a stellar cave of moan.
I waited out the hours for you.
You beckoned and I came
leaving trails of clothes
toward the bed.
And didn’t we know
what we had chosen?
Desire over love.
And didn’t we burn?
We rented a garden in which
to paint the arduous seasons.
Earth quaked beneath our nakedness.
You made me the deceived
believer—one of those saints
who had the gift of dreaming.
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| But I thought folks might be interested in this link: http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/exclusive-listen-rare-recording-of-jim-morrison-poem-unearthed-for-new-charity-album-20110216 |
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amulets hang from
the edge of fruit, soft in their
pregnant offerings |
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Edward trudged off angrily
His yellow fur ruffled beyond its normal curl
"make believe all make believe nothing real there,
Wild eyed scaredy cats pointy things stripey things
wait 'till I get back to the toy box wait
'till I tell Barbie about the new toy |
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Facing the jungle book
Cultivates the inner scream
Qaddahfi duck machine gun
Collective bargain gone wrong
Pre-foreclosure notice
Balance checkbook on your nose
Dead baby dolphins wash up on
Fifty inch flat screen TV
Unemployment extension
Capitalist oligarchy makes love to
Socialist monarchy
And the snow, always the snow
They make me feel crazy
Anti-depressant water supply
Apathetic anarchy
Freedom from fascism
Freedom from democracy
Freedom from freedom
Man the barricades!
Of the people, for the people!
Off with his head!
Gone with the wind!
They make me feel crazy
Big brother loves you
Debt stimulus election package
Somali pirate hostage shot
Suicide bomber blast kills thirty
Praise Allah! Great Zeus! Jesus Christ!
Cold-blooded tyrant public radio
Slaughter the innocents
These are real bodies
Now for this from Al Jazeera
Pericles has assumed control
And the icicles drip, always drip
They make me go crazy |
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These strange flowers,
These spiky grasses,
Those big cats,
The lushness,
The birds,
And here I am on this couch
Ready, oh so ready,
And waiting.
And there he is
Off there
Hiding behind that big plant
But I see him
And he knows it.
Sometimes you just have to take charge.
Besides, I’m getting cold.
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In the trees
A vision
Of what man sees
A climate
For burning down the woman’s walls
Colors
Did I miss your like
In other places
The streets are jet
The ground here, brown flour
I see the moon
I see the moon
Tall blue fronds of sky
Between the lies
Of forest figures |
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Voodoo woman sways to the rhythm of wooden
Spoon stirring dough, coconut milk poured slow,
Raggae music on the radio
Voodoo woman pounds and pats the tortillas
Into shape, children at her waist begging
For a taste, shoo, she scolds, shoo now
Papa coming home
Voodoo woman brown as mud slicky
In the sun, arms fat as fun. Glory
Be, she has beans to stir and then
rocks to pick out of rice
Clothes to beat in the river
And then the long walk to the sea with
The out house bucket to empty and
Reggae floating out of every shack,
Every neighbor eyes following her back
Vodoo woman knows voodoo keeps the boas
From her charms and the ghosts
From her house, don’t know why
The orange grooves are closed
To her kind,
White man’s ownership
Of all that is fine but she has a secret
Today. She got that bottle of homemade
Ginger wine half price from Genevive,
She have all noon to sway in the hammock
After her children sleep, and her beans
Come off the spoon.
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Wind and water
Know my skin
But stars would fall
Planets reverse spin
Before you touch me
I am not your animal
Vision of ideal woman
I don’t wait for you
Revolutions wage
Nations collide
Dust in my palm
One breath and gone
What blooms here
Blooms for me
Not one finger stroke
Of yours will cross my
Not one wisp of a sigh
Will flicker my heart
You are the regent
Of small matters
That in one moment
I could crush
Feel me even
In your bones.
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