ALL RESPONSES |
| --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I really enjoy the color and form in Susan's paintings. I hope you'll find them evocative. Also, please continue to send me your responses by email or Facebook. I'm looking at several options for resolution of the date field issue. Thank you for your patience and participation.
By the way, if anyone wants to use another one of Susan's paintings as a prompt, I won't kick them off the team. :) |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
I thought I had you and then
I did not, our chatter filled
with spider webs and dirty
glass windows, every sign
of the coming frost. The
first one deadly, academic
in its chill, a cold measured
against a shovel’s handle
and a wide white band,
pals-sying around with
predictions, our dread
galore. As I said, I
thought I had you and
then I did not. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Flies on old tomatoes. The last gasp of insects.
Another surge of summer, setting in the rot,
Before the first good freeze, welcomed by many,
Young plan on moving south, as soon as schooled.
Farmers, who want to follow, after paying mortgage,
Dream of double-wide manufactured home
Protected by high fences on the Rio Grande,
Surrounded in complete comfort by sons of pioneers
From Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin and Dakota.
Oh, for cheap pain killers across the border,
They sit in January sun, thinking about sons
And daughters and grandchildren, remembering
Ice and leaves and rain and faces, traces of
All that is good, replaced by ripened dreams. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
a witch walked
behind me, fell
to make me fall
fell soft when I fell
hard, walked away
when I lay still
once upon her,
a time |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
To god and goddess
Day and night
Hot and cold
Wet and dry
Growth and decay
We stand between
Summer and winter
Light and dark
Earth and sky
Fire and water
We look back at
Life-giving sun
Nourishing rain
Children born
Spirits departed
We look forward to
Falling leaves
Restful nights
Glowing flames
Friends and family
Take these
Potent spirits
Precious herbs
Ringing sounds
And honest words
As our sincere offerings
We thank you for
All you’ve given us, for
Earth, air, fire and water, for
Love, music, hearth and health, for
Life and the cycles of time
But especially for peace
And to you,
Peace |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Is it sun’s rays glinting
on an early morning puddle
floating dry brown oak leaves?
Is it an ancient melody piped
from the dark forest’s swirl behind my house?
Or an ancient malady
manifesting in unwary intestines?
Could be all,
could be none of the above.
I’m sitting here
wanting my poem to unfold
with singular
color and
form. And meaning.
Sigh.
A poem and
a painting
are sisters, yet
different.
Is it that my words
are carved and edgy,
while your paint strokes
never end?
I’m sitting here
wanting.
Melody or malady?
My pen will know.
It will lead me to uncover
‘memories that will teach me
to see the beauty of the world
through my own eyes.’*
from a song by K. Kealii |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
shake and dazzle us with brilliance
the swoon of life intending
nothing beyond being
whatever plumps our silhouettes—
a pagan banana
a shrine in a box
an outlandish dangling
sun warmed agate
open wings of the blue morpho
green bolt of tourmaline
days that shimmer
in perfect balance—like opals
in asymmetrical bronze
or feel eternal as mountains
clouds of volcanic ash, cooled
a billion years ago—
on such days, we are like the man in Bangkok
riding an elephant along the four-lane
highway, against traffic—just holding on—
all the time doing that |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
many leaves tumble down the well
gently they go
without a wind
without the gusts of fall
taint the water gold in the well
like the color
between their veins
hidden until now
let's tumble down a well
unhide our colors
gently we'll go
hidden until now |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
A yellow and rust covered train
engine idles, facing east
on a double track, its thirty
odd cars lined up behind
like an older man’s dreams
it’s autumn; harvest time—
dried corn stalks surround
the engine like a dying army
tonight, a sky will be moonless;
few stars; an older man’s dreams
will sneak into the rows like so many
renegade corn flea beetles |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
Jilly’s head was a-whirl. She thought about calling her high-drama friends, but upon consideration, she thought better of it. Life matters were troubling enough with adding undue emotions. She grumbled at herself as she poured ANOTHER glass of wine. She was trying to cut calories by cutting alcohol Sunday-Wednesday nights. But today, she did not care about her waistline. She needed to center herself. She paid a few bills, finding some calm in crunching numbers. She did a 20-minute yoga routine.
Her washing machine’s tumbler was on the fritz. Consequently, she had to wash all loads on the “delicate” cycle. As she hadn’t enough cash-on-hand to call a repair service, she compensated by washing loads twice and doubling-up on bleach. She heard the cycle end and she restarted her wash.
She heard her husband come home and engage with her daughter. Molly had decided on a new best friend. Karin. Jilly did not enjoy this bit of news as Karin’s parents were recently, and bitterly, divorced. Jilly was not was keen to navigate other people’s acrimonious waters. Plus, the idea of best-friend brinkmanship, a dangerous game she suspected Molly was about to play, threatened a lovely little friendship with Meg, the playwriting, puzzle-doing, science loving tall-enough friend with parents Jilly and Drew could, at times, really enjoy. Nevertheless, her heart always warmed when listening to spirited father-daughter discussions.
Drew met her in the basement. He looked happy and handsome, if not tired, and somewhat bedraggled. He smiled and handed her his I-Phone. Money, tight as it was, they could afford only one I-Product.
In the 15 years they lived in their home, they managed to pay-off the mortgage. However, their property tax bill ran in excess of their old annual payments and Drew required oral surgery. Even as their debt mounted and dental needs worsened, they knew their I-Money was well spent.
“I saved the Scrabble moves for you”
“Thanks, Honey”
She kissed him “Hello” and curled-up on the sofa. Scrolling through the days’ headlines, reading poetry, making Scrabble moves and sipping Malbec, her mind become calm. Her I-Phone. Her secret to happiness.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
It’s autumn. Leaves have taken over
the back porch and I sit in the
window, hungry for soup.
You have been gone for
years now. I am used to the color
of your absence: white
that once was the edge of
pain is now a border of comfort,
holds me in the frame
and lets me speak
with measured words
of what I once could not
utter without drifting away
into a silence impenetrable
and dark.
The last heat of Indian summer
shimmers off the brickwork despite
the twist of limbs
under a sullen sky.
I gather up carrots, tomatoes,
onion, a heavy pot, and a
recipe I taught myself.
Soup, curled by the fire
will be a welcomed comfort,
a prayer against the cold.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
spiritus...
the divine breath..
inspiration..
hope..
light..
love..
human..
simply..
being..
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
"I'm in agony!"
preceding its burning theme:
Missing: Satan's dog.
|
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
|
|
She calls them “shark eyes”.
She notes them on men almost
exclusively, eyes too dark or too
dilated, colorless.
She thinks about the old
Cuban man in Miami whose
eyes turned from brown to blue.
As a child, her brother would
taunt her: “You’re so full of
shit your eyes are turning brown.”
Her mother did not intervene,
just shrugged.
Her lover calls her eyes green.
She is suspicious of this, certain
such flattery is dispensed to
weaken her. She decides he
must be cheating. She stares
at herself in the mirror, thinking
about what her brother said,
hoping. |
|
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
| |
.jpg)
