My favorite words, art and the thoughts of others. Original poetry and artwork signed.
Changed or Cheapened
-an imitation of Linda Gregg
The memory of things I have seen
seem worn, yet poetic, changed or cheapened. But other times are still wildly curious.
Part of the problem is that the bell tower
on Thompson Hall has rung, a string of fleeting moments I cannot pin down.
Soon, its hands will feel out of place. I don’t mind the simplicity.
Reduced down to the moment of
a flying cap.
It is more important that the reduction does not go too far. Each tick protected while I move into the City.
With the mountains, Osceola and East Osceola, a memory.
Our orange cat who died
in the sun, on the carpet --
The garden and tomatoes
and wild mint, spicy to the tongue and the smell of my room and sound of the coffee beans grinding as we wake
from a night we half remember
all a memory.
I worry that if I write it all down, it will turn into sentences and words —
I once read a short story,
about a man named Harry.
Gangrene caused flashbacks to the mountains of Bulgaria, and Constantinople,
and Paris, and the mounts of
The rotting stench,
and morphine numbed the pain,
of a lingering certainty that his memories were decaying.
But I still want to keep the bells inside me, their call and my
During the dismal months, my life sparkled only when I made love with
As the firefly ignites and then goes out, ignites, goes out—one can follow
its flight by glimpses
in the dark night among the olive trees.
During the dismal months the soul sat shrunken and lifeless,
but the body took the straight path to you.
The night sky bellowed.
By stealth we milked the cosmos and survived.
And fleetingly it seemed to her
that between each breath,
and the next,
time goes on,
and bodies wear thinner,
coiled and transparent.
Absorbed with the ticks and tocks --
and ticks and tocks,
of hands on a face
that never withers,
yet gets more complicated with each pulse
In time we write our own
history books carved into our skin
dripping down our spine, pounding in our chest
We move forward recognizing
resilience and striking each tick and
Becoming more awake --
from the gloom that darkened us
and bitterness that enlightened us
and the tick and
where society weakened our temperament
we grow and --
The things I take
I take everything and it stays with me,
into the clear sky
onto the pits of a fiery abyss
you come up to me, face to face
I take everything
everything has been in my reach
the movements of dancers underground,
the women by the ocean sing lullaby hymns
charming bones to decay under the marsh.
The devil who left by sand, by root, by worm
through the Mariana Trench,
branded by scorching iron and nickel .
All things screaming when they near,
Eyes wide, body stiff.
Nothing has been given,
I take it.
The fragrance of Summer
— Inspiration from On the Road Home by Wallace Stevens
It was when I said, “we only leave
to come back again,”
that the hips of roses shook and
wet the pillow sheets.
You…You said, “ my darkened sanity surrenders
to solemn subconsciousness.”
Then the pin of light, hanging from a wire,
scintillated in your darkness.
through the universe, blinded by gravity.
We were two figures, levitating above cement,
sand, rock, and water.
It was when I said, “This paper longs for graceful keys
pulling ribbons of permanent ink.”
In the scratch of graphite, there is only a scratch.
The world must be measured by the hidden word.
It was when you said, “our eyes
see no today, no windows, no time —
no morning daylight.”
It was at that time, our silence was loudest, longest.
Stillness in dark dead air.
And the fragrance of summer coolest,