Sunday, July 31, 2011

Sunday Poem

When the new day comes,
I will wrap the sun in a fresh newspaper
Like a bright baby,
Nestled close beside the long wet stems of irises.

When the new day comes,
The characters I love best from books will start heart beats--
Antoinette,
Cece,
Flannery,
Dressed down and lazy in white chairs on the flagstone porch.

When the new day comes,
I'll keep the moon in a cut crystal bowl outdoors,
And jay-blue feathers will float down
From the branches of the ash tree,
To take my arm like a favorite sister.

But until then, I am getting older,
And expect to remain alone--
With cagey time always diminishing,
And this sunflower-dust disaffection
From skin down into bone. 

_______

Antoinette is from Robert Girardi's "Madeleine's Ghost."

Cece is from Julie Anne Peters's "Keeping You A Secret."

Flannery is from Sylvia Brownrigg's "Pages For You."
____

Saturday, July 30, 2011

Smooth

It was so hot there were lions by the roadside--
Floating like dust clouds into town,
Tongues lolling.

Your hair was smooth and Indian dark--
Goddess love a flat iron,
And the highway heading north.

In the fierce heat of afternoon we stopped for coffee ice--
Yours pressed cold against my neck,
Sweating wet, nice.

John Law stopped us just past the interchange,
And the lions gave him their golden-eyed look
As he flipped open his book...

You had your sunglasses on your hair in case Heaven should appear,
And charmed that man like a gypsy thief
With God's love stashed beneath our seats.

Smooth, lover,
Like the August sun going down,
Like your summer-browned thighs, lionesses side by side,
Like the day behind us nearly gone and the
Road into the headlight night, toward home.


(for STWIASD, who loves a road trip)
_______


Friday, July 29, 2011

By Popular Demand...

My poetry workshop seems to have been commandeered by low brows who want to hear vulgar music and dance. Well, all right!

Take Osgood J. Wordwell's Poetry Workshop (and remain a cretin)

"No, no, this will never do!"
Cried Aldous Guggenheim Minton II.
"Not enough syllables," moaned McTibbles.
"Too many!" opined Millicent Duckworth-Fine.
"I've read it and now am losing my mind!"
Cobwebby critics, guarding the door,
Hope that you will not write anymore.
Learned women, serious men,
Hope that you won't write
Better than them!

____

a 55 for G Man

Thursday, July 28, 2011

A Mouse Tale

(This is the third and final poem for the winners of the Sunday Quiz. Today's poem is for the *official* winner, Lolamouse. She requested that I write something about a mouse, or about the color pink. Enjoy.)

Hickory dickory dock
The mouse ran down the block
The clock struck one
And in she run
To Danny's Coffee Shop.

It is Saturday afternoon.
The Succubus walks into Danny's Coffee Shop wearing ginormous black plastic sunglasses, and a pink ribbon in her raven hair.
The first thing she sees
Is the QOTV
Up on tip toes on the back of a booth,
Back arched
And yowling.

Wtf? she says.
(That's succubus for good morning.)
"She saw a mouse," explains Denise the waitress.
The Dark-Haired Chick is on the other side of the booth with her hand up to her face like a perp, mortified.
Between gritted teeth, she says,
"You are SUCH
a
GIRL!"

Outside, are lots of women
Dressed to the nines
In black and white,
Passing by.

There are also bearded men--
Chloe watches them
And asks the room,
"Why are those guys wearing big napkins?"

The Succubus, now at her customary corner table, looks up and drawls,
"Those are prayer shawls,
You spaz."

Chloe turns around
And squints her eyes,
Working her jaw
Off to the side.

"Well thank you," she says, then adds:
"Nice hair ribbon, Gidget."

Just then,
Savanna the teenage runaway takes her knife out of her boot.
She has the kitten Giuseppe Verdi in her right sweater pocket,
And when she leans down to her left, he goes up as if he were in an elevator.

There is a mouse on the floor.
Savanna holds her knife in front of it, and it
Climbs aboard.
"Going up!" she says, with a smile in her rough voice.

Soon, mouse and kitten are asleep in a pile,
Next to her coffee cup.

"What is this?"
Asks Chloe,
Hand on hip.
"Wild Kingdom?"

"Shh!" scolds Savanna.
"It's nap time!"

It is early Saturday afternoon at Danny's Coffee Shop,
And for just a moment,
Among the succubi, and vampires, and multiple felons,
A peace descends
Like a good house blend
And not a creature is stirring,
(Well, you know the rest.)
The end!


_____


 .

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

25

(This is the second in a series of three poems for the winners of the Sunday Quiz. Today's poem is for Lynn, who sent me two striking photographs and asked me to write to the one that spoke to me most. Well, Lynn, they both spoke so clearly, I couldn't choose. Here is your poem.)

I was a long way from home.
The season was changing.
With every rustle of the breeze,
I grew older.

Day, night...
They met for dusky assignations,
Emptying into each other
Only in passing.

What was left was
A dog's ass,
A statue without ears, listening,
And a gorgeous hard city that held my tears.

_____ 

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Damn The Match

(Note: this poem was written for Sioux, a winner of the Sunday Quiz. She asked for either a poem about writing, or a poem to encourage her students. I hope that this is both.--Shay)

I said, damn the match that set me on fire,
But no one heard--
So I fanned myself with books, and oh
How I burned.

Damn the one who made me feel nothingly small,
This lonesome girl--
Then I spit my anger on a black-curling page,
And blistered the world.

Damn the distance that keeps my love from me,
The miles are sin--
Then I wrote out my love as a pink-fire dawn,
Warm on her skin.

Bless the match that each finger is,
To strike what I feel into words that be
An incendiary flow from soul to sky,
One burned-bright star that's made from...me.
______

linked to d'verse poets

 

Monday, July 25, 2011

No More Calls. We Have A Winner!!!

Word Garden Fun Park International is excited to announce the winner of the Sunday Quiz! As you may recall, readers were asked to identify the person in a picture (much like the one above). You all did so well! It's too bad that several of you had to be disqualified. Sorry, but all decisions by the judges are final; mine because I am inflexible and obtuse and Bosco's because he tends to lift his leg and piddle on whiners.

First, let's reveal who the picture was actually of! It is, of course, blogger Mama Zen, who doubles as the witch Bayonetta when she is not at Target buying family packs of Cowboy Joe's Genuine Panhandle Squirrel Steaks.

But I know my churlish, quarrelsome readers! I realize that some of you will need proof. Here it is. MZ with Baby Puppy...

...and MZ/Bayonetta attired in OU Boomer Sooner colors. Nuff said.

Now for the disqualifications. Brian Miller's guess was completely correct, and he was the first to comment. Such blatant sucking up is more than reason enough to toss him out on his ear, don't you agree?

Hedgewitch originally guessed Sarah Palin before amending her entry. That's not allowed. Plus God hates a coward. Thanks for playing!

Cloudia guessed correctly, but included fish with her comment. Fish are against Word Garden Fun Park policy, and so down she goes. 

Herman Turnip went on about rules and you know how I get. Good night and good luck, Herman. And watch where you're pointing that thing.

Daryl and some noob poetry blogger failed to make a guess at all, and so cannot win. And Hannah Stephenson guessed incorrectly, but flatteringly.



Now, to our winners! Yes, winners, with an "s"! The first and official winner is Lolamouse, who identified the person in the picture in such detail that I almost expected a slide show and afterglow party. Plus, the tall judge loves her mouse drawing. Never discount those intangibles!

The second winner is Lynn, who failed to meet the deadline, and as previously noted, Fireblossom loves rulebreakers. Plus, she pointed out that the picture had a name pasted on it in big red letters. Helloooo, losers! (Comments by judges do not necessarily reflect the views or opinions of Word Garden Fun Park International LLC.)


Our last winner is Sioux, who bribed the short judge. Congratulations to all the winners! All three of you get to tell me what you would like me to write a poem about, and I shall do my best. Joy, sorrow, PEZ candies, astrolabes, pitch it on in here, baby, I'm ready. 


I leave you with this video of Mama Zen thinly disguised as Bayonetta. Enjoy!

_

Back to poetry next time. Boo, hiss!
_____

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Sunday Quiz

It's time for the Sunday Quiz at Word Garden! Answer the question correctly and win the right to receive a poem on the subject of your choice, written by me and posted here in the near future!

In the event of there being more than one correct answer, the decision of the judges is final. (The judges being me and Bosco.) Employees of Word Garden Fun Park International, and their families are ineligible. Emmylou Harris or Joan Jett, if you are reading this, please see the judges privately.

Now then! The Quiz Question!!!

The above picture depicts:

1. Bayonetta

2. advice columnist Dear Daphne

3. televangelist Joel Osteen's dirty little secret (name withheld)

4. movie star C.C. Avalon

5. blogging personality Mama Zen

All entries must be received in the comments for this post no later than midnight tonight, Sunday July whatever-it-is, 2011.  Good luck! The winner will be announced on this blog tomorrow, or, you know, whenever.

xox

Fireblossom

^^^who is it???

Saturday, July 23, 2011

The Marrying Kind

She just isn't the marrying kind,
But such a tough one to resist;
She lives at the end of a dark narrow hall--
Won't answer his devotion or return his call--
But there she is,
A crow perched on his heart.

Follow smoky desire
Through shadows and a door,
Once into her arms
Then never anymore...

She just isn't the marrying kind,
But such a tough thought to part;
Such a shame for an earnest boy to get hurt--
His heart in a boot, enfolded in dirt--
Never to leave her sheltering rooms,
Under her spell, and the undying blooms.

for d'verse poetics.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

Speak Estrogenic In Fifteen Minutes

Darlings, as you may recall, we recently explored the ways and customs of the primitive nation of Testosto Rica, where punches in the arm have largely replaced any kind of spoken communication. I wanted to wait for a suitable period of time, to let you, my readers, recover from any lingering desire to hang a velvet painting of poker playing dogs on the wall, before posting similarly again. But, my doves, it's time we had another little talk. 

Today, we're going to take a look at how to speak the nuanced and layered language called Estrogenic. The first thing you must take to heart, is that nothing in Estrogenic really means what it seems to mean, making it tricky for some to master, and completely incomprehensible to most Testosto Ricans. Ready? Oh, good. You're going to love it!*

*Let's start with that last statement, shall we? What, in Estrogenic, does "You're going to love it!" really mean? It may mean that, in fact, you are actually going to derive significant pleasure from the ensuing activity. *titter* Oh come on, don't let a simple fall from the turnip truck stop you now.
Let's examine possible meanings, bearing in mind that almost every statement in Estrogenic means at least five things, often contradictory.

"You're going to love it!" probably means one of the following:

1. It's going to be nothing but vacuum-packed misery, but you had better grin and bear it, or I will make you pay and pay and pay and pay, until Goddess knows when, and out of all reasonable proportion.

2. When this phrase is spoken to a Testosto Rican, it may mean: You know, and I know, that you will wish you were dead before this thing is half done with. But if you expect any sex from me in the next, oh, ten thousand years, you will do this thing, because it is what i want. The statement may be accompanied by a special smile, a touch, or a brief hand job (depending on how suggestible the Testosto Rican in question is) because, as any Estrogenian knows, a Testosto Rican with an erection will do ANYthing, including jumping through flaming hoops of fire while playing The Stars & Stripes Forever on a kazoo.

3. When spoken to another Estrogenian, it means something entirely different. It means that you may love what is to follow, or you may hate it, but it doesn't matter which. We both know that you will say you love it. Why? Let's observe two newly acquainted Estrogenians having a conversation:

"Omg."

"What?"

"Look at your hands!"

"Oh I know. My cuticles are like kudzu, completely out of control. Don't look a them until I have a chance to get a mani."

"Nooo, silly, not that!"

"What then?"

"Look at your hands!"

(looks....still not understanding)

"You have ten fingers. (significant pause, followed by a holding up of the speaker's own hands). We both have ten fingers!"

"Omg."

"Omg!"

"Oh...my...God!!! Seriously!"

Now that the Estrogenic custom of establishing commonality has been met, there is really no other possible response to the original statement but to do or try whatever it is, and then proclaim undying love for it, and for the speaker. 

Which brings us to our next Estrogenic phrase: "Luv ya!"

This phrase is only spoken to other Estrogenians. It may mean any of several things. Here are some of the most common:

1. You are my friend and I genuinely feel significant affection for you.

2. Thank Goddess I can get away from you and your unending babble about your kids/boyfriend/mother, Miss whatever-your-name-is.

3. Yeah, right, we'll get together next never. Bye! (*smile smile wave smile*).

4. Bye for now, and thank you for inviting me and my unending, time and soul sucking need and self-absorption into your life for the next six months, My New Best Friend!

5. I've already forgotten you and everything about you. Now, why can't I ever find my keys in this ginormous shoulder bag?

One final note: between Estrogenians, avowals of sisterly love can begin as soon as ten minutes after meeting a complete stranger. (For other kinds of love between Estrogenians, see the similar chapter on second dates and U-haul trailers.)

Well, dears, you're looking a little tired, as if you haven't had any Skinny Cow in absolutely hours. Let's conclude for now with one last phrase: "I'm fine." "I'm fine" may actually mean that the speaker is, in fact, fine. And then the rivers turn to chocolate and it rains hundred dollar bills and free shoes. Some more likely meanings for "I'm fine" are:

1. Leave me alone. You never pay any attention to me. You never touch me I SAID LEAVE ME ALONE! I want us to GET BACK! be close like we used to be. I HAVE A KNIFE!

2. Something IS the matter, but I'm not going to tell you what it is. Not even one teensy little clue. You have to figure it out. After all, if you loved me, and I mean REALLY loved me, you would be able to read my mind. Except when I don't want for you to. But you should be able to tell that, too.

3. Check the calendar, you dolt.

4. I'm not fine, but I could be fine. Start throwing furs and jewelry my way, and I'll let you know when you've fixed everything. It could take a while, and a generous line of credit.

5. I'm not fine. You've done something, but Goddess only knows what, or which, thing it was. It doesn't really matter. Try reciting your side of this script. It's easy, just respond to the prompts as I've laid it out here:

(hurt mixed with suspicion) "Well?"

"I'm sorry baby."

"For all of it?"

"Yes baby, All of it. I was an idiot."

"So...you see that I was right all along?"

"You were right."

(pointedly) "And...???"

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. Please forgive me."

"Welllllll..."

"Please baby? It will never happen again. I promise."

It isn't necessary or even desirable to know what the crime was. The Estrogenian may not even be sure. There may not even have BEEN a crime, and she may know that perfectly well. Thanks for the new car. 

I hope that this lesson has been fun and useful for you. I knew you'd love it! (If you would have put down that damn crackberry and actually listened.) See you next time. (holds up hands) No. I'm fine.

Luv ya! 

Monday, July 18, 2011

Witch Blooms

Around my steps, there are
Wildflowers,
Gorgeous weeds the color of candle flame.
They are
As simple as June witches before the trials,
Off and gone together at the dirt road bend
Where there are coneflowers,
Dusk-faced and bold.

The churchless ones knew--
Black-eyed susans sweet-talked right
Could soothe snake bite,
Stop an ear ache,
Or ease a summer cold.


Your name has five letters--
One each for sweet, bitter, salt, and the two dreams I have of you every single night.
I want you like water wants the moon,
Darkness and deep, shimmer and meet
Where the witch blooms grow,
My not-perfect love,
My gorgeous Favorite.
__________

Sunday, July 17, 2011

When She Was A Boy / Kiss Me

Today a double post, both poems inspired by the photographs of Rosie Hardy at One Shoot Sunday.

WHEN SHE WAS A BOY

When she was a boy,
She wore the same eyes.

When she was young,
She was salt water ice.

Underneath,
Was a whole shit-hot world, baby.

As the days dragged by,
She gathered up her guts and left home.

She carved herself good and sharp
Right down to the bone.

They say don't read your own tarot--
But she did.

They say you can't donate your own marrow--
But she did.

Down under the ice--
A shit-hot world,

And born from that--
A beautiful girl.

____________

KISS ME

I buy fragrance
By the quart

And where I lay my head,
The wood warps.

Kiss me.
You'll live.
Kiss me.

I got
Hand-blown windows and
French doors;
And I
Come from a long proud line of
Seaside whores.


Kiss me.
You'll live.
Kiss me.


I'm an old-fashioned girl
And a
Nine-time bride;
And when I lock the door,
It rains inside.


Kiss me.
You'll live.
I ain't nothin' but a cloud fluff, cream puff,
Christian girl sure enough.


Kiss me.
You'll live.


_______

 
 

Friday, July 15, 2011

Love, Explained

It's a bowl of candy snakes--
Try them.
Take one.

They have a bite--
An acquired taste.
You should see your face.

Careful!
Careful!
(just kidding.)
Try this one.

I see you've found a favorite--
You could taste it, date it, marry it, bury it.

Sugar venom
On the tongue
Numbs the heart.
C'mon...

Just a little snakey kissy face.
Chicken!
B-bawk.
It's just a bowl of candy snakes--
Don't you trust me,
Silly one?
________


 

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Tainted Love

From fucking to flower arrangement--
From butchery to brain surgery--
Anything can become just a job.

The Succubus is stealing some guy's soul--
She's slipped into his dreams
And it's nothing but the same old thing...
She's singing "Tainted Love" in her head as she takes him from sexual zero
To three hundred and fifty in five seconds.


It's rote, she's barely there.
He goes wtf-omg-OMG like they always do.
She's thinking,
Who sang "Tainted Love" anyway?
The Sellouts?
Cell Memory?
Was it...Soft Cell! It was Soft Cell!


The guy mistakes her dreamy smile for pleasure
Just before she says, "Oh please," and snaps his neck
Like a celery stick.


She sighs--
The night is only half done.
In the morning, she will go home alone.
No one will enter her dreams.
She doesn't have dreams.
Not anymore.


________


for Thursday Think Tank

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Nihilists, Naturalism, & The Use Of Negative Space

The inside of an egg shell is bland,
Blank,
And nearly always done in beige's dull cousin
"Eggshell white."

Neo-cubist art breaks the monotony and makes a statement--
Hip coolness with a leaven of irony.

The occupant of the egg floats in thick suspension,
Dreaming of the day when she will have
Fangs,
Wings,
Terrible claws,
And a Louis Vuitton bag.

Then comes the sharp crack,
The fall,
The griddle,
And a return to white.
Remember all of this the next time you sop up yolk with an edge of toast...

You slayer of dreams,
Destroyer of art,
Murderer.

_____

Monday, July 11, 2011

Give

Too bright the light

While the succubus sleeps.

Too harsh, too hard

The concrete skin of sun-bitten streets.



Give her the moon.

Give her horned creatures standing silent in the silver light.

Give her owl's eye and raven's claw in velvet pouch of night.

Give her a home in a deep-scored bone.



No one dreams well while the world burns bright.

No whisper can survive the stabbing beak of noon.

Let the succubus wake when the river runs black,

Reflecting sinking stars that flow ever slowly down.



Give her the moon and your silver-lit dream.

Leave your hair spread easy, and a lantern on the boom.

Kiss her in the darkling depths,

Her sweet deep-blue renown.

_____

painting: The Lorelei, by J.W.Waterhouse

linked to One Shot Wednesday

Sunday, July 10, 2011

The Paths of Glory...

Neil Alexander's photograph, above, got me thinking about a subject I have always found fascinating, that being the now-departed days of the British Empire. I don't have a poem to share (though there is a poem in the first clip), but here are these two videos (I couldn't find them together) from the end of the Australian movie "Breaker Morant." It is about the sacrifice of two soldiers on trumped-up charges of war crimes. It was done in order to open the door to negotiations for an end to the Boer War. It sounds dry, but it isn't.  --FB




_______



for One Shoot Sunday

Friday, July 8, 2011

Rain


I want it to rain.

I want to place my palms where your shirt is open and gather rain between my spread fingers.

I want my face as close to yours as your skin is to the storm.

I want to kiss you,

Hungry.

I want thunder

And strike-heat.

I want to show you that the sun is simply too small, too common.

I want the culverts and the sloped roofs rushing.

I want no one, and nothing, else.

I want you,

Desperately.

I want it to rain.

______