Tuesday, June 28, 2011

J-class Eel

Endeavor, Lino Tagliapietra, Columbus Museum of Art
Photo prompt for Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tales
Sleek Beauty
in midnight blue hull;
a swift race,
open seas,
Golden Era J-class yacht;
glorious glass eel .

a mud flat ending
in Epney;
drowned in the Severn River,
beat by a Rainbow.

Pot of gold,
America's Cup;
the story
is old now.
Dig deeper down through wet sand;
climb upstream like eels.

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Thursday, June 23, 2011

Color the Day

Graphic by Jinksy
for photo prompt Tandem #7

Step right up!

Paint your mood today!

Point it out.

Pay the price.

Press on the pretty palette

to print your portrait.

Posted for photo promt at

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

Background Music for a Two Dollar Princess

Photo compliments of
Tess Kincaid for Magpie Tales #70

It was something she said;
just a word, a tick of the clock,
a perfect stitch in time,
tapping in my mind – you can’t
be a princess anymore –
tapestry is out of style.
Stop dreaming! Get up and dance
out of the old weave – you’re free!

She’s right. Forget the used to be.
Get out of this musty old shop,
leaving finger prints in the dust.
The only thing alive is the little girl
behind the counter, watching her movie –
humming: “ I know you, I walked with you
once upon a dream…”. The woman with the
tattoos, out back, must be her mother.

I tripped on the upturned corner of a carpet
– out of the magic moment, catching myself
on a table edge, touching the cool glass
on an old photograph of a woman, a beauty -
our eyes met. We knew each other.
She’d been waiting for me, serene in sepia,
framed in solid walnut, set on a fine tapestry.
A priceless find – my two dollar princess.

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Pulsing Poems

Writing on the porch, at rest after gardening,
pencil poised on a note to myself to listen
again to Larkin’s poem, perhaps “Solitude”- I forget.

A hummingbird flew into the cloud of catmint blooms,
sipping quick, on a manic quest to quench some thirst,
in the high noon sun.

On to the bleeding hearts, precisely piercing each
drooping pendulum with its needle nose,
nervously draining drops of life blood – humming.

I’m reading Stephen Dobyns on traditional meter vs free verse;
I wonder where the hummingbird fits as it flits freely
in its’ rhythmic pursuit of bleeding hearts – a fleeting poem.

The tiny iridescent blur bleeds nectar from the base of
pink hearts, slit, perfectly metered for the free flow of
sweetness to the pulsing poems on wings.

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One Stop Form Monday

Sunday, June 19, 2011

Dancing Dolls

Photo by Chris Galford

The corn doll
cocks a deaf ear phone
to the sax,
his helmet
muting tones of the trade war
on the horizon.

Purple cloud
whispers prophecy.
Eyes of sun
hide in shade;
one hand flashing signs of peace-
holding up fair trade.

of corn, peace or war
never die;
they revolve
like the corn doll's swirling dance
in our ethanol.

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Monday, June 13, 2011

A Jewel

Photo by Tess Kincaid
for Magpie Tale #69

We are flawed
beauty in shadow,
iridescent earth tone shell
bleeding from our pearl.

We embrace
the intruder in our midst-
suffer hurt,
offer love,
stoke a fire in our stone heart,
create a jewel.

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Sunday, June 12, 2011

The Bell Tolls

Photo by Rob Hanson

I reach out
to hold you again;
feel your weight
in my arms,
leave my hand print in your dust,
hold you to my lips.

Your soft voice
whispers in my ear,
fades away.
Tolling bells
will not ring for thee again,
next will sound for me.

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Tuesday, June 7, 2011

In Sync with Chaos

Enlarged portion of photo by Tess Kincaid
for Magpie Tale #68

Eyes of glass
shoot us – we are framed
in silver
or in gold
even tortoise shell,
posed on a mantle shelf.

They stalk us!
We stare at the glare,
drink laughter,
wisdom, life,
buy bargains from the devil,
sell our souls to pay.

They scope us
from the ocean depth,
the night sky;
read us tales from books in nooks,
sad enough for tears.

We cannot
look away – ignore
the glass eyes
charming us
like cobra
in a myth, watching us sway
in sync with chaos.

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Monday, June 6, 2011

No Point

Old Pencils
from dreamstime.com @ Google Images

Even the pencil is dull, no point writing today.

A word put down wrong has no means of escape

from the page; the eraser is worn down, flat out.

It hasn’t said a word all winter, sitting on the sill

in the snow-light waiting for anybody to need it -

to jot down a measurement, a paint color,

a phone number, anything, before it gets

swept off the sill for the red geraniums,

the new roman shades, and bowls of seashells.

This poem is the first assignment in

God only knows how long – the first creation

in the new cellar room with a view.

Poem in Free Verse
One Stop Poetry

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

The Last Dance

I’ll never forget

my young prince:

cologne and herringbone, rough on the cheek

of a princess afloat on strong arms,

drowning in eyes of aquamarine.

Pressed by the dancers,

proctored by Brother Timothy,

holy watchman gliding, weaving,

robe swaying, arms crossed,

hands tucked in his sleeves,

ready to pry a safe space

between the royal couples

at a rise in the heat of their touch.

I still hear the song,

always the last dance-

then and now-

at the end of every day,

for the past forty-six years:

“Goodnight My Love”

Happy Anniversary

Listen to
Goodnight My Love

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