open door –
heaving
chest, it is heavy
like so many piles
of sand, what was once
beautiful becomes
a darkness smothering,
choking
like how fish
die such gruesome deaths,
-slam the door closed.
Sending poetry to the world
open door –
heaving
chest, it is heavy
like so many piles
of sand, what was once
beautiful becomes
a darkness smothering,
choking
like how fish
die such gruesome deaths,
-slam the door closed.
black eyeliner morning
thin lines so intensely dark
dredging up emotions like those rock n roll
evenings of cigarrettes and skinny
black jeans smeared
sticky lines of whiskey, black dirt under
fingernails cracked
eyeliner like rebels haunting
a low e
[i am the harbinger,
the bell that tolls]
whispers from the basement dirt of a deep dark
hole, you stand on the edge and in an illusion
of free will, you jump in feet first, then frantic
free falling out of control past
dark walls with eyes reminding constantly
you did this, you did this,
you, Alice, had a choice,
[bells swing their heavy bodies, laughing
from their deep dark depths]
revisiting: Like an Old Tin Can (Peek Inside)
http://www.presssendpoetry.com/2010/10/like-old-tin-can-peek-inside.html
ever think about this concept? pulling back the skin, slicing back the head, peeking inside to find… to find what? what would i find in your head?
the way this art makes me feel
i am then
like a swinging porch door creaking open and banging shut
teasing in anticipation of a cool stormy breeze
and i am then
the way lovers can exchange eyes and express a novel of fantasy
without words – without time
and i am
then this streak of paint hurriedly feasting on its own kind and laying back in
carnal exhaustion.
constant buzzing
so busy these mutant bees
with their big hair and greedy eyes
chasing around the hive
the bigger and the better and
the more, more, more!
Revisiting an older poem today. Feels right~ considering the Sip N Bite just had a nice renovation 😉 Enjoy the weekend!
Sip N Bite
http://www.presssendpoetry.com/2010/02/sip-n-bite.html
American Life in Poetry: Column 370
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006
Here’s a fine poem about family love and care by Janet Eigner, who lives in Santa Fe, New
Mexico. You can feel that blessing touch the crown of your head, can’t you?
Isaac’s Blessing
When Isaac, a small, freckled boy
approaching seven, visits us for Family Camp,
playing pirate with his rubber sword,
sometimes he slumps in grief,
trudging along, his sacrifice and small violin
in hand, his palm over his chest,
saying, Mother is here
in my heart. Before he leaves for home,
we ask if he’d like a Jewish blessing.
Our grandson’s handsome face ignites;
he chirps a rousing, yes, for a long life.
We unfold the prayer shawl,
its Hebrew letters silvering the spring light,
hold the white tallis above his head,
recite the blessing in its ancient language
and then the English, adding, for a long life.
Isaac complains, the tallis didn’t
touch his head, so he didn’t feel the blessing.
We lower its silken ceiling
to graze his dark hair,
repeat the prayer.
American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org),
publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of
Nebraska, Lincoln. Poem copyright ©2009 by Janet Eigner, whose most recent book of poetry is What Lasts is the Breath, Black Swan Editions, 2012. Reprinted from Cornstalk Mother, Pudding House Publications, 2009, by permission of Janet Eigner and the publisher. Introduction copyright 2012 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction’s author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.
American Life in Poetry ©2006 The Poetry Foundation
Contact: alp@poetryfoundation.org
This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.
if he, with his sideways eyes
channeling a shark,
spies
her dress clinging
to curves over-
bursting with youth…
[how he loves the preening
the prancing the pressing,
the way the fabric stretches like
a second skin]
if he, hands like sinking stones,
reaches out, the
girl
vanishes in a
wash of hopelessness
like a trail of oxygen
dissipating by drowning…
For today, revisiting an older post:
“Finding an Old Master”
http://www.presssendpoetry.com/2010/03/finding-old-master-leaves-of-grass.html