reflection: spare crop / fleet mind
Swoops in slow motion
over the lake, standing,
unmoving, on the grassy shore.
Bikers, runners and walkers
all sweep by a mere six feet away,
but he doesn’t see them.
They’re not edible.
I stand and watch,
quiet as the great blue heron.
He finds no fish but I find time.
the work posted here is licensed as Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported. Read more about Ginnie Siena Bivona and her writing HERE.
The car is a menace tonight
steering me to the edge
Bony hands my skinny companions
take me to solid ground run me to the kitchen
for a fat red cabbage
to shred against the pain of forgetting
for no matter how many times
I try replaying your death I lose it
your face and eyes staring above the hospital bed
beyond a sea of relatives’ faces
Of course it wasn’t sudden
but hadn’t you always recovered from worse?
Typhus anorexia a stroke three days in a coma
The surgeons scraped blood from your brain
and said you’d never be the same
Indeed your vision and hearing progressively failed
together with ambulatory motion,
as family members helpless but habituated
wished you a Hollywood ending
better luck better health
God didn’t you deserve them
after the concentration camp
four children five daily flights of stairs?
Pinch me harder this scene is in a play
written by a sadist
She lay sheet up to her neck
breathing hard no rehearsal this
and the gauze with water on her lips no relief
Still she didn’t convince me
Were I Moses in spite of God’s bidding
I’d say no it’s unfair I cannot accept this
No death for me nor can I believe yours despite the evidence
your face stonewashed cleansed of sorrows
draped in the bed’s whiteness
ogival memory receding vertiginously
Copyright 2013 Liliane Richman, all rights reserved
To find more poems by Liliane Richman, click HERE.
Keeping vigil at the window
while my wife sleeps, my dogs, my child.
Night, keep your bargain.
The thin tree thins even more. It knows the sun is never coming back. The sea is a far-off sigh. A car travels slowly north, bewildered, as if there is no west, no east. A sleeping baby strapped in the car seat. The drunk pisses in the shadows which piss back at him the story of his life. I hear them tapping out the tune. Across the street, an invisible woman smokes at the window with the light out. She’s there, then gone. Almost there, and gone. Cold prayers slip unnoticed from the red tip of her cigarette. Tenuous lives suspended in the book of time, digging up the bones of love, is this what you call hope, is this how you find peace?
Too late, it’s done.
The moon already broken, already signaling the breach.
Tomorrow I’ll wake up and somebody will be dead.
Somebody will be born.
copyright 2013 Octavio Solis
to find more poetry by Octavio Solis, click HERE.
“He looks back for a moment. Looks down at his hand, surprised to see flowers as he was expecting scissors dripping blood.” (Paul Squires: Samba Libretto (excerpt #1))
Mintie wrap rippers and ‘tin-foil loopers’
Tea ceremonies and white goosefoot skewers
Skirmishing bloggers all tied up in tribes
Tripping all over their juvenile jibes
Astronomer women, astronomer men,
Tweet of imbalance within their profession
My timeline streams astronomical scribes
Tripping all over their juvenile jibes
Meanwhile Harvey and Gina and Clive
Are copping ad-hominem crap and cream pies
In the face; Morrison, Abbott and Pyne
Tripping all over their juvenile jibes
Since you’re asking
Since the crow flies
Since I don’t proscribe
I simply remember my left from my right
And I don’t oversubscribe.
“Please, Louise, pull me offa my knees” (Kenny Loggins: Footloose)
This work by Brad Frederiksen is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Australia License.
to find more work by Brad Frederiksen on this blog, click HERE.
To read more work by Brad Frederiksen, click HERE.
Cosa può un attimo
(a Gervasio, Daniele, Dario, Giacomo, Giuliano)
Quel giorno e in quel giorno
soltanto avrei voluto volare. Da bambino.
Nel vuoto di uno strapiombo sotto
le fontane al Vàak dél Valgél*.
Durò un baleno. La seduzione della libertà
con un piccolo slancio del corpo,
l’invito nel vortice della voragine
ampia e sconcertante, e quel senso
angosciato di cosa può un attimo. E poi
come rientrato immaginai la vita
dentro un vento che trascina
via per spazi nuovi, e nel suo meglio
la terra depose sui miei nudi piedi
una goccia di ruscello
a tramontana.
Vàak: luogo esposto a tramontana
Valgél: ruscello che si forma in un leggero avvallamento
durante le piogge abbondanti
Trovate QUI più informazioni su Giacomo Gusmeroli, incluso il suo ultimo libro LA BILANCIA IN EQUILIBRIO
* * * * *
An English translation of this poem can be found below:
What could in an instant
(to Gervasio, Daniele, Dario, Giacomo, Giuliano)………………………………..
That day and in that day
only, I wanted to fly. As a child.
Into the blank void of a descent [below]
below the fountains at Vàak dél Valgél*.
It lasted a heartbeat. the seduction of freedom
with the slightest surge of the body,
the invitation into the wide, bewildering
vortex of the ravine, and that agonized
sense of what could in an instant. Then
reentering, imagining life
within the wind pulling away
into new spaces, and at it’s best
the earth laid upon my bare feet
a drop from the stream
of the north wind.
Vàak: an area exposed to the north wind
Valgél: a creek that forms in a slight depression
during heavy rains
(translated by Bonnie McClellan)
for more poems by Giacomo Gusmeroli on this blog, click HERE.
D’anonymes formes floues s’enlacent dans la tendresse du pont d’un souffle clair et limpide. D’immobiles sarments de cachemire pourpre enrubannent des ébats incolores, spiralant des ellipses de chaleur oxydée, redéfinissant les contours de galaxies encrées dans le serein. Une aurore humide perle sur le contour des lèvres du temps, des monceaux de caresses ourlent les abords de l’infini, la ruralité nomade dévergonde les urbanités mercantiles. Corolle qui s’épanouit en fleur d’obsidienne dévitrifiée, une orchidée soupirante émerge de la poussière, ébroue son cristal de fraîcheur dans une inondation de pollen souverain et entonne son chant de murmure insomniaque pendant que l’amour formule une nouvelle fois la recette intangible du plaisir.
.
.
BRIDGE OF PURPLE SIGHS
Anonymous fluid forms entwine within the tender bridge of a crystal clear sigh. Still vines of purple cashmere beribbon the colorless rhythms, ellipses of oxidized heat spiral, redefining the contours of inky galaxies within the serenity. A humid dawn pearls on the curve of time’s lips, mounds of caresses hem the edge of infinity, nomadic rurality debauches mercantile urbanity. Corollas spread out in flowering of obsidian un-glassed, a sighing orchid emerges from the dust, shakes off crystal freshness in an inundation of sovereign pollen and bursts into her murmuring insomniac song while love formulates once again the intangible recipe of pleasure.
To read more work by GMC, click HERE.
To find other poems by GMC on this blog click HERE.
The day is dense humid and gray
everything else black and green
touched with a sheen
The stark trunks the branches the leaves
bustle of people honking of automobiles
children bursting out
of Dealy Elementary
flaming with cool energy
Girls on the verge of teen hood
holding an upturned umbrella
struggling with the wind
squealing
Boisterous boys their swagger
fresh as Vienna choir boys
The sumptuous life force brings me back to you
I slip in easily
as we do
.
.
Copyright 2013 Liliane Richman, all rights reserved
To find more poems by Liliane Richman, click HERE.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 