Sunday, July 26, 2015

The Scene of the Crime - A Magpie Tale


Image chosen by Tess for today's Magpie Tale, Mag 280. Click on the link to see other responses to this image of a face down metallic giant. By the looks of things this summer is a busy one since there are not so many contributors this morning.

The Scene of the Crime

The gray of fallen
things seems leached from the lead sky
and washed by the rain,
draining back into
the gated river beyond dreams
of warmer places
themselves sucked and parched,
wrinkled and wizened and dried
from the wave action
of the neighboring
and turbulent salt laced sea.

In such disturbance
I find you face down
and partial, streaked and drilled through
one hundred five times.

‎July ‎26, ‎2015 11:07 AM

Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Watts - Three Word Wednesday



On August 11, 1965, a black motorist was arrested for drunk-driving, and a minor roadside argument suddenly turned into a riot. There followed six days of looting and arson, especially of white-owned businesses, and police needed the support of nearly 4,000 members of the California Army National Guard. There were 34 deaths and over $40 million in property damage. The riots were blamed principally on unemployment, although a later investigation also highlighted police racism. It was the city's worst unrest until the Rodney King riots of 1992.

In this week's post Thom offers us the following prompt:

Metallic; Optimal; Polished

Click on this link to find the contributor list.

Watts

Remember those days
with the metallic sunshine
and the sullen heat
even under trees
so burnt the deep shade blue got
up and walked away?
Remember how birds
stopped flying, confused from heat
and water's empty
dish even though we
wished to help them through the spell?
Remember empty
shelves and what we lost
and how we yearned for winter?
Here we are again,
polished and optimal
despite the riot, the rest
of the spilled red blood.

‎July ‎22, ‎2015 6:30 PM

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

How Some Dogs Must Feel - Collaboration


This poem was written spinning off the first line in Irene Toh's poem Rouge.


How Some Dogs Must Feel

How she sought me out
I will never know for sure
because I see how
her eyes dart sideways,
then to the ceiling before
she speaks some glib rhyme
about it all.
Sigh.
Something creaks up there rather
like giants moving
some comets about.
After that she looks at me,
back I should say at
me cringing as if a blow
soon will box my ears.

‎May ‎26, ‎2014 5:08 PM

Monday, July 20, 2015

Inner Heat



In my molten heart,
bright colors, bright intentions,
do you feel them rise
in five beat rhythm,
in seven beat counterpoint
reaching to ripe smoke,
to the sulphur shaped
red hot stink of truth, to ash
smeared across my brow?

January 20, 2011 11:30 AM

Sunday, July 19, 2015

The Question - A Magpie Tale


The Question

"What would be up there,"
She whispered to me as if
I could have a view
from here and the stones
to peer past the bannister
in any damn case.
The sounds of the war
were just as loud in this place
as anywhere else
though the fusillades
did not yet penetrate
the walls of the keep.

‎July ‎19, ‎2015 1:22 PM

The image of the ascending spiral staircase chosen by Tess for today's Magpie Tale. Tap the link to access the contributor list.

Running On Empty



I Wish I Understood You

Your trace is too weird
and should not be anything
it so seems to me.
I look left and up
and down the way for a light
or for some throughway
with a right turn sign
which could give me peace of mind,
tasting the fine grit
your wheels have spit up
over and over again -
invisible clouds
trying to keep up -
just like me racing with you,
running on empty.

‎July ‎19, ‎2015 5:10 AM

Saturday, July 18, 2015

Finale


Death In Hamlet
"Life is hard. Then you die."

He's acted his last
surreal moment, descent
into inertia.
Me: "Cut! That's a wrap!"
And you call, "Kill the damn lights."
He just lies there, still.

‎January ‎20, ‎2011 7:17 AM

Friday, July 17, 2015

The End Of Things



Lord Byron on his death bed.


That I shall die is a primary question
meant to be asked
meant to be lived
and the answer still remains absurd
no matter how I ask,
no matter how you cry.

‎January ‎20, ‎2011 6:29 AM

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Stella - Three Word Wednesday



Written for Three Word Wednesday. Check out the creativity of all the other participants using the links you find there.

This portrait is true except she is a happy dog, neither dark inside nor lonely. She does find me boring. I am sure of that. Also, while this image is a good likeness, it is not of Stella. Neither image is actually of Stella but both capture something of her mien.

Stella, The Half Irish Wolfhound

This dog is dark both
inside and out and graying
in the eyebrow hair.
She appears lonely
most times and finds me boring
no doubt because I
do not move so good
these days and though she's older
she can still run, run
til her heart explodes
and her tongue hangs halfway down
to the gray wood deck.

‎July ‎15, ‎2015 9:56 AM


Sunday, July 12, 2015

Backlight - A Magpie Tale


Image offered by Tess at The Mag. Click on the link to see how other people responded to this image of the backlit woman striding toward sunset. Sunrise? I chose sunset as fitting to the mood I was feeling looking at her. Her? Probably.

I am dedicating this poem to a good friend, Marie De Stefanis.

Backlight

I watched you stride tie
to tie, then crunch the gravel
as your mourning dress
wrapped your slenderness
in the sunset shimmering
in the yellow sky.

The tracks, going west,
were weedy and rusty brown,
the trains stopped long since.

I would have held you.
I wished to -knew I could not-
even from inside
I knew this too deep
to duck, my usual way
most times, most places.

What twisted me up
as you strode toward sunset,
you were still backlit
and I saw your shade
take your lead from you, reaching
its own way forward.

‎July ‎12, ‎2015 6:55 PM

Saturday, July 11, 2015

The Inner Dove, The Inner Sea



The Inner Dove,
The Inner Sea


I entered your dream,
your sea dream, your green sea foam
rich in possibles,
even probables
and now I wonder how doves
of the morning shall
color themselves up
far beyond the sadder gray
of their normal lives.

‎January ‎14, ‎2011 1:00 PM

Friday, July 10, 2015

You Have Changed Me



It is my long fate
(and I have not tried to run)
to find your bright fire.

I now invoke all
songs, I now call all long drums
to the central ring.

It is time, this time
stripping the nonsense away
once, once and for all.

‎January ‎14, ‎2011 9:18 PM

Monday, July 6, 2015

I Lack Grace



I slink and sidle
on this path you choose for me,
not well made for it
though you think other
things of my differential
frames of charity.

You say I will do
as if your authority's
my sufficiency.

I've never wanted
you in that role in my life
even though your call
does turn me inside
out. I do whine about all
this munch, drag my feet,
so to say, to speak.

January 9, 2011 2:01 AM

Sunday, July 5, 2015

Santa Catalina - A Magpie Tale


Bathers, 1950 by George Tooker
Offered by Tess of Magpie Tales as the subject of Mag 277

Santa Catalina

Take the morning boat
to Avalon and meet her
on Beacon Street if
you want what she has.

You will go diving for pearls
in a while along
the hot sandy shoals
all laid out on this summer's
tidal bore bearing
down on our pebbled
beach where the sun dogs pile up.

It's hard to focus
on what's what when you
nurse the wounds made by the gals,
the angry young gals
left on the rocky
shoals of the lee side of things.
There's no fresh water,
no fresh water here.

‎July ‎5, ‎2015 2:28 PM

Saturday, July 4, 2015

Talking To The Goddess


Fly if you can... it's a very long climb.

Talking To The Goddess

For the love of Her
I have taken this moment
and ensouled our song
of love as I see
the truth of all the far sky
as if you could fly
just like that instead
of shifting shape as we must.

You a bright birdsong,
me a raven's call,
we wing our way to heaven,
whisper in Her ear.

January 4, 2011 11:00 AM

Friday, July 3, 2015

Recalling Dal Lake


Photo of the day by Maqsood Bhat, appearing here, March, 2014. The view is of a Lake Dal shoreline, near Srinagar in India-side Kashmir. My stay on a houseboat on Lake Dal was perhaps the capstone of my entire two years in Asia, in Bangladesh. This is the high country of India, in the upper northwest corner, nearby the disputed territories with Pakistan. The people are often drop dead gorgeous, with dark skin, red hair, and blue eyes.

Where we stayed, my mother and I, was at a moorage in an ancient garden, said to be planted by Alexander's men - that long ago. Lake Dal is located rightly that such an ancient beginning is possible but who can know the truth? The moorage was owned by E.M. Butt and Sons. I still remember. The guest book contained the signature, "George Harrison". The timing was correct for that to be true too. But how many George Harrisons were hanging out on Lake Dal?

I had a cold. My memory of the place is filled with nostalgia. The boat was filled with wood smoke. I recall being miserable, an upper respiratory distress, much of the time but in my memory the whole thing is luminous. That same journey I was in New Delhi and up at Agra where I saw Shah Jahan's Taj Mahal. To get to India from Bangladesh, you had to fly to Kathmandu in Nepal and then on to India. To get back to Bangladesh, the same. There were no direct flights due to diplomatic complexities. That is why I was in Kathmandu three times over my two year stay in Bangladesh.

Recalling Dal Lake,
Spring, 1969


This boat is too small
and fills with smoke before heat
and if I squint some
this could be some place
in western Washington State.
But George Harrison?
Really? I am in
the bed he slept in some months
past, me with swollen
things and misery
trying to make joy happen
in spite of Delhi
belly - what it's called.

July 3, 2015 1:58 PM

Thursday, July 2, 2015

A Misunderstanding



A Misunderstanding

What is it to me?

Your face speaks volumes to me
as if there is more
you should say before
judging me with your deluge.
There's sanctuary
in the coming storm
though the wall is far too low
around all the graves
and the stones too bleak
even for the long time dead.

They may rise up in
the latest reveal
only to be knocked back down
in the coming flood.

As for me, I change
on the wind that now rises
and like thistle down
among old razors
I shall slip past your beacons
into the damp scent
of this late fall blow.

July 2, 2015 1:38 PM



Wednesday, July 1, 2015

On Orcas Island


Crescent Beach, Orcas Island

Orcas Island is the largest of the San Juan Islands, which are located in the northwestern corner of Washington state in San Juan County, Washington.

On Orcas Island

I saw the ferry
appear on the gray waters
and knew you were there.
I wonder if you
noticed your watery moment,
your birth in the sound,
you followed by gulls.
Probably you don't even
think of me at all.

‎January 7, ‎2011 9:40 AM

Tuesday, June 30, 2015

The First Dance - Junior Prom


This image indicates a junior prom in 2011. Mine was in 1962. That makes me somewhat elderly I suppose.

I have been a dancer all life long, even on stage a bit as an amateur in musicals. I love every part of dancing and especially the chance to handle the female form in unusual ways. You get to throw them around and instructors teach you how to do that with artistry and grace. I cannot tell you how fond of that I have been.

Once my heart opened, music moved right along. That didn't happen fully until middle age. But first I was into choral singing (baritone) in high school, then self taught guitar and in middle age, the keyboard and a return to choral singing.

I have become a competent writer too. I was schooled well enough that the engineers I worked for saw my skill. They used me because writing was essential to engineering in my neck of the woods. Engineers pretend not to care about writing and composition until the job needs a polished product. Then if they can't cut and paste good former word assemblies they get a guy like me to do the creative part.

We are called technical writers when writing is exclusively the job, but I was an engineering designer. Engineering presentations are wicked training because they teach a person that creative writing is always at some point what I call word smithing - building the presentation. There is a required form of some kind, however loose.

Learning to recognize that one's writing contains the error of broken form and also to let loose enough of one's own work to truly edit it are both essential skills. A writer worth getting a professional chance must have these skills at a sufficient level.

You just cannot expect the boss to take up the fundamental slack. If he has to get that involved then he doesn't need you. She, maybe. That an editor will do it is a myth created by novelists for their stories. Only specialists in some arcane field or other can get away with abysmal preliminary editing of a project.

The larger word collections, like a novel as an example, are even more demanding in this way, not less. That's because the truly professional wordsmith must lead the reader through dense complexities and make them seem easy while doing so. That is what a good form enhances.

Do you think this applies to poetry even more? No shit, Sherlock. Do you think some poets may have no clue? *Sigh*

The First Dance

I can't believe
I had the guts to ask you
out, let alone dance
with you as if I
knew how, me faking my moves
and dripping my sweat
between my wide eyes
as I stare at you, drink you
in as you move like
all that's beautiful.

January 7, 2011 9:15 AM

Sunday, June 28, 2015

Summer Love - A Magpie Tale


A Midsummer Night's Melancholy by Michael Sowa
Chosen by Tess for Magpie Tales, Mag 276

Summer Love

It's become awkward
and muggy besides, cobber.
(That's Aussie for pal.)

The dog wants a friend.
The cat has what it wants now.
And your painting shows
a late afternoon
but you have called it a night,
a hot summer's night.

And me? I sit here
in my basement writing you
this aside on love.

‎June ‎28, ‎2015 3:12 PM

Another Michael Sowa:


Friday, June 26, 2015

Tracking You



I follow your sign,
the bent twigs, the partial prints
filling with new rain,
filling with old sand
while I feel my heart slowly
drain of memory
as I forget you
and how you touched me like sky
touches all the earth.

‎January ‎7, ‎2011 9:01 AM

Thursday, June 25, 2015

In The Storm



I have never actually been in a tornado. I have been in a city when a tornado hit across town but I never saw it and only learned of the touch down after the fact. That was in Dacca (Dhaka) in what was then known as East Pakistan and now as Bangladesh.

None of the storms I have been in actually got too big for me but I can't say that for the young papaya in our back yard in Dacca. It snapped in half about three feet off the ground from the wind in one of the storms. I claim I love weather like this. I think I tell the truth. However, I am not fond of ice storms. I live now in the Portland area of Oregon and we do get ice storms when winter conditions are just right. I hate them.

In The Storm

When the tornado
hit my street I was too high
to care or to move
and I was carried
over the top of slow things,
aimed like an arrow
fletched with eagle quills-
one step beyond all belief-
and willing to fly.

December 30, 2010 2:57 AM

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

Transition - Three Word Wednesday



For Thom's Three Word Wednesday where this week he chose the words:

Lump; Nervous; Puzzled.

I am fast approaching end of life, I think. I am doing pretty much as I planned many years ago. I believe you can wreck a whole lifetime legacy of good living by dying poorly and so my task has become first to understand what it means to me that I die well, and second what I am to do to maintain my readiness and what little grace as I may possess.

I am not completely sure of that much about it all. Also, I do not think every day of it. One thing is very clear. It has been clear for decades now. Death is not my enemy. I should not fight and resist as if I could successfully defeat death. So my question is, how do I befriend death?

Understand, this is not the same as trying to die.

Transition

This lump of gristle
used to be my nervous heart
which puzzled me then
but now lies so still
and gray in my wide open
chest and I wispy
and ghost like float up
looking back and back and down
from ten miles away...

from further than that.

‎June ‎24, ‎2015 2:16 PM

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Hypatia Has Left The Building


Up at Tilden Park in perhaps late fall, 1950, that's me deciding which creature I would ride on the carousel. And of course that is my mother Hypatia. She was a beautiful young woman in those days, and a highly competent one. She was an instructor in Speech and Drama at Cal Berkeley, and had graduated Phi Beta Kappa, cum Laude, and was the valedictorian speaker of her graduating class. No one else had ever done that to that time in Speech and Drama. She shared the podium with Harry Truman who was POTUS at the time.

The youngest of her mother's first three children, she was named Hypatia by her Dutch immigrant father. He named the older two, the first, Philippus (Philip - a patronym of the family, either Hartog Philippus or Philippus Hartog) and Penelope. Penelope's namesake was of course the wife of Oddyseus. Hypatia's namesake was a famed mathematician and librarian, a philosopher at the fabled Library of Alexandria in Egypt. In the poem, "your sister's daughter" refers to Penelope and her daughter Toni-Jo.

Tilden Regional Park is described like this: "One of the District's three oldest parks, Tilden has been called the jewel of the system, and its recreational activities have become a happy tradition for generations of East Bay youngsters. From a carousel ride and a picnic to a swim at Lake Anza and a stroll through the Botanic Garden, Tilden has variety to delight everyone."

Hypatia Has Left The Building

I looked past my book,
raised up my glasses and heard
you gasp and rattle,
fuss though you had gone
flying while lying so still.
I called for a nurse
and we gave you some
morphine then to ease your wait.

She came past sunset,
your sister's daughter
whom we took in to protect
all those years ago.
I sat on one side
and she sat on the other.
I held your left hand
She spoke, told stories,
told you how much she loved you.
Then you breathed your last.

Your son, your daughter
by your side - others were there.
we saw you gently

go.

‎May ‎19, ‎2014 9:28 PM

---------------

2001 was one of those years for me. My mother died in January. My lover of two years left me in February. I moved to my mother's house and sold my house of thirty years in April. My father died in June. My wife of twenty years died in October.

You would think at thirty years in a place I would own it. There were severe money troubles a couple times and the refinances of the house put ownership in the coffin but covered the debt. My financials are still in good standing, have always been in good standing. However, I have never had much money even though I have had, I suppose, enough. I at least have never been driven to stretch, to somehow find ways to find more than was coming more or less naturally. I am grateful for that. Pretty good for an old ex-dope dealer who at least was never caught.

At the end of January of 2001, my mother had gone in for hip replacement surgery so that at 79 she would not become bed ridden by deteriorating hips. They did the one with the most damage first and the other was to follow. Hip replacement is a big surgery although not necessarily a hugely dangerous one. She was in a recovery center because hip replacement creates a bed ridden recovery for the first weeks and mom lived alone. I visited every evening.

On this one evening, she was looking okay and we were talking quietly. I was speaking and she interrupted by raising her right hand, index finger pointed, then she took that hand to her right ear and caressed her earlobe. She was unconscious right then. We got an ambulance and took her to hospital. She woke up in the ambulance on the way, I guess because when I saw her next she was awake. I guess she napped some of the time and in two days she lapsed into coma. In another day she died. She had had a massive stroke and died of brain depression from the swelling in it.

My sister had to arrive from the Kansas City area, a small town to the south of the city on the Missouri side. It took her awhile. On Mom's last afternoon on the planet, she started to fail. I was there and I alerted the staff that she was obviously uncomfortable even though in coma, and they gave her morphine to quiet her. In fact she pitched quite a fit for someone unable to move. She was not ready to go because we had not all gathered. It was that evening that my sister did arrive, and others were there too. I sat on her left side while my sister sat on the right, with others close by, a small gathering of friends and family.

After perhaps half an hour with all of us gathered there, Mom no longer could breathe and we held her and spoke to her as we watched her depart for other places. If you feel like you want to learn more about all this, here is another post with this history written back in May of 2009. There are actually several posts that include aspects of this history but I will not go further here.

Monday, June 22, 2015

Living With A Big Dog


This view of the house is an image from Google Maps.  The house is a corner property, though the street beside it is a gravel paved extension.  The house I am writing about is to the immediate left of the "H".  I live under it.

Stella is the part Irish Wolfhound who lives with us here on the promontory overlooking the Willamette, the railroad tracks and highway and the idle papermill below.  The promontory park is behind the house to the left.

I have posted several times this year various aspects of my life that include her.  I guess that shows how I am smitten by this large and gentle creature. She can be fierce if she thinks she needs to be.

She is silent in her approach. She comes around the corner and lays down at some point. I look over as I do my computer work and there she is as if by magic. That's the creepy part. Other times as this is a basement, she will thump down overhead and then do stuff that the floor amplifies. Most evenings I am the last guy awake and she spends those hours down here with me as if I need a guard or a minder. I probably do.

Living With A Big Dog

If you weren't so trustworthy
it would be creepy
what you do down here,
appearing on your towel
spread in the corner
with the tiniest
of your big dog sighs leaking
from your salt peppered
fur curly broad frame.
What is Irish about you
I wonder and what
some other wolfhound
dream fractional and extreme?
I have seen you fight,
don't care to again.
I like you best so wanting
to please us, trying
to understand how.

May 10, 2014 8:38 AM

The poem is part of my collaboration with Irene Toh which happened during spring of last year. See Orange Is A Fruit

Sunday, June 21, 2015

At The Beach - A Magpie Tale


Image by Bert Stern, chosen by Tess for this week's Magpie Tale
Check out the contributor list. As for my poem, you could pin it on him or you could pin it on her. Either way works.

At The Beach

In those days I thought
maybe I could still keep you,
at least for a while.

I schemed and worked up
snares for your soul, so I hoped.
I thought I needed
you so near I could
feel your breath in my fey ear.

Then you got too hot
and you rose up off
the blanket, shook off the last
of the sand, put out
your hand to them all
and they led you far away
despite what I said.

‎June ‎21, ‎2015 12:33 PM

Saturday, June 20, 2015

Lineage


Birth canal of the goddess

Lineage

My mother was fey
though she tried for showing it
on the stage instead
of in the wide world
and she passed it on to me
though she did not mean
to do such a thing.

Born son of a Gaelic witch,
born under the oak,
under the laurel
with mistletoe eyes and thoughts
thirteen hundred years
ago and again
this time to a fey actress,
what would you expect?

December 29, 2010 8:18 PM

Thursday, June 18, 2015

A Close Call


A Close Call

The sun is dissolved
from the inside to the edge
as you plainly see
and I will dive in
to its vacancy quite soon,
just as soon as you
crookedly grinning
bow low to the golden glow
then kick me on out.

According to plans
all this is right on schedule
no matter the hiss
of the approaching
alligators, the meaty
smell of their exhales.

‎June ‎18, ‎2015 4:09 PM

Monday, June 15, 2015

The Divorce



The Divorce

As if a dolphin
rolled beneath my crackling edge
breaking surface once
in a sparking spray,

so it is that you and sand
and the tidal rip
stir beneath my skin
and split me open again,
but only this last.

I will not permit
more than this, cannot permit
the stories of us
to reach the warm pools
and stretch in the sound and light
with the other clams.

‎May ‎9, ‎2014 3:27 PM

This poem was written in collaboration with Irene Toh. We traded poems back and forth in the spring of 2014. To see the poem Irene wrote go to her blog, Orange Is A Fruit

Process notes: while this poem is bound to Irene's seashore and salt air, it is also reflective of my reading Phyllis T. Smith's historical novel, I Am Livia.

Livia Drusilla was the wife of Caesar Augustus. I am at the point in the novel where it appears there will be a divorce between them due to his certainty that he must war with Marcus Antonius. She is just as certain there must no longer be any Roman civil war pretty much no matter what.

Prior to that war, not yet Augustus, Caesar Octavianus and Livia Drusilla, at least in this novel were married and loved each other deeply though she could not concieve a child with him. Since she had already borne children, the implication is that it was Caesar could not concieve.

It is a similar apparent divorce that I am writing of here. Caesar won this war with Antonius. At this point in my reading, very near the end of the novel, I am in suspense concerning Caesar and Livia. Any reconciliation is now totally in Caesar's hands.

There is a parallel to my own life. In 1969 as we returned from overseas, my step-father chose to divorce my mother after eighteen years of partnership. The children, neither of which were his had been raised. For whatever reason, though she had borne me, she always miscarried his children. There was little left between them from his perspective if not from hers, and he was desperate to have his own flesh and blood child.

My Dad's life was motivated by children. First he raised my mother's only child (me) and her sister's oldest girl child who came to us before her fourth grade (my sixth). My aunt died of a metastasized breast cancer, I believe.

My step-father resumed his bid for a PhD in Education at that point, moved to Arizona to do so, and in the process met a Southern Belle who was willing to give him a child. He finally had a late in life daughter and the privilege of watching her become a beautiful young woman before succumbing to bone cancer.

That was his third try for his PhD. He never got it. The woman he married had family money. He never needed to work for a living, though in the early years of their marriage he continued his career in School Administration.

I loved my step-father who also obviously loved me. He carried himself with an imperial mein. He chose my mother as his mate though she already had a child, and in so doing he turned from all chance to continue in a professional football career.

In those days the entry level pro football contracts were barely living wage contracts unless the player was a top star. My Dad was qualified but not a top star. In his marriage he no longer had the time or the freedom to continue. He was an offensive center and a defensive linebacker and he played one season with a San Francisco Forty Niner farm team before hanging up his cleats.

Thursday, June 11, 2015

How Some Poems Arrive



How Some Poems Arrive

This time the poem
came all aflutter after
the sun hit high noon.
It spun like leaves do.
landing in the lilly patch
beside your new green
sprites stuck ankle deep
in odd haphazard places,
you spurning straight rows
which I agreed made sense
since it was green sprites
we were growing at this time
no matter what they
said.

‎June ‎11, ‎2015 3:09 PM

Note To Self



Note To Self

It was not sunrise
after all was said and done,
more like mid-morning.
The lines are clearly
drawn on the concrete sidewalk
in green chalk, blue chalk,
even some orange
if you can believe that crap.
But you, my darling,
have donned your summer
drapes despite all my warnings
you'll soon be upside
down.

‎June ‎10, ‎2015 11:10 PM

Sunday, June 7, 2015

The Bread Line - A Magpie Tale



Image offered by Tess for this week's Magpie Tales.
Click here. Go to The Mag for the whole lineup of story tellers.

The Bread Line

Really dry hard ground
all around and no water
in the summer bowl,
and yet you got smile
on your pinkish workman's face.

Makes me wonder what
you are up to now?

As for me, I'm in the line
for hope and pork chops.

‎June ‎7, ‎2015 8:24 PM


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