Monday, March 31, 2014

Apples In The Light

Irene is a name derived from εἰρήνη—the Greek for "peace". Irene, Irina, Irini, Eirene, Eireni, or Ireen may refer to: Irene

Eirene: Greek goddess, traditionally the goddess of Peace. Also one of the Horae and/or daughter of Poseidon, god of the Waters.

As one of the Horae, Irene presides along with her sisters in one of two different triads of goddesses. Not only of peace, she is also the goddess of wealth. In this triad, the other two goddesses are Dike (Justice) and Eunomia (Order).

Apples In The Light

I'm no messiah!
Talk about purgatory.
I take no leap now
nor did I, I say,
puffing all up about it.

Peace: How can I show
the cotton rose clouds
what lies above my green scene?
Clouds do yearn for us.

Oh you sleek of pelt
and flash of eyes - suns and moons
adorn your twisty
ways with sweet apples,
your far curves with drops of gold
called down from heaven.

‎March ‎29, ‎2014 9:56 PM

Written to Irene's poem, Heaven Is A Beacon

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Of All The Things

Image offered by Tess for Mag 213

Wordle 154 offered by Brenda for The Sunday Whirl

Of All The Things I've Lost
I Miss My Mind The Most

I am shivering
and hoping I shall soon heal
and the rows of spots
will fade on my root.

It's all been a pack of lies.

That shining razor
was not in my pouch,
not this time, I growl.

You burst
on the scene less one
tooth (I have it here),
your tats exposed, your red shoes
gifted from heaven.

I need a damn plan.

Mending socks, that might be good.
I needs me some socks.
The moths have been in
my drawers and I found one
lying dead in there.
Overfed I guess.

Maybe not.

‎March ‎30, ‎2014 1:55 PM

Written for Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tales
and Brenda Warren's The Sunday Whirl

Saturday, March 29, 2014

William Blake, Irene, and Me

William Blake wrote:

This image is Blake's actual hand drawn work and calligraphy. It is isolated here from the middle of the page of three poems. I have seen it. You can too. Google Ah! Sunflower.

Irene wrote:

Ah, Sunflower

Would you die again, and again?
Mending that aftermath–shiver
your toes? When the bowl turned to
face the sun, then I remember.
After Blake, I followed a stream,
packed liquid gold; heavenly sill.

Mortals wish to burst time.
Do I need ask why, you fly?
Kiss upon my brow so I sigh
and root in you as if it’s
some divine plan brought to
heal this growl. Kneel I will.

I write:

Find God In Sunflowers

What were his quatrains
increased by two, two hexes
of lines. They nearly
rhyme as you call Blake
to your side to build your case
and show me my love
in spite of my rush
for the door.

I shall burst time.
I meant to do that
long before we met.
I don't fear your kiss, nor mine
but confess I fear
the hot lips of God.

‎March ‎28, ‎2014 10:54 PM

Wiki writes: William Blake (28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827) was an English poet, painter and printmaker.

Considered mad by contemporaries for his idiosyncratic views, Blake is held in high regard by later critics for his expressiveness and creativity, and for the philosophical and mystical undercurrents within his work. His paintings and poetry have been characterised as part of the Romantic movement and "Pre-Romantic", for its large appearance in the 18th century. Reverent of the Bible but hostile to the Church of England (indeed, to all forms of organised religion), Blake was influenced by the ideals and ambitions of the French and American Revolutions. Though later he rejected many of these political beliefs, he maintained an amiable relationship with the political activist Thomas Paine; he was also influenced by thinkers such as Emanuel Swedenborg. Despite these known influences, the singularity of Blake's work makes him difficult to classify. The 19th-century scholar William Rossetti characterised him as a "glorious luminary", and "a man not forestalled by predecessors, nor to be classed with contemporaries, nor to be replaced by known or readily surmisable successors".

In 2002, Blake was placed at number 38 in the BBC's poll of the 100 Greatest Britons.

Friday, March 28, 2014

The Apparition's Regret

Irene Toh wrote:

my heart went up in flames

What did you want me to say?
That we had barely touched.
That I heard a frosty roar
and all that remains becomes
an act of alchemy–grafting
grief which none called for.

That the light has come after
doused fire. My hair aflame.
Amongst the rocks and waves,
two bones, cerebral white.
He wiped my wet calves flecked
with grit. I felt whole again.

I reply:

The Apparition's Regret

That we barely touched
seems odd to me now
and the jet way's roar through glass
was not that constant.
Neither then was I
for you were too hot, all fire
and me shrinking back
from your smoky hair.
I was at a loss that time
though usually
I knew how to treat
my lovers. It's a strange thing
but I flew off. Then
the bottom dropped out
and I smacked surface tension.

‎March ‎28, ‎2014 2:10 PM

By the way, the two bones found in Irene's poem links this post back to "Malaysia Air", my previous poem.

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Malaysia Air

I So Very Much Love You

So which secretion
is yours, from ripeness and sun
and which mine from sour
grapes all in a bunch?
Can I tell the truth at last?
Or is it likely
I will fabricate
yet another cloudy light,
a foggy fable -

(Interrupted: found
in the rocks and waves within
soggy wrack, two bones.)

‎March ‎27, ‎2014 2:26 PM

The plane went down. Mystery remains. Grief remains. Almost certainly there was one lover among them all.

I may have a new writing buddy. We shall see.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

The Older Brother - 3 Word Wednesday

Three Word Wednesday

Cunning; Degenerate; Emaciated.

The Older Brother

You slipped around trees
and climbed vines to get up high
while we searched beneath.
We search urgently
because your mother screams, screams
I tell you again.
You are so cunning
for five. Already you are
a degenerate.
I would call you black
hearted and evil but you
are not old enough,
a red dwarf of a bad boy.
Still your mother screams.
She can't quit loving
your ass, but I quit, oh yes.
I have plans for you!

‎March ‎26, ‎2014 3:47 PM

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Modern Art

Tracey Emin's My Bed,
writing prompt offered by Tess

Wordle 153, thirteen words
offered by Brenda

‎Modern Art

What a job we were.

Bought the bed on sale - still cost
plenty, a warning
and a grind of course.
A natural sting response
shapes the detritus
during rival nights.

You should be so blunt
as all that broken
glass rolled down by the river
to smooth rock like forms,
green and misty shapes.
We were a good quartet.
Once. In addition to that,
you are so juicy.

March ‎23, ‎2014 1:49 PM

Written for Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tales
and Brenda Warren's Sunday Whirl

Saturday, March 22, 2014


Sacred Embrace - Jeff Kahn


We have not even
lost one hope, one sigh or snort,
one wink of an eye.
No, we have not lost
anything so important
as all that and more.
When you wash away
all sign of us this does not
matter for you are
pressed into my eyes
and I am spread all over
the house, in crannies,
in nooks, on steel hooks,
and other places you won't
ever find, ever.

March 22, 2014 9:46 PM

Friday, March 21, 2014

Resting Orders

The view from the Willamette Falls Overlook, a rest area with an inviting view but little to keep a person for long. At the extreme left across the river in this view the part of the bluff which hides the house I live in might be seen or perhaps the foreground trees cut off the line of sight too soon.

Mary Catherine Bateson (born December 8, 1939) is an American writer and cultural anthropologist. Bateson is the daughter of Margaret Mead and Gregory Bateson. Mary Catherine is a noted author in her field with many published monographs. Among Bateson's books is With a Daughter's Eye: A Memoir of Margaret Mead and Gregory Bateson, a recounting of her upbringing by two famous parents. She has taught at Harvard, Amherst, and George Mason University, among others. Mary Catherine Bateson is a fellow of the International Leadership Forum and was president of the Institute for Intercultural Studies in New York until 2010.

I saw a quotation today, penned by Bateson, that spurred me to offer this poem:

Resting Orders

It is obvious
this life is a trek from star
to star, from birthing
to dying, mostly
trackless but sometimes well paved
with awesome rest stops.
When you find places
you love please ask if you will
want to soon move on
as well as take ease.

Else please do not stop, she trilled.

Remember the tale
of the captain tied
to his mast so he could dare
the witchy voices
calling him by name.
You will never be stronger
than the last false call.
If you've mastered them
all so far you have not yet
heard that last false call.

God willing, you never will.

‎March ‎21, ‎2014 2:43 PM

I, along with so many others, encountered the work of Margaret Mead in Sociology and Anthropology classes in college. She was a pioneer in her specialties. Outside of college I became interested in Systems Theory and Neuro-Linguistic Programming, including the work which led to it and its companion speacialties, grouped together in what are called the Brief Therapies by some. You cannot spend much time in such matters without encountering and respecting the work of Gregory Bateson.

Google them and find a mountain of material. On Amazon you will easily find books they wrote. Imagine growing up with such parents, or perhaps read Mary's book.

For my part, both my parents were highly accomplished and lifted themselves out of complete obscurity into more than modest success. I suspect my mother had the drive for even more. She could have finessed her Hollywood screen test and made a movie career out of it. She told me she didn't want to sleep around, basically is why not. Apparently the casting couch was offered to her but also a required nose job. Instead she went to university and became Valedictorian of her graduating class. She shared her stage and speech with remarks by Harry Truman, who was POTUS at that time.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Migraine Weather - 3 Word Wednesday

Three Word Wednesday

Authentic; Enlist; Phobia.

Migraine Weather

Lord knows, authentic
displays of prowess are hard
to seek, much less find
these sorry ass days.

You enlist my help as if
I am so trippy
despite the crusty
ooze I have to slog back through
to get to your door.

Phobia does rule.
I saw her just the other
day ensconced on pads
of stuffed green velvet
where she was waving hot signs
in the ruddy air.

‎March ‎19, ‎2014 4:24 PM

Monday, March 17, 2014

The Small Tower - Sunday Whirl

Sorry to be late. I have no excuse. Hope you all are well.

Sometimes It Gets Too Weird

My main squeeze complains.
The wicker apple collects
too much dust and fuss
while some slack green fool
strips the city. Meanwhile those dogs
plop their poop off leash
no matter the signs
and portents.

A blue bottle
nearby seems to hold
directions within.
I maybe just make them out:
"Build the small tower
(damn budget constraints)
by the turgid drive time stream.
Force feed red Old Nick."

‎March ‎17, ‎2014 2:11 PM

Written for Brenda Warren's Sunday Whirl

Sunday, March 16, 2014

In The House Of Simon - A Magpie Tale

Feast In The House Of Simon
El Greco - 1610
Thanks for posting, Tess K., good prompt. Magpie Tales

Last Supper
(as portrayed by El Greco, 1610)

You have all come as
my calligraphy brought you,
as I requested,
and you have dressed up
for the occasion, I see.
Not much of a spread.
Nobody has loot.
The guy with the purse bugged out.
Someone spiked the wine.
Everything seems
stretched out of joint noodle like
and the news is bad.

‎March ‎16, ‎2014 4:11 PM

Saturday, March 15, 2014

An Education

I know it's not true
but I wish the face behind
my beard was someone
else's or that there was
a ripe education near
the backyard apple
where we tie the dog

We must watch for her
that she doesn't knot
herself immobile.
Her tiny moan is so lost
when she gets caught like
that, like I get caught.
Who's going to untie me,
I demand to know -
all the good that does.

Sometimes the rain hits
the bluff so hard I swear it
seems all will shatter.

‎March ‎15, ‎2014 2:43 PM

Friday, March 14, 2014

I Am Sorry Now

When coyote comes
by please tell him I'm sorry
for all that I said.
It was in the heat
of August and this is now
September and I
just don't think the same.
It's not his fault, no,
not at all. I bit off more
than I could swallow.
No wonder he got
all huffy with me, went to
the top of the hill
and lifted a howl
before he loped off to you.

September 8, 2010 10:39 PM

Thursday, March 13, 2014


Saint Christopher

Christopher means "one who bears,carries or supports the Christos" or "he who holds the Christ in his heart".

Here's the top ten baby names for 2012 and access to the Social Security Administration statistics for names in the first thousand rankings back past my birth year of 1945. I did not check to see how far back this goes but it can't go too much further back, probably to 1935 or so.


I hated my name,
I mean the one Mom called me
when I was just three.
"Tops" she would say, or
"Topper", short for Christopher.
As soon as I could
I got her to call me
"Chris" or even "Christopher"
and of course when she
had enough, I was
"Christopher", that's for damn sure.
Now computers call
me "Christophe", but not
only me. All the guys named
the same as me lose
the "r" at the end.

‎March ‎13, ‎2014 8:13 PM

From 1972 through 1995 Christopher was the second most popular (18 times) or third most (6 times) in every year according to Social Security stats for the USA. In 1945 when my mother named me Christopher, it ranked 160. Christopher rose in popularity, dipping slightly only one year on its way to second place where it held sway for a generation. Currently Christopher is ranked 23rd.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014


I climbed out that day,
out of the grave - stood upright
next to its border,
beside the tombstone
weathered and withered, ground down
by the lightning storm
that enflamed my lines,
realigned my spines and shot
its charge down center
as I sieved through mud
to find the cell rapidly
breaking its last light.
I have no idea
why the storm god pokes at me
again and again.

‎March ‎12, ‎2014 7:08 PM

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Pandora's Guardians


Goblin Secrets

The goblin named Shem
tugged on my shirt the other
day, told me secrets
he had been keeping
longer than my current life,
but if I told you
I'd have to kill you
with special sacred hooked tools
made for this purpose
by ancient goblin
smiths trained up by Hephaestus
who made Pandora.
They guard her treasure

September 7, 2010 8:25 AM

Monday, March 3, 2014

The Trek

I search as I trudge
behind this tree and past that bush
steady paced movement
up and over rocks,
me on fire to burn my dream
of hurt and the grip
of my yellow teeth
to fine and powdery ash.

Is it true? Have I
found my noble task?

The fist of my mind opens.
Perhaps soon I'll give
as the others did.

‎March ‎3, ‎2014 1:18 PM

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