Poem | |
Attached to the trees,
...of his mind’s fascination.
Caressing virgin pages
With a borrowed pen.
Trapped in a time...
...of being owned by someone.
Where freedom was only,
for the birds in the wind.
He’s heard of New York,
He’s heard of LA...
These are the thoughts,
He shares with the moon...
The humid day...
...blows dust on his face.
His father runs over,
“Get ta pickin’ boy soon!!!”
The freedom has silenced,
Reality...came back to mind.
No one’s ready for the truth he uncovered,
Not even the land...that he proudly calls home.
Freedom does exist...
Within the mind of a poet.
Not just in the sky...
Where the freedom bird’s flown.
At his father’s request,
He starts pickin’...pickin’ inspiration...
.. on desolate plantations of lies,
...of his father’s 40 acres and a mule.
Shackled to his dreams,
The wind whispers slavery’s sorrow...
Hummed by the workers abroad.
Lord, this boy’s not a cotton pickin’ fool.
Uneducated...his creations are sketches,
Poems in pictures of young boy dreams...
In the midst of slavery...he’s only a slave to his art,
And only...on the page can he run and play...
His music...is the worker’s song ...pickin’ cotton blues,
The rhythm of chains, and whistles of security afar.
For now...he sneaks off to his muse...a shade tree,
Hiding from the hot Georgian sun at bay.
While American kids ride their bicycles,
His recess is confined to his mind.
As the whistles grow farther into the distance,
It’s time for his imagination to play and run.
With bloody hands...he hums aloud,
Cooled by the un-racial breeze...caressing virgin pages...
...sketching his poems with a borrowed pen,
Under the very tree...where his forefather’s hung from...
Note: Inspired by the work of Christopher Higgins
Poem | |
Cucumbers, celery and stem-vine tomatoes
were hobnobbing with my Russett potatoes.
Pears and plums and one Georgian peach
winked at the Wisk and Snuggled the bleach.
Pretzels and popcorn and the Tostitos chips
ogled in awe as Meyer's bacon strips stripped!
Mr. Clean and Mrs. Dash espied a risqued art -
when double-clipped coupons tainted the cart!
Poem | |
Filtered through memory's lens, its lemon-sharp light,
pink bells of fuchsia softly ring a kaleidoscope swirl of sunlight,
coaxing shade from corners near the door of chequered black-and-white.
On the pastel patio scarlet splashes of geranium flame and ignite,
feather-fronds of wisteria frame the nine-pane Georgian windows,
sun-warmed stone walls are cooled and quenched by moss-soft shadows.
The house keys of childhood handed over to industrialization;
memories betrayed for financial lure, though flowers
still bloom and bow pink belled heads at memory's door.
Driving past I see the concrete encroachment, the husk of the house,
the smashed skull of the roof: broken bones of a past that recedes;
fettered and netted in ivy ropes, foundering under weeds.
Poem | |
What is my conception of love?
Now that I let me straw hat rest
On the rocks of Moses’ teachings
Now that I behold robins pick my seeds
What is my conception of love?
Love is an old cotton Djellaba
I wear early sometime in December
When Goethe’s muse rambles alone
The deserted Georgian streets of Borjomi
Eliza found a perennial Canadian love
Probably in the wings of a broken dove
She tends to it by late May rosewater
Sadly, she shuns the idea of a second abandonment
You know that I know that nothing remains the same
Not even my grandmother’s sesame candies
Let me just sip alone those cups of rusty mirage
My brown Turkish beret shall rest alone
On the broken trim of a shaded window
Overlooking a battered copy of Truth and Method
Poem | |
The crisp evening air whispers into the ear of the artist- announcing that the oh so brief season of Summer draws near it's end. Summer's end brings forth the beginning of yet another season of wonder- known simply as Fall.
Also known as Autumn it comes forth in full force accompanied by it's array of roasted toasted shades of red, yellow and orange. The vibrant Fall colors inspired the "Group of Seven" time and time again to pick up their brushes and palettes all in hopes of capturing even but a small piece of this season of wonder built on roasting hot colors created by none other than "Mother Nature" herself.
The "Group" tried to paint many pictures of this natural beauty before time ran out on this glorious season of fiery colors. Paint brushes worked feverishly against the many canvas- each trying to capture the "Indian Summer" with it's palette of warm cozy colors.
Suddenly the Lone Loon called out- his black siloette piercing the rays of the moon sitting atop of the dark water better known as "Georgian Bay" to some. His farewell call announces to all that the time has come to put down their brushes and ready themselves to head back to the cities of gray from whence they came.
Comfort comes to all in thoughts to the future in which they will return to these sacred waters to be greeted once again by the call of the Lone Loon. Pulling out their tools of trade yet again with the desire to try once more in capturing hold of the fiery colors of this season that always seems to elude them! Each and every time the "Group" returns to this land of natural beauty it never ceases to take their breaths away.
Putting Brush to Canvas they try to take hold of the essence of the Northern Autumn.
Alas all the time knowing that copies will never compare to the original work of art- better known as "Mother Nature's Northern Masterpiece" to all that bestow it!
Poem | |
Restoring far-off times,
With stilted, Georgian rhymes,
He tried repealing Fate
Two centuries too late.
And when he saw the worth
Of poems dead at birth,
He turned his pen to write
Strange fantasies at night.
Then when the morning came,
He signed his unknown name.
To one more priceless page
Forgotten by his Age.
Forgotten, all except
For friends who paid their debt
By publishing him till
His fame no Fate can kill.
Poem | |
At Cafe Bacho
This evening we sat in Cafe Bacho on King George street after
House of the Flying Daggers
The most poetic film I ever saw
And I sank into a romantic triangle
which is not possible with this bizarre
waitress with a chopped hair-cut
I said to her
that she is special
So are you
Then I reminded my ex-husband that a sentence can lie within another sentence
He used to hold my hand with courage for courage's sake
Tears fell down my cheeks and sank in the jasmine tea,
which the waitress
Maybe it’s she who really made me cry
She seemed like a Christian Georgian woman in a homely pub in Tbilisi
The cushions are over here
You mentioned that Erez called and didn't mention me
He got burnt
Not a word about
I said that I also thought about him
I said that Oren called
And you explained how she died a mysterious death she the poetess
Who went after anyone who wanted her
An investigation won’t bring the words back
I spoke with a free spirit
But the butterfly didn't fly
translated from Hebrew:
Poem | |
I saw you in a dream before we met
I saw a golden radiance emanating from your silhouette
Woman in white-
Blessed with the gift of healing and sight
With a pondering gaze, I saw the real you-
Southern Comfort-through and through
You are made of daisies and sunshine-
A Georgian Goddess that makes men drool- then stand in line
You are of the light-
An illumination that guides one through the starless, moonless night
While in your presence time flies-
A ripple in the cosmos that opened my eyes
Raise me up and I will raise you
I will show you my repertoire and quaint worldview
I see you and feel you-
Like redemption after slumber that is confirmed with the morning dew.
Through a psychic tunnel we exchange thoughts and feelings at light speed.
Off to new horizons; I will follow- if you lead.
Poem | |
Thick cloudy sky filled with tears__woe
Crying at the swiftly passing era
No more old generation__new day
The passage into a modern time
A time all its own with difference
Whole set of problems separates it
From times that have gone by but yet__same
History tends to repeat itself
Demise of Hotel Upson brought thought
A time of reflection to many
To some joy that ugly eye sore__gone
Others landmark history removed
Today in America there is
A church or more on every street
Evil, lawlessnes, drugs on the beats
Gangs, violence, road rage, and much more
It seems times like when the Hotel raised
Back in Nineteen twenty eight are gone
A simple time when families, friends
Was an important part of the plan
That hotel was built solid and strong
Built to withstand the test of hard times
Who would have thought its hey-day would end
With a track-hoe beating its walls in
Its architecture was a simple
Design Georgian Revival Style of
Red brick trimmed in limestone best in day
Had a ballroom, elevators, air
No matter it is no longer there
Gone forever to C&D landfill
No even sold to reuse the parts
That made it the best in its day__gone
Poem | |
There's inspiration in a leaf, the sun
the sky, a newborn baby's hungry cry,
the politics of men, the art of zen;
it's in his eyes, the robin tugging worms
that brings us spring, an empty backyard swing,
the price of gas, the passion of a soul
who's reaching out for dreams that never come
guilt free; a single rose, a mother's grief
for sons and daughters lost before their time,
your friends and mine, the coupled grace that dwells
where hearts know love, the cooing of a dove,
in winter's white-washed face, an eddy's spin,
the colors ending summer's shading green,
in haunting longings that deny a face
its smile; it's in the quest for inner peace,
loblolly Georgian pines that carry tunes
of singing frogs that brings your mind back home;
you'll find it in a bite of birthday cake,
your father's wake, a graduation's pomp
and circumstance, the solitary dance
of someone's loneliness and private tears,
the hell from raging fears; it's in the wind,
the moon and evening stars, and in the end,
it's essence is the breath of memory.
In life is where a poet finds his words.
Poem | |
I hold three magic rocks, in my hand
Rolling them over and over and over
Leaving this reality behind, far behind
Standing alone again.
Elated by a false sense of freedom,
Paths before closed spaces.
If I were to jump,
Where would I be caught?
Surely not here.
Intoxicated by green,
Tired by my sycophantic nature,
Spidder-webbed within my own self-worth.
Captured by the flashes of occasional spirits.
In death where are we lead?
Exhaling for the last time,
Remembering clearly those very first steps.
Boxed up tightly,
In quiet hums under Georgian trees.
Gathered like dust,
And flushed maybe, amongst the West coast smog?
I look back,
Over years that had fallen and passed.
Back towards you,
To the bedroom where we both lay.
I shall stay here,
Inhaled in your arms.
As you exhale,
I step inside you a while,
Eyes shut and feeling for comfort.
But you do not see me,
I am just a distant memory.
Stepping back out,
Engulfed by the moment.
While you unwind,
Look for emotion:
It's unfounded here.
Where we became lost,
Like so many souls that passed before.
Left to rot upon these beaten paths,
Watching as they take on new rhythms.
Splits turn to deeper cuts.
As these woods they had once found me in,
Become distancing seas,
Unforgiving flows of water,
Bonds and clutches broken.
Swirls of confusion prevent jumping,
As I rush to the edge and then stop,
Toes clutched tightly,
Balanced by a backwards glimpse.
So scared of racing on alone.
Will there ever be another welcoming?
Or did you already outstay yours?
When I awake, where will I be?
Unsure, I'll just climb down.
Running on without you.
For one thing is sure,
Where you are found,
I shall fall.
Poem | |
This Regency Dandy flying across the river,
Jumping Jack Flash of kingfisher blue that
I was lucky t see, this dainty dandy of English rivers and streams.
A compact colourful apparition my sore eyes waited some
Sixty years to see, others boast much earlier visitations of these
Bluish-green, orange and red feathers attached to a Cyrano De Bergerac
Outshining the honking harrying flotillas of Canada geese not capable of
Competing with this fisher of minnows, as we strolled across the Georgian
Bridge at Blatherwycke straddling the nonchalant flowing Nene of this
shire of shires,
Now of only one squire, but still many fine spires in this shire of Northampton.