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I have passed this elder many times, watching others shooting, and thought, “Get near!” The beauty of an object is sometimes to be found within smelling distance; intimate with the entity.
Two take on a quote
Laura caught the line and bid me to fly. Then she soared. Awesome. Thank you, Laura.
“Life on flat land is too easy for a lazy heart.“
Charley Lyman ~ Life in Portofino ~ made this comment on my blog which inspired us to write these poems in response
Adventures with a lazy heart ~ Laura Bloomsbury
Blind at first, in a haze of love laziness
sweetly swooning and prone to the horizontal
taking tumbles into a Midsummer night’s dream*
a spellbound fairy queen, lovely fool
of the sylvan scene, more ass head
than the well-beloved – those donkeys
braying balefully for fresher blood
Then full haste to a heterotopian haven
past the headland of hiatus, headlong into frothing
tossing seas, taking up arms with plundering pirates
and sea-legged as sailors in every Northern port of call
my body keel-hauled, I walked the plank and sank
through a tangled duct of valves and ventricles
Inside the chamber of the heart, in a pulsing play
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Peace Time — a poem
“…on the barb of time.”
— Ezra Pound, Canto V
below middle C a steady rhythm steadies
turns
tunes my ache
to saline drip
not pushed
half time quarter time barbed time
week
week
week wreaked
now undone
one steady beat
birds flick from white key to black again peace
again
the piece plays along synopses
down along the chords tuned
sharp too sharply it plays
hammers dampened
keyed back to perfect
pitch rain drops
on the grand
beads on black lacquer caught
in spotlight reality
the hush rushes over the faceless crowd
and I am left
to drown under the unwritten notes.
— listening to Bill Evans, Peace Piece
High-Strung and Flimsy — a poem
“I liked the A side [of Abbey Road]…. I never liked that sort of pop opera on the other side. I think it’s junk. It was just bits of song thrown together. And I can’t remember what some of it is.”
— John Lennon, speaking to Rolling Stone
The web hangs suspended,
a disc — 33⅓ — will bounce
with prey as though dropping
down a spindle onto the table.
Seeming flimsy, it holds
together — like side 2
of Abbey Road. Eight
incomplete pieces strung
with filament that bind.
It draws you in… flies
to feast on. Inner circle,
her majesty awaits;
“…but she doesn’t have a lot to say.”
A Clinical Examination Into the Failed Biology of Our Individual Well-Beings — a poem
…and the suppuration that —
in the name of growth consistency
is forced upon us — transudes
the membrane we effectuate;
an insubstantial wall between cells.
That one in which we labor.
The adjacent, in which reality resides.
The Mirror Reflects on Its Place — a poem
Like every storm cloud before
you, I am with clear silver backed;
though my tongue, free of glint, glistens
not with honey. I eye the silver sprouts
among the brunette, thinning pate.
Wisely you spend less in converse
with me. I am without guile, speaking
plainly. What you see in me is truth.
What you carry away in your view,
however, is a matter of your moment.
When you return at the end of labor,
your glance my way may, may not edify.
What you see in me will accurately tell
the damages of the day — but not relate
a possible arc of improvement. Morning
is always bleak for those who slumber
but fitfully. Return to home seldom brings
immediate return to health and glow.
You would do well to avoid me more often.
The Whispered Stain — a poem
“One scarlet flower is cast on the blanch-white stone.”
— Ezra Pound, Canto IV
The stain, the stain, a whispered —
no, a creatured thought that crawled
from the blanketed chambers.
Too easy to follow its rhythmic flow,
ignore
questions of source, of purity, of alloy,
of intent; to trip the meanders, wave
at others oxbowed, becalmed in static
utterance — atonal life along a silent shore.
But what then?
Paddle, portage, prospect the driven
stream of unconsciousness. Seek
golden answers to unexamined
life while the stain, the strain,
the whispered petals remain.
* * *
What comes of reading Pound!
Wrung Out: the Marine Layer of My Frontal Lobes — a poem
Is it that
the Sun has absented
its office, or did
“blanket coverage”
we were offered mean
perpetually overcast skies — damn
the unended,
unending
summer of gray!
