Star Light

Star Light

orange spider, tail end of arrow’s shaft,

sends silk straight

    brings

         spring constant tally.

feet spun in time

land grounded

for flight release

of

  this

     lovely missile

into

   blue sky peace.

target appears,

  A Long Time from Now,

not yet feathered.

when hit just right

(on impact)  throws off sparks.

we will see stars tonight.

Pickacard continues for another week....

Alright Imunurians, hold onto your hats, feel the new wor(l)ds aligning as you dip your hand again into the pickacard grab bag. Gaze again at these prompts from last week and pick one to respond to in the days ahead...

Crowning Glory

I step out   barely
-- into the sky  as
the crowning glory
of all things myself
and not myself

For I find myself
within and between
and without these
wings, one of not
and one of all

Frighteningly so
at first but the lift
gathers and throws
me into the vastness
of this blue ocean

Learning to swim
in the sky of my being
and not run or flee
but fly as I am
-- crowning glory

My roots are freed
riding the currents
along with all that
once fettered me
when I looked down

Meeting these fresh
forces --alighting like
quantum treasures of
that which we Are
sharing now this Crack

Into that fabric of plane
existence shocking me
free of that pondering
wasteland --all that binds
and frets now scours forth

A Song of the unfolded
mystery of the most plain,
dry only of sorrows once
passed over and now
absorbed, dancing as Lift

Within and beneath
these transparent wings
blue as the sky clear as
diamonds polished by
the heart of hearts once
and only always free

some dialog from "Tadisch & Tungsen" cont.

Tungsen came from Norge & wears a knit green hat. He already smokes a pipe. He carries

a walking pole he carved himself. Up & down the pole are carved snakes coiled around apples.

Tadisch is intrigued.

“ Where did you get that stick?”

“I made it myself. Where can I get a cup of coffee around here?”

Tadisch without hesitation replied,

“I will take you there.”

So Tadisch & Tungsen show up at  Kranes Cafe.

“What is your name?”

“Tungsen. What is yours?”

“Tadisch with a CH. Where are you from”.

“I am from Norge” Do you live here?”

“I do. What brings you away from home?”

“I am looking for a horse. I hear there are good horses in this Undersee region.”

“We do raise good horses here. What do you want a horse for?”

“I want a horse I can ride to Turkey and then south to Damascus. I will trade the horse for   Syrian  silver jewelry.”

“That will take a special horse to make such a long journey.”

“That is why I came to Undersee to find the best horse.”

Tadisch looked at Tungsen with wonder. He took out a handkerchief and emptied his pipe

onto the cloth. Then he scraped the bowl and tapped the pipe out. He pulled a pouch of Samson from his pocket and refilled the pipe.He tapped the fresh tobacco down with his forefinger and placed the pipe back in his coat.

of this poem (unfurnished)

1. the room of this poem: i know you came here because you wanted to feel better. we all do. it's a natural response. the first refuge, the ultimate sanctuary. what happened to the velvet cushioned couch, softly sprung? where is the cozy lamplit nook? the fuzzy blanket?

2. the paper in this poem:

find the paper crumpled and then uncrumpled

pressed smooth over the edge, rubbed down

ink shaved off through these repeated launderings

is it cloth or paper      so worn smooth, translucent

if you look, you can see through me too, lighter 

than lace or gauze, thin fog made thinner by the 

fabric/paper that thins rubbed down and disappears

one word hanging in the dust of the tender fibers left

as everything passes into nothing, slowly

or quickly

that word that's left, the word in the dust that was fiber that was

words written on paper, the words that the dust of us makes

before blowing off, that's the name of this poem

unreadable, illegible, everywhere present

3. the timbre of this poem: this poem is barren. without comforts. you came with expectations, unresolved parameters, a desire to be different than you are. stop it. accept your sudden and abiding grief, how you've been destroyed. there are no soft edges here. there is no resolution. there is no comfort for you. is it just a large white space, unfurnished? there isn't even anywhere
to sit down.

IMUNURI Prompt: Pick a card

keywords: pickacard, your name, poem
Cards from Sunday writing-jam group
held by Daniel Ari in Richmond, CA

  

Call at tea time, Saturday

"Yes. This is Missus McGillicuddy."
The accent is comically crisp. "Hello,"
I reply. 
            "Hello, how are we today?"
"Passing well, thank ye." A light Irish brogue
infiltrates my own voice. Apparently,

the missus bewitches.
                                    "Pip. Pip. You know
we're having tea?"
                               "Tea with mum and grandmum?"
"Jolly good, yes. And lemon curd and scones."
"Mrs. McGillicuddy, that sounds fun."
"Tut, tut. It is! Would you like to say 'hi'

to your daughter?" 
                               "If she's willing to come
away from her wee tea." (Now I'm Scottish.)
"I miss you, daddy." Her voice has become
an impression of herself at three-ish.
Hint of tears. "I miss you, too, pizza dough."

There's a silent beat, then stiff upper lip.
"We'll be home on Sunday." Sound of a kiss.

Trading Places

Trading Places

She is not so like the other see
               nor dislike another be;
Trade one out & another in
           flavor change kick begin;
Thrill & thrust a bare excite
      skinned alive on a dark night;
Steal some of hers
                 pop them out of sight
Up & down inside cures
                        tune out the light;
Juggle one then two at once  
                      do not drop either
Watch your love grow
                       pretty in the ether
Not nymph nor girl neither
                   without end’s delight
Cheers send me off
                      & like being away
Holds you in her sway
        never lets go: all her way-    
When already tore
        keep coming back for more
Drench in drink, odds lay
    lose dollars & sense in a blink;
Held tight against no bosom
                   only melt  in fear (of)
Never  getting enough
                    from my many dear
Let none down
                         lest have to feel
How real
                               she may be.

poet’s monologue

the reason why some of us

write poems

is because

we cannot possibly hope

to strive

to achieve

the writing of dialogue. poems are about how everythingsmearsintoeverythingelse

how onething islike another.

forgive me if i was never one for smalltalk or bigtalk

or anyother kind of talk. moon dances, sky songs,

inspired by song sparrows in early spring

and the small budding clusters of pinkcreme and crocus purples

who do not announce with peoplevoice but speak in color and combination

as does poetry

this is the dialogue of nature then, how even when the sky is leaden:

the deep purple stripes of crocus low down

close to the snuffering sniffering dognose.

senses opening one to another, interbeing.

that’s a different kind of dialog, i suppose.

Overheard Outside Burger King

Could you spare a quarter of your sterile life?
A grain of salt from your pillared wife?
Could I work for one smile of your arctic face?
Or a whiff of warmth from some mythic grace?
Anything'd help: a hat of yam,
a loaf of luck, a shoe of jam,
your skull encased in a wooden cask.
Please help. God bless. I'm shrinking fast.

Clog off, odd wad. Go melt in hell.
I'm busy in my diving bell.

IMUNURI Prompt: Who says

from womenscollaborativecircle.blogspot.com

This week, write a poem that includes dialogue.

Who speaks,
why,
what is said,
how it is conveyed as dialogue...

all these variables and more are yours for play.

Post here with these keywords in your posting:
your handle, "poem," whosays

color swatch - (thing)sonnet

Form: (thing)sonnet

thingsonnet where the ends of lines are rhymes of pairs of kinds of things [green with envy and pewter candlesticks (color adjective + nouns as adjectives for emotional state); inflexible and used up both descriptors for an analogue] instead of sound rhymes. forget about syllables, I spent all week writing terrible syllable count sonnets and i give up

form: aabb ccdd eeff gg in thingrhymes

color swatch    (thing)sonnet

they told me i’d turn green with envy

but i felt more like pewter candlesticks

with wax dripping down, barren, inflexible,

a potential weapon, a cudgel, used up.

my friend says i’ve got decision fatigue

a kind of tiredness from choosing swatches. drained

by trying to make things match, cobbling

our old carpet and screen with a vintage

painting. inspiration arrives through the ten of cups

with a wide rainbow. finally, happiness.     the dozen leprachauns

a leaping led by Seamus who brought us here to this sanctuary

brighten all small fields of color and the saturations blur to bliss.

i know from the twist in my chest we’ve reached perfection;

there are a thousand rays of light coming from inside the prism (of us).

3-10-13  11:01p

Jhoom

The Naked Truth

How do I not love thee that What Is?
More ways than I know
And less even show.
I wish other than, impose a quiz:

Why would you, how could, and can you be
Something different?
Yet you are intent,
You have no concern to appease me.

And in love, again and again, I rise to thee.
Not through surrender, but simply, clearly to see

That you never argue a solitary thing
Neither happy nor unhappy
Singing out loud, sometimes snappy,
You emerge, blending it all with no effort and Sing!

gaian thriving

i feel how i am accruing,

the body that is not these cells but the place cells like these

will take life and flow away

the empress is everywhere, she never had any clothes

neither did we til this habit of hiding and lying

arose, and now soon

the demise of our species

part of me looks forward to the dissolution of flesh wrecked by time

and deception, but mostly, the release

what is the larger thing that this life is not but just the placeholder

for the process of. my life form a cellstuff  passing away

what is the feel of the feelless pattern

all our sense words are nonsense

to describe the eluctable, numinous, sensuous

oblivion of intensity/surrendered/releasing/

effortlesspeace.

i feel the clouds smiling at sunrise. which is really earthspin

momentary alignment sun earth horizon line really a curve

glad for the fireinthesun and the deep ineluctable spinofearth

the lightintheskythroughthenakedarmsofwinter smokefromneightborschimneywhispingoffinlightbreeze

i always think of ants, how a curve in the tablecloth will feel like a mountain steep

that is how we are, these insurmountables are tableclothfolds

in the greater pattern that we are just stuff passing through to make

i heavemyloadofearthlife over this moundofexperience huff

but i am also inconsequent, also the fiber of being, passing through in the sewingmachine of gaia, just a breathhumripple

baskinginmorningsun, a smallglintorfleckofblueinthelargerpainting

important,insignificant,hereandgone,thegiddyrapidsofgaiandelighting

flashinginthelargerriversolargeitisfathomlesspouringintotheevenlargermorefathmolessgalacticocean