Vain Daydream
and in mirrors
and on reflective surfaces
like faces of those I've known forever,
there appears starlight
shining in sudden halo bursts,
and hands madly clapping
and teeth a'gleaming
lips peeled back to their limits
and overwhelming awe
and rapturous, thunderous admiration
washes over me like so much water...
Monday, February 2, 2009
From Rachel
The Near Miss of Anna Kiss
I almost met you
tonight at the water park
but you did not come
-From Rachel of Almost Always Hungry... presumably on my absence from the Unschooling Conference.
I almost met you
tonight at the water park
but you did not come
-From Rachel of Almost Always Hungry... presumably on my absence from the Unschooling Conference.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Day One - anna kiss
The Road Home
snow blankets Gandhi's head and shoulders
in his iron-clad march
through Roosevelt Park,
blue and red lights of police
picking up a stolen vehicle
bounce wildly silent
off the stone bridges and various bronzed busts,
and long-bare branches begin to loosen
as the temperature warms slightly,
introducing a brief respite in winter's onslaught.
we make our way along the curving road
our eyes tired and our throats aching
with too much talking
and too many awake hours
the journey is but a pause from week end
to week beginning
our already too-tired hearts
will once again weary themselves
under the burden of daily chores
and daily struggles
the making of bread, beds, dreams,
and the dismantling of sibling drama
the boys restless, in need of space
for snowmen and icicle collecting
to break this hibernatory ritual
these weeks trapped under snow
and beneath the frigid moods
of parents caught in the snare
of work and life and the pressing ever on,
to home and back again,
from the grown-up escape
of long nights of
talking, drinking, talking.
and this steady unraveling of time,
this road passing February
out from under us.
snow blankets Gandhi's head and shoulders
in his iron-clad march
through Roosevelt Park,
blue and red lights of police
picking up a stolen vehicle
bounce wildly silent
off the stone bridges and various bronzed busts,
and long-bare branches begin to loosen
as the temperature warms slightly,
introducing a brief respite in winter's onslaught.
we make our way along the curving road
our eyes tired and our throats aching
with too much talking
and too many awake hours
the journey is but a pause from week end
to week beginning
our already too-tired hearts
will once again weary themselves
under the burden of daily chores
and daily struggles
the making of bread, beds, dreams,
and the dismantling of sibling drama
the boys restless, in need of space
for snowmen and icicle collecting
to break this hibernatory ritual
these weeks trapped under snow
and beneath the frigid moods
of parents caught in the snare
of work and life and the pressing ever on,
to home and back again,
from the grown-up escape
of long nights of
talking, drinking, talking.
and this steady unraveling of time,
this road passing February
out from under us.
New York, New York, New York
(2-1-09)
I want to scream I'm here
I want to run up to strangers
strangers in coats
strangers all alone
strangers in groups
strangers with dogs
strangers with children
I want to run up to the couple across
the room and interrupt their
making-out session
say I have arrived!
I am alive!
I can breathe again
(instead I wait to order coffee)
this server is chic in her black-night
native New Yorker vision
she doesn't know what she's got
she moves to this rhythm
she possesses this energy
without effort, without recognition
smugly
she is so cavalier
throws it over a chair
like one too many furs
ahh, how she lives my fantasy
without the relish I would
without letting it linger
on her tongue
like i would,
without pulling it up to her chin
and rocking
and rocking
and rocking
I have arrived
I am here - here - here
and for this moment
now
I pull on New York
like skin.
ksaint
I want to scream I'm here
I want to run up to strangers
strangers in coats
strangers all alone
strangers in groups
strangers with dogs
strangers with children
I want to run up to the couple across
the room and interrupt their
making-out session
say I have arrived!
I am alive!
I can breathe again
(instead I wait to order coffee)
this server is chic in her black-night
native New Yorker vision
she doesn't know what she's got
she moves to this rhythm
she possesses this energy
without effort, without recognition
smugly
she is so cavalier
throws it over a chair
like one too many furs
ahh, how she lives my fantasy
without the relish I would
without letting it linger
on her tongue
like i would,
without pulling it up to her chin
and rocking
and rocking
and rocking
I have arrived
I am here - here - here
and for this moment
now
I pull on New York
like skin.
ksaint
And we're off!
Welcome one and all to February 1st. If you're not watching The Super Bowl, I assume you're all busy writing poetry. As well you should. And I hope you're all off to magical starts, full of eloquence and ease as you capture your experience or turn a phrase to consider sweaty men tossing about pigskins.
One participant this year has announced that all her work will be through Twitter, thus limiting her poems to 140 characters. This may turn out to be a radical use of technology to create new trends in poetry. We could do whole collections of Twitter art, and I'm sure before long coffee table books will come out doing just that. So you go, girl. Do it.
And thus I extend the same phrase to all of those participating. Go! Let your fingers run across pages and keyboards and QWERTY-equipped cell phones! Let the words and phrases drip slowly and quickly and haphazardly from your brain and long-fingered hands! Be rash and bold and wild! Be onomatopoeic! Write poetry and let poetry write you!!!
One participant this year has announced that all her work will be through Twitter, thus limiting her poems to 140 characters. This may turn out to be a radical use of technology to create new trends in poetry. We could do whole collections of Twitter art, and I'm sure before long coffee table books will come out doing just that. So you go, girl. Do it.
And thus I extend the same phrase to all of those participating. Go! Let your fingers run across pages and keyboards and QWERTY-equipped cell phones! Let the words and phrases drip slowly and quickly and haphazardly from your brain and long-fingered hands! Be rash and bold and wild! Be onomatopoeic! Write poetry and let poetry write you!!!
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