Friday, August 12, 2011

The dvd player on my computer broke :( Not good! I can't listen to my cd's now. Time to learn how to download music. Yes, I'm old.

Time to write a poem to this song.

Tonight I will go hear Melinda Palacio read from her new novel Ocotillo Dreams, which I will do a book review on soon.

I am still working, with help on another review, and have three more to do after these two. I have to find time to write my own stuff, and of late, I've had a lot of doubt about my ability, as so many of the poems I've written lately are fragmented. I think I'll post one I'm working on for now:

The therapist has her own issues and I’m falling and rising
With the sky, a white flood of clouds,
And the world but a dream, of high wires,
And this is the day we weep for glory-less days?
I was counting trees and began to forget.
Mystic mind, and it was in the forgetting that the wound
Festered in anger, and snap, the judgment fell through cracked.
I was as a child without love, a horse without bridle,
And the bees came in droves to the flowerless bushes.
Mike smoked his cigarettes like a right,
And the heat came down today in the blue sunshine.
The therapist has her own issues and I’m falling and rising
with the night. Starlight comes home in the Rockies, high.
The boyfriend of advice left you homeless in the light.
The therapist has her own issues and we’re falling and rising
With the sky, a white unfolding of clouds,
And the earth but a blue spinning, and the blackness still
As the slow crafted words of time, and time is an artist
With stillness who watches the world move: damselfly
Banking off the breeze and what’s a blue damselfly
Or a red one? The sky is still as a dream. And we are dreaming
Each night other worlds where the rain pours and shames.
The therapist has her own issues and I forgive her and we are rising and falling
With the rotten tomatoes flying, the jester but a trickster?
We are trading tickets to too long and the poem died a steady death
With its COPD breath. And the world but a dream of mighty l8ies,
And the local rabbit dodges cars in the parking lot,
And what is it we are searching for dear? I hate how he calls me dear.
I was counting bees and remembered old photos, how the old
Once ran young and confident. And here we are for a moment
Like a bullet shot from a gun.

I feel I have a lot of work to do on this poem, but I read it at Canon Mine last night and enjoyed the open-mic there, and it's rare that I enjoy an open-mic!!!

No comments: