Poet's Corner

[expat500]

Old people in the village get up early in the morning,
They walk around the rooms, smiling, opening drawers, waiting for their grandchildren and waiting for the sound of the bells.
Old people in the village are almost all innocent,
They speak the dialect, they know little about the world
they give proverbs, they offer candy to anyone standing next to them.
In the good days, the old people sit in front of the house door,
they observe how time breaks the plaster, they observe how the sun warms the past.
If they fine they complain,
they complain even more at night, in the dark when the pain envelops them between the blankets, envelops them among the wrinkles of childhood.
Oldies of the country, the best part left,
the beauty of a flame, the essence of a flower,
the scent of a place, from an era
a perfume ready to dissolve.

_______________________
Green Eyed Vincent.

 

[expat500]

 

[Ropey]

our disk retreats
a veil a certain silken sheen
an opal luminescence mother
of pearl tinge of salmon
transfusion to ashen blue
grey violet streaks a hint
of the dusk evening in our atmos
with no moon yet and waves
run rugged blue-black across
our shore verdant dark masses of sea
weed clog the sand in rows
green glass juts from
tourist behavior detritus of
civilization to our backs stacks
of concrete oblivion a balcony
door a television flickers
mute color and shadow through
curtained privacy from the heat

 

[Ropey]

The river to the sea it goes,
A fortune for the undertows,
None of this is going Hamas's way...

There is nothing left to throw,
Of ginger, lemon, indigo,
Coriander stems and rows of hay...

Strength and courage override,
The privileged and the weary sighed,
Of river poets who search out 'naivete'...

Pick up here and chase the ride,
The river empties to the tide,
All of this is coming you say...

Me, my thoughts are flower strewn,
Ocean storm, bayberry moon,
I have to leave to find my way...

I have got to find the river,
Jordan and its Mediterranean vetiver,
Run through my head and fall away.

 

[Blossom]

 

[Blossom]

 

[expat500]

 

[expat500]

Near the Wall of a House. - Yehuda Amichai​

Near the wall of a house painted
to look like stone,
I saw visions of God.

A sleepless night that gives others a headache
gave me flowers
opening beautifully inside my brain.

And he who was lost like a dog
will be found like a human being
and brought back home again.

Love is not the last room: there are others
after it, the whole length of the corridor
that has no end.

 

[expat500]

I have been alone but seldom lonely.
I have satisfied my thirst
at the well of my self
and that wine was good,
the best I ever had,
and tonight sitting
staring into the dark
I now finally understand
the dark and the
light and everything in between.
peace of mind and heart
arrives when we accept what is:
having been born into this
strange life we must accept
the wasted gamble of our
days and take some satisfaction in
the pleasure of leaving it all behind. ~Charles Bukowski

 

[the watcher]

Redneck Haiku​

Damn, in that tube-top
You make me almost forget
That you're my cousin.

Naked in repose,
Silvery silhouette girls
Adorn my mudflaps.

A painful sadness.
Can't fit big screen TV through
Double-wide's front door.

In WalMart toy aisle,
Wailing boy wants wrestling doll.
Mama whups his ass.

Unemployment's out,.
Hey, maybe I can get on
Disability.

Distant siren screams.
Dumb-ass Verne's been playing with
Gasoline again.

Flashlights pierce darkness.
No nightcrawlers to be found.
Guess we'll gig some frogs.

Joyous, playful, bright
Trailer park girl rolls in puddle
Of old motor oil.

Seeking solitude,
Carl's ex-wife Tammy files for
Restraining order.

I curse the rainbow
Emblazoned upon his hood.
God damn Jeff Gordon.

Tonight we hunger.
Grandma sent grocery money
To Jimmy Swaggart.

Set the VCR:
Dukes of Hazzard Marathon
At 9 O'Clock.

White noise, buzzing static.
Call Earl. Satellite dish
needs new descrambler.

Sixty-five dollars
And cyclone fence keeps me from
My El Camino.

In early morning mist,
Mama searches Circle K for
Moon Pies and Red Man.

 

[Ropey]

Membrane of ego that can be ruptured,
A small voice inside was not nurtured.
The child within too simply tortured,
Words of ideas uselessly butchered.

Link

 

[Ropey]

Would stolen honey taste as sweet,
if bees didn't have a sting?
If sky and sun and trees didn't meet,
would songbirds bother to sing?

 

[Blossom]

 

[expat500]

 

[Blossom]

 

[Blossom]

 

[expat500]

 

[expat500]

I have no right to call myself one who knows. I was one who seeks, and I still am, but I no longer seek in the stars or in books; I'm beginning to hear the teachings of my blood pulsing within me. My story isn't pleasant, it's not sweet and harmonious like the invented stories; it tastes of folly and bewilderment, of madness and dream, like the life of all people who no longer want to lie to themselves. ~ Hermann Hesse.

 

[expat500]

"Do not despair of life. You have no doubt force enough to overcome obstacles. Think of the fox prowling through the wood and field in a winter night for something to satisfy his hunger. Notwithstanding cold, hounds and traps his race survives. I do not believe any of them ever committed suicide."

-From Thoreau's Journal; December 13, 1857

IMAGE: "Fox in Winter" by N.C. Wyeth; from "Men of Concord", 1935.

 

[expat500]

I am sure there is something much deeper, something lasting and significant. Those who dwell, as scientists or laymen, among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life. Whatever the vexations or concerns of their personal lives, their thoughts can find paths that lead to inner contentment and to renewed excitement in living. Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is symbolic as well as actual beauty in the migration of the birds, the ebb and flow of the tides, the folded bud ready for the spring. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature-the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after
the winter. ~Rachel Carson

(Book: The Sense of Wonder [ad] https://amzn.to/3TzKX2x)

(Art: 'The Magpie', 1869 by Claude Monet)