The "Pillars of Creation" within the Eagle Nebula,
one of the places where the stars are born.
The longest of the Pillars is seven light years long!
Courtesy of Hubble telescope, NASA/ESA.
For the Eagle's story, go to en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eagle_Nebula
one of the places where the stars are born.
The longest of the Pillars is seven light years long!
Courtesy of Hubble telescope, NASA/ESA.
For the Eagle's story, go to en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eagle_Nebula
NO BROKEN BONES
—Jane Blue, Sacramento
Bruises turn the colors of flowers,
and signal the beginning of healing:
purple, indigo, chartreuse and pink.
She broke no bones.
The old heal more slowly.
They are not inured to pain.
The pain of loss can shoot through you
like a folded embryonic plant
opening unseen and piercing the soil.
***
Opening unseen and piercing the soil,
she broke no bones
like a folded embryonic plant.
The pain of loss can shoot through you,
purple, indigo, chartreuse and pink
and signal the beginning of healing.
Bruises turn the colors of flowers.
The old heal more slowly.
They are not inured to pain.
***
They are not inured to pain.
The pain of loss can shoot through you.
(She broke no bones.)
The old heal more slowly.
Signal the beginning of healing:
purple, indigo, chartreuse and pink.
Like a folded embryonic plant
bruises turn the colors of flowers
opening unseen and breaking the soil.
_____________________
art form
—Dawn DiBartolo, Citrus Heights
to puzzle out the meaning of a line, a painting,
their eyes narrow, stare; brows furrow.
the wheels of their minds spinning like a child’s windmill.
and in the African exhibit section, a child’s ancient toy;
presumably played with by dark, small hands
stands unmoving on display for the present to understand
across the distance of time; we’ve now, become one.
this moment of self-discovery ~ our blending.
the brothers, their own abstraction, melding into the art.
*
the brothers, their own abstraction; melding into the art,
the wheels of their minds spinning like a child’s windmill;
to puzzle out the meaning of a line, a painting,
presumably played with by dark, small hands,
and in the African exhibit section; a child’s ancient toy
stands unmoving on display. for the present to understand,
their eyes narrow, stare. brows furrow
this moment of self-discovery, our blending ~
across the distance of time, we’ve now become one.
*
across the distance of time; we’ve now become one.
and in the African exhibit section, a child’s ancient toy,
the wheels of their minds spinning; like a child’s windmill,
presumably played with by small, dark hands,
this moment of self-discovery. our blending
stands unmoving, on display for the present to understand.
their eyes narrow, stare. brows furrow
to puzzle out the meaning of a line, a painting.
the brothers, their own abstraction, melding into the art…
______________________
cliché
—Dawn DiBartolo
I don’t like poetry
that objectively describes
the landscape or a rock…
but can adjust to
the adjectives of
how a tree sways
with the breeze.
even cliché, a dance
is a dance; rhythmic
rustling movements
to a song of wind.
I don’t care
for the verbatim hike
thru mountainous incline,
but much prefer the induction
of smell, the way the rivulet
racing thru the terrain creates
the scent of dirt and wet, the
visceral taste of
it’s raging freedom.
give me the touch
of a star from millions
of miles away that can
still warm-caress my flesh;
give me the mirror-moon,
a reflection of my sorrows
and haunts; give me
blue sky as token of
limitlessness; give me
love in a bird-song
lullaby…
_____________________
a brideless wedding
(for Danny @ the bar)
—Dawn DiBartolo
with a sense of macabre,
he intoned his tale:
a groom, but no bride
no gown or veil;
no aisle to walk,
no flower girl
no pictures, no laughter,
no bouquet to hurl.
the guests all seated
each table of six,
the mother and father
looking frail and sick.
“we’re gathered today
to say good-bye,”
the mother began
with tears in her eyes,
“to my little angel
who today would be wed;
instead my darling
is sadly, quite dead.
taken before her
age did prevail;
we honor her love,
we feign this regale.
a lovely bride
she would have made,
rejoicing in planning
for this, her wedding day.
instead we toast
to her memory
and wed the sadness
of her taking leave.”
the father sat fidgeting
in a corner, out of sight,
holding back tears
with all of his might.
the groom sobbed openly,
face buried in hands;
not a dry eye remained
in the whole audience.
with each dirge, each dance,
the group’s sadness grew.
in the darkness, mother cried,
whispered sadly, “I do.”
listening to the father
recount this tale
of the brideless wedding
no gown, no veil,
I shudder with wonder,
reliving his pain,
knowing that weddings
will never be the same.
_____________________
a day of art
—Dawn DiBartolo
heard murmurs
of dissatisfaction
with the way summer
was unfolding, so I
took the boys to the Crocker
on a Sunday afternoon.
no tv, no video games,
no technology or company;
just us three.
the new wing was vast
and pristine ~ so many
exhibits, so many cultures.
the oldest eye was best at
deciphering meaning
from the contemporary,
finding the fall of man
thru sex, tv, and conformity;
the baby eye finds form
in the most abstract shapes,
naming stars in the midst of gray.
what I found was
the art given to their brown
and beautiful faces,
alight with the hope of time,
the brightness of stars
in reflection; hours
spent quietly, contently,
learning that art is in the eye
of the beholder.
_____________________
Maybe I'd like to be mistaken for a true "red head"
My auburn shades come from organic henna sold in a $6 box
I've colored my hair different hues since I was a teenager
including "new wave" as bright cherry reminiscent of "Raggedy Ann"
Now I just don't want to know if I'm grey already like was my mom
and not to copy Mom's boring shade of brown from her salon
without "highlights" like natural hair and obviously a dye job
(and I wouldn't want to be exposed to the toxic chemicals either)
when she could pick from many others in a spectrum
or even bravely bleach and go "blond"
But alas it’s just as if there were many flavors
and Mom would decide to pick vanilla so as to not get overly simulated
or violate some unspoken rules of modesty…
—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento
_____________________
WHERE RATBOY SCREWS HIS WIFE
—Patricia Hickerson, Davis
the kitchen nook where Mousie hides his cheese
the river road where Badger says his prayers
the sunset path where Cricket chirps his song
the mountain top where Goatgirl sleeps at night
the poppy field where Horsie romps and plays
the aspen tree where Squirrelly parks his nuts
the sugar hive where Beesie grabs his Queen
the alley-way where Woman plies her trade
the slimy hole where Ratboy screws his wife
***
the slimy hole where Ratboy screws his wife
the aspen tree where Squirrelly parks his nuts
the sunset path where Cricket chirps his song
the kitchen nook where Mousie hides his cheese
the aspen tree where Squirrelly parks his nuts
the river road where Badger says his prayers
the sugar hive where Beesie grabs his Queen
the mountain top where Goatgirl sleeps at night
the poppy field where Horsie romps and plays
***
the poppy field where Horsie romps and plays
the mountain top where Goatgirl sleeps at night
the sugar hive where Beesie grabs his Queen
the alley-way where Woman plies her trade
the aspen tree where Squirrelly parks his nuts
the slimy hole where Ratboy screws his wife
the river road where Badger says his prayers
the sunset path where Cricket chirps his song
the kitchen nook where Mousie hides his cheese
_____________________
SAW
—Michael Cluff, Highland, CA
I saw a palm tree wave to me
and I was happy.
I saw a snapshot of God
wearing a sweater vest, grey tie and saddle shoes
and I was happy.
I saw a blue jay
chattering up a storm
the land flooded
and he was unflappable.
I saw the rose of sharon
bloom without a blush
the thongs I place on my feet
today are a rust color
and I squirm.
I saw a fish swim backwards
into her lap
a luxury I want myself
gingham and paisley
become the both of us
and I smile and pretend to be happy.
_____________________
Today's LittleNip:
White against white
does not work well
especially a touch
of it in hair
blending badly
into white dress shirt.
—Michael Cluff
____________________
—Medusa
Some more linvillanelles today (see Seed of the Week on the b-board at the right), along with four from Dawny-D and a riff on the redhead (see Trap of the Week) from Michelle Kunert and two from Michael Cluff, plus photos of the Eagle, where the stars are born.
And congrats to some local poets for winning prizes in this year's Dancing Poetry contest: Don Feliz, Katy Brown, Laverne Frith, and a Grand Prize to Carol Frith. The Dancing Poetry dance company will set Carol's poem to music and dance on Sept. 24 at their 18th Annual Festival in the Palace of the Legion of Honor in Lincoln Park in SF. See the b-board ("More Than a Week Away") for more, or go to www.dancingpoetry.com
A view of the "Spire" within M16, the Eagle Nebula.
Courtesy of NASA/ESA
