Feel Free to Read

Canvas Hearts

2012-02-14T17:14:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from brian

Canvas Hearts

Four score and seven years ago
our fathers brought forth on this continent,
a new nation,

conceived in Liberty,
and dedicated to the proposition
that all men are created equal---

but we know thats not true
and this aint a size thing, not what you do
before but after the ring, yeah
script fliped when the lips tripped with 'i do'
and don't, soon as you get home
once hot, now---heh, guess not,
romance, a body that needs exhuming
to search for evidence of its existence---
yeah rome is burning,
all heat consumed by ashes,
leaking like ceasar, perpetrated by cassius

clay could rope a dope but when you won't swing
you got no hope and'll kiss the canvas mat
1-2-3 now ten count, yeah you out---what's that,
laid back on the couch,
getting while the gettings good
---then you passed out
snore a dull roar, yeah boy
you got a pretty mouth
& a silver tongue, enough to seal the deal
but what you got
when it comes undone

Four score and seven years ago
has it really been that long since
you last tried to woo
instead'a just expecting her in the bedroom,
St Valentine's a martyr, so one day a year---
you can try harder, it's the Hallmark &
you been carded,
yeah this is a song for the broken hearted,
it's time to leave Egypt, water's parted,
don't know bout you
but my love needs more than 24 hours
they say the dandelions a weed not a flower
who we got to model the role, but our fathers
but then again, ain't all men created equal
and there's a reason her answer is two advil
ooo how bad's that feel, you can deny
but it's mad real

Time to plant the flag in this hill,
nah not like that,
but this, a new nation of understanding what
love is, not a one day plan
from a one night man,
in a one minute stand,
where ladies got no reason
to say "you mean that's it?"---damn,
time to grow up boy be a man,
open your ears, and don't skip
dedicate to a proposition
romance is a life style, not position,
once more back to Lincoln
cause---

In the end, it's not the years
in your life that count.
It's the life in your years.

Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #21 over at dVerse Poets-OLN31

Is It Chemistry Or

2012-02-14T15:00:00.000-08:00

image by yi ching lin

is it chemistry or

is it chemistry or
biology that draws
them here
every morning,
two by two,
on the banks of our
lake, like young
trespassers
in love
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Kitten

2012-02-14T13:10:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Kitten

spooned by fullness,
I tremble

smocked in sweat,
crumbs, and
remembrance—
slaps and caresses
of snipped
mental replay

ambushed
by burbling thoughts,
I curl up and filter myself
until silt
settles
down

at the bottom
of an angry rhubarb river

raging love-blood in flux
quashed by quiet soothing
breeze

blind and folded,
I lap some milk and
purr myself to sleep

sweet little calico
kitten

Shawna McAllister

Posted on her site Rosemary Mint
Listed as #53 over on dVerse Poets-Open Link Night 31

Plain

2012-02-13T12:26:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

PLAIN

in memory, Bob Burlingame

If he had been
a creature on
an endangered list,

he might have been
a blackfooted ferret
nestled

beneath a gnarled
hackberry stump creekside
off the plains of Kansas,

or the plainest of plover
only found rarely
in a high canyon

deep in the Guadalupes
under the white peak
of El Capitán -

ancient reef
overlooking the salt flats
of West Texas.

He becomes a joshua lizard,
dry weeds, yellowood,
rooster, fish, beaver, finch,

blue milkwort, wild cherry,
sandhill crane, turkey vulture,
sunflower, shark, dandelion,

portuguese man-of-war,
sycamore, mountain laurel -
all that sing in solitude.

Gene Keller

Posted on Bobby Byrd's site White Panties and Dead Friends

Pollock by Namuth

2012-02-13T12:09:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Pollock by Namuth

He was drunk
He was nasty
Many knew
We young ones didn’t
He looked great
Brooding in denim
Cigarette between long fingers
On the running-board
Of his beat-up Model-A Ford
On the Evergreen Review cover
Names of heroes
CAMUS
BECKETT
SOUTHGATE
O’HARA
He’s not the same now
You grow up and adjust
You want the old feeling
It’s still there but not
To be trusted…well,
It’s not for him anyway
But for that world when
You didn’t have to know
What you know now

William Corbett

Posted over at Bobby Byrd's site White Panties and Dead Friends

Adolescence Waits

2012-02-13T11:57:00.000-08:00

image by yi ching lin

adolescence waits

adolescence waits –
a recipe for layered
apathy and
distraction, with
two shakes of
homegrown patience
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Love Crumbs

2012-02-13T11:31:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from flickr

love crumbs

you – not you -

me – with -

without you;

some words…
like crumbs,
stick to my feet,
dragged along,
snipping at silence,
his “not-like-love”
ambush my thoughts
much before zenith;
a slap from reality
or reality slapped on me -

you – me – us

no more – still …

Lady Nimue

Posted over on her site Pages from my Mind

Love is Blind

2012-02-13T10:32:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Love Is Blind

There is nothing trifling about Valentine’s Day,
born blindfolded in the blood of martyrs
as Roman emperors quashed romantic
relationships, passing laws ordering young men,
in the fullness of their sexuality, to remain single,
to tremble only for battle as legionnaires,

but Saint Valentine understood that love
was never endemic as he made matrimonial
chimes ring softly, secretly, yet was unable
to quell the sweet burbling from reaching the
royal ears of Claudius II, who had Valentine
arrested and imprisoned;

legend has it that on the eve of his execution,
the fledgling saint sent a hand-written card
to the blind daughter of his jailer, signing it
as her Valentine, and though stillborn, this
affection healed her blindness.

It was of course Geoffrey Chaucer in 1382
who spoon-fed the aristocracy romantic rhubarb,
and this courtly influx of love-snippets led
steadfastly to the canonization of fat cherubs
who ambushed couples with their love-darts,
roses, and chocolate confections, propelling
love to a zenith of popularity within America
in 1847 as embossed paper lace cards became
mass produced.

As for me, even though I know love can bitch-slap
you senseless, can even lead to madness, still
I find myself joyfully tithing to the mewing gods
of hallmark, while recalling my Shakespeare:

Tomorrow is Saint Valentine’s Day,
all in the morning betime,
and I am a maid at your window
to be your valentine.--Ophelia.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #1 over at Monday Melting-Week 6

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Unhitched, the Yellow

2012-02-12T14:19:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Unhitched, the yellow
caboose cried out
for the mother train.

It Seems That Crosses

2012-02-12T14:14:00.000-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

It seems that crosses
everywhere think they
are sunflowers.

When a Plow Retires

2012-02-12T14:09:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

When a plow retires
it seeks out
a stout tractor tire.

Swing Your Bale

2012-02-12T14:05:00.000-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Swing your bale
up, Bob, there's
lots of space.

My Other Car

2012-02-12T14:00:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

My other car
is a classic
Cadillac.

Old Chevys Make

2012-02-12T13:56:00.000-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Old Chevys make
excellent homes for
errant maple vines.

The Seven Cables

2012-02-12T13:50:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The seven cables
perfected a new knot
of fellowship.

A Peek Over the

2012-02-12T13:45:00.000-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

A peek over the
palace parapet reveals
another castle corner.

Black Silk

2012-02-12T13:29:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Black Silk

Swallowed in sin
bereft of moral decency
all inhibitions stripped
black silk like quicksand
left and right,
she tries to turn away
resist the undying urge
no one else understands
until Lady Godiva spreads
her cunning charms on them
they can't resist temptation
after that first luscious taste-
Death by Chocolate; today's splurge,
tomorrow's repercussions
forgotten.

Laurie Kolp

Posted over on her site Conversations With Laurie
Listed as #38 over on Magpie Tales 104

Fallen

2012-02-12T13:17:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Fallen

Tempted –

ivory beacon
in an
ebony
void.

Consumed –

another
angel
falls.

Mark Windham

Posted over on his site Awakened Words
Listed as #39 over at Magpie Tales 104

Black & White

2012-02-12T13:05:00.000-08:00

image by DrJOnes

Black & White

There was a time she would have been
sent away to live with a distant relative,
some school of reform, labeled crazy
or even burned at the stake---

They, being inferior, would hang
by the throat with rope,
dancing beneath the trees
until their tongues lolled,
or roasted on spit---

In preservation of what?

We've come a long since---
right?

Is it always black & white?

Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #37 over on Magpie Tales 104

Ebony Orchid

2012-02-12T11:33:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Ebony Orchid

Cataleya was raised as a very proper
Southern belle at a time when
the coloreds had to use separate entrances,
drinking fountains and bathrooms.

Then she attended college at UCLA
during the birth pangs of civil rights,
and without the tether of inherited
racism

she discovered black lovers,
jazz, the blues, and the back
of the bus.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #28 over at Magpie Tales 104

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

In Flight, We Appear

2012-02-12T11:05:00.000-08:00

image by yi ching lin

in flight, we appear

in flight, we appear
fairly different from
one another – judging
by the wingspan,
the beat of our
song, the pattern
of colors against
the sky. when
falling, however,
we appear
just like the last –
a memory, a shot
in the dark, one long,
colorless flutter
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Cup of Divine

2012-02-12T10:58:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Cup of Divine

french-vanilla splash
pool of espresso God-shot
angels diving in

Shawna McAllister

***God-shot: the ultimate espresso—
a singular experience that is so incredibly heavenly,
it seems only God could have done the blending

Posted over on her site Rosemary Mint
Listed as #12 over at Magpie Tales 104

Morning's Pardon

2012-02-12T10:45:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Morning’s Pardon
•
fallen into night’s embrace
held down by dark shadows
I writhe in the arms of nightmare

would that I could rise
into the light of dawn’s nod
but I’m flesh, weak, consumed by flesh

purity laid raw entangled in my sin
skin to skin with my obsession
restrained to roil in my transgressions

but soon the light of mourn
will fold itself upon me pardoned
to pray I not be too far drawn asunder
• • •
rob kistner © 2012

Posted over on his site Image & Verse
Listed as #5 over at Magpie Tales 104

Godiva

2012-02-12T10:30:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from tess

Godiva

My mouth rides
the escalator,

releases the beast.
I rise from my socks,

leave my clothes
on the mezzanine,

settle on a pair
of God's holy trousers.

Valentine's is a reason
to buy myself a box.

tess kincaid

February 2012

Posted over on her site Life at Willow Manor
Listed as #3 over on Magpie Tales 104

Parting Shots

2012-02-11T18:54:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

PARTING SHOTS

1

Long, confident sentences
of the early visitors,

so unlike ours,
so much like one another,

remark
on the sculpted “grandeur”

of the walls,
and then, with one light touch,

on the bracing sense
of insignificance

that they impart.

2

Behind the only wall in sight,
the defamiliarized wall,

a sniper
tells a camera crew

his work is “invigorating”
because it’s “personal.”

Rae Armantrout

Posted over on Poems & Poetics

Formal Constraints

2012-02-11T18:50:00.000-08:00

painting by boris vallejo

FORMAL CONSTRAINTS

Now the poem
is saying
what it is forced to say
by its history, its form
thus pleasing the reader
who knows he can trust it
without being obliged
to regard
any statements it may make
as accurate
or “true.”
The poem is ridding itself
and us
of the burden
of abstraction –
a valuable service.
Still
a question arises
as to how
to dispose of the poem
once this divestment
is complete.

Rae Armantrout

Posted over on Poems and Poetics

Music Lover

2012-02-11T18:40:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Music Lover

Music has been with me
on bright days and dark nights.
It’s better than a dog because—
contrary to “American Pie” by Don McLean--
it never does die.

My whole my life I’ve loved music
the way a man might love a woman.
Our relationship has been at times
mood-altering, gentle and tender,
rough or passionate, sometimes angry,
loud, clashing, soft again, sweet,
screeching like a cawing bird, twanging,
thumping, pounding, heart-fisting,
symphonic, shimmering, serene.

And music is like muscle memory.
There’s music for every mood, every emotion.
It can set you up, take you out at the knees.
It can be one of the best parts of your day.
For instance, when you’re angry or edgy,
there’s no better remedy than playing
“Bulls on Parade” by Rage Against the Machine,
and playing it so loud
that your windshield shudders.

I once heard Tony Bennett say,
“Without music, life wouldn’t be worth living.”
While that sounds a little severe,
he’s not far off the mark.
Music is a treasure too easy
to steal or take for granted.
Music is a blessing, bliss.
It’s been with me longer than any friend.
So, I’ll tell you straight away,
without even a twinge of embarrassment--
I’m in love, and there will be no separation.

Len Kuntz

Posted over on Murder Your Darlings

The Rules of Physics

2012-02-11T18:20:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

the rules of physics

the rules of physics
have nothing
to do with staying
or going – there
may be some
stretching
involved – and
regret, like
everything else,
ages,
crumbles,
decays. it’s
more chemistry
than anything
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Anthem

2012-02-11T11:13:00.000-08:00

painting by marcia baldwin

Anthem

Some of us awaken with the music
already playing, and it is up to us
to create the lyrics fresh as the dew,
to be wordsmiths before squeezing
the citrus, before brewing the beans,

chained, cajoled, forced to respond
to the poet’s anthem, to be on the hunt,
reaching childlike for the fireflies, needing
to snare the illusive words and icons
that swirl in the ionosphere
of the voltaic flow, that raging river
of resonance residing just beyond
our naked pejoratives or praises,
our next odd-shaped piece of the cosmic
puzzle, liberating the language of the soul,
letting the angels whisper honied phrases
in our hearts, the messages clarion:

kiss those brilliant butterflies captured
in your gentle fists, let those lubricious
wings flutter velveteen on your wet lips,
then set them free, fueled with love
so that many others can share in
their unique beauty.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #3 over on dVerse Poets-Philosophy

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Triquetra

2012-02-10T09:57:00.001-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Triquetra

delicate blisters
mismatched sisters
sullen bitches
dirty ditches
wind chimes chisel
spite like drizzle

niggardly fuses
purple bruises
sharp claw catches
red raw scratches

separate banners
distant manners
fifty paces
private spaces
arms-length siblings
minor quibblings

motherhood mellows
nervous hellos
wary half-smiles
belly laugh lines

delicate blisters
mismatched sisters
forgive trespass
healing times pass
fondness floods eyes
timeless blood ties

Carys Poet

Posted over on her site Rockpool Poetry

Bi-Polar

2012-02-10T09:42:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Bi-Polar

The bedlam of the storm
has passed,
reduced to a drizzle,
leaving steaming sidewalks,
doused emotions.

I study the details to kill
some time -
the tree resin that
sparkles when wet,
the beveled edge of
porch column bases,
the plush feel of the
seat cushion.

I imagine how the ripe
peach felt as the deluge
forced it from its limb
to hurtle its way to earth.
Or a child avoiding the lash,
hoping anger will rectify itself
before turning on his flesh.

How much time should elapse
for a bout of hysteria to pass?

The hush from inside indicates
a sense of calm…
much like prey must feel
being hypnotized by
the slithering reptile.

Risky to enter,
more so to leave
her alone.

Mark Windham

Posted over on his site Awakened Words

Breathtaking

2012-02-10T09:34:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

“Breathtaking”

plush pillow skin,
pale—winter peach
ripe
for drizzling

lash-clap hypnosis

elapsed bedlam hush

injected, hysteria
suspended—air hanged

by reptilian ropes,
paternal,
knotted neck-tie
yokes

doused in heptane resin,
burn-rushing shame

interruption voided,
skin ash
dirt returned

Shawna McAllister

Posted over on her site Rosemary Mint

Sorrow Shelved

2012-02-10T09:24:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

sorrow shelved

sorrow shelved
is a funny thing –
it does not collect
dust, and no spider
leans a corner of her
home against it

out of the corner
of the eye, sorrow
appears
pristine, newly
polished, easily,
too easily,
within reach

i am not ready
i am not prepared
i am a sliver of
myself, approaching
another anniversary
of our loss, not whole
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

1 Quilt Piece

2012-02-09T17:19:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

1 quilt piece

1 quilt piece
1 quilt peace
take a river spool of thread
sew it under moonlight then
add another in the day
when you're safely stowed away.

Lucas Smiraldo

Posted over on his Twitter Wall

Radio Daze

2012-02-09T14:37:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Radio Daze

Some of us recall the mass hysteria
of a large portion of the radio audience,
that real bedlam in peachland, that stupefying

hush as Orson Welles realized the hypnotic
effect this script had on the public once
the fictional drama had elapsed;

as frightening
as a reptile in the bedsheets,
as a complete dousing with raw kerosene,
as being caught in a caustic drizzle of acid,
or being stabbed with a beveled blade
trapped in resin-like fear;

so once the farce was revealed, Welles
was dragged from his plush studio,
only avoiding the lash after he rectified
things with his mellifluous apology.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Posted over on

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Flesh and Stone

2012-02-09T11:53:00.000-08:00

image by glenn buttkus

Flesh and Stone

Enshrouded in gray-green ebony,
with the wind off the Sound
caressing the clipped grass,
shaking the sweet dew bubbles,
she rests, buried below the turf,
hearing the terrible song of jets,
the thunk of smoky diesels, several
tears rolling down shaven cheeks,
soft footsteps echoing in the nothing;
lying fallow, yet aware, like a tall tree
in a thunder storm, that the force
is stirring and lightning is imminent,

as the visitor kneels in the verdant
thatch long-nourished by maternal
marrow, clutching a wildflower bouquet,
swathed in blue-black seaman’s wool,
close-cropped hair hidden beneath
clean white canvas, his name stenciled
inside it--as if she would not recognize
him, somehow, even though they had
had their militarious way with him;

eyes hardened in hell are softened
by the reverse pieta as the boy who
had been twisted into a man, untwists,
his calloused hand reaching out
to touch stone.

A loving finger caressed the cold copper name,
the curves, length, and breadth of it;
silence and sunshine, with nothing moving
on the earth, as the raucous roar of planes,
the drone on the freeway, the hip-hop low riders,
the children on playgrounds, the mourners
nearby, all are stilled, while soft flesh
rubbed affectionately against rigid rock
making no noise.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #108 over on Magpie Tales 103

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Schnittke's Stone

2012-02-09T11:02:00.001-08:00

image borrowed from Tess

Schnittke's Stone

You showed me
a song among
the uncut hair
of Russian graves,

a simple stave
juxtaposed quiet
against a frenzy
of rough granite,

sufficient polystyle
for long wild runs,
miniscule breaths,
ever-present ghosts,

his puberty rights
relinquished
in loud silence
prolonged.

tess kincaid

February 2011

Ebay-Inspired

2012-02-09T10:44:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from Jannie

Ebay-Inspired

So, we tap on weird little things called computers
to buy stuff we’ve never seen from people we’ll most
likely not meet until at least year 1, 459, 397, 682.

Kinda like in the days of butter artisans when Hilda,
Dot and Mary Katherine with their silver silk bustles
a-swishing, didst order from les grands catalogs.

Gold hair clips often. And mirrors made from melted sand
and the dust of wind-whipped chariots of uncorseted desire.
And seeds, oh yes – seeds whose children keep on singing.

Jannie Funster

Posted over on her site Jannie Funster

Before Music Became

2012-02-09T10:25:00.000-08:00

image by yi ching lin

before music became

before music became
portable, it could tickle
the toes, pull on our
skirts, tease our rhythms,
and make small talk
with memories. it is
no small wonder then
that we pack the trains
every morning, side
by side, plugged in,
absorbed, seeing
without looking
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

There is So Much

2012-02-09T10:21:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from flickr

there is so much

there is so much
promise in the
simple readiness
of a pair of
shoes, primed
for confidence,
aged for
comfort. in
between the steps
we take and
the steps we
avert, there is
unswerving
allegiance in
every landing
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Waiting

2012-02-09T09:03:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Waiting

Rain, rain, it's raining
in the South Sound,
and the gentle rapping
on my temples
bathes my pain,
as I ready myself
for the next sun break.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

When a Sprinkler

2012-02-08T16:59:00.000-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

When a sprinkler
becomes urban art,
it smiles.

She Stared At the Street

2012-02-08T16:47:00.000-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

She stared at the street
for decades, but never
saw anything.

Gas Lines Are Fearless

2012-02-08T16:42:00.000-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Gas lines are fearless;
some reside in the
middle of thoroughfares.

The Cross Liked

2012-02-08T16:37:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The cross liked
the role of lead
in God's pencil.

The Black Gargoyle

2012-02-08T16:31:00.003-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

The black gargoyle
loved the view
from his perch.

The Unmarked Door

2012-02-08T16:27:00.000-08:00

image by Glenn Buttkus

The unmarked door
was just too ornate
not to notice.

This Iron Bird Can

2012-02-08T16:17:00.000-08:00

Images by Glenn Buttkus

This iron bird can
never fly, but still
it stands proudly.

Touch

2012-02-08T15:41:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Touch

Gray on gray,
their heavy black bellies
touching tree tops,
spiced with lightning,
garnished with thunder,
as my day proceeds.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

A Closer Inspection

2012-02-07T11:43:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from flickr

a closer inspection

a closer inspection
on the finer things
reveals a gap –
a loss of words,
a chink in the armor,
a tilt misplaced –
on the corner of
living and living it up,
the coast is not
clear, and it will
have to be awhile
before you can
head home again
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

At Times Like These, We

2012-02-07T11:36:00.001-08:00

image borrowed from flickr

at times like these, we

at times like these, we
know that there are
ticker tape and streamers,
noisemakers and
hullabaloo amassing
somewhere, ready
to be distributed,
tested – an exercise
in gravity
and the pull of
childhood heroes
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on Yi's Bits

Hope Catches the

2012-02-07T11:28:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

hope catches the

hope catches the
light off the high-grade
polish, streams out
of the rolled-down
windows and exhaust
pipe, purrs with
the engine on I-85
after escaping from
an evening at
the body shop.
you know
the feeling – both
your mind and
your wallet feel
a whole lot lighter
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Patriot Games

2012-02-07T11:17:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from brian miller

patriot games

Tom Brady is not to blame for losing the Super Bowl game,
just ask his wife, you "can't expect him to F'n pass & catch"
while those who don't just stand and watch, much less drop

oh i bet that was an interesting ride home after

as she stroked him, like women do men, husbands
with wives, coaches and pats on the butt, or buddies
around a campfire, 'it's not your fault, if only'---

all well intentioned of course, wanting to soothe turn
of the worm where stomach meets intestines,
he'll feel with each pause, rewind, play, pause, rewind
his eyes taking in each mis-step, missed ball, blown call,
thrown pass, safety, sack, SportsCenter's top ten play

And when he hears the sound bite once more, her absolving
him and turning on his team, will he Clint Eastwood or MIA?
slip them the finger surreptitiously or carpe the day---

Yeah, it's halftime America, and only the ego can answer
which to please and depending on which way he leans,
it could make him a prime candidate for the presidency,
only turning political means less interesting commercials

As for me, i'd rather the humbling of reality,
than the pop---
of an over inflated fantasy
and another four years of it's all about me.

Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One

Mars Attacks

2012-02-02T16:32:00.000-08:00

painting by frank frazetta

Mars Attacks

Point Defiance pokes up
like a battered thumb
or an arthritic middle finger
into the southern eye of
Puget Sound.

There is a spacious city park
that spreads out like a green
band aid covering the tip, that
contains a resurrected Hudson’s
Bay fort, five kinds of gardens,
a ferry terminal, a rocky beach,
and deep within the chest of
the thin peninsula, a zoo,

where I went today, anxious to
rekindle my childish sense of
wonder, wanting to create a digital
record of
t
i
g
e
r’
s
eyes,
red wolf’s mane,
Indian elephant back hair,
arctic fox pups,
and otter’s wet kisses;

but instead I found filthy cages,
greasy smeared glass windows,
a cold breeze off the bay,
a shaggy menagerie of captives--
their eyes brimming with sadness
and arrogant lethargy, their fur muddy
and matted, scores of empty cages
with yellow tape covering the doors,
overpriced nachos and lollipops,
and thirty staircases, lousy lighting,
darkly tinted glass, broken bannisters,
hundreds of snot-nosed screaming
pre-adolescents being jerked, pushed,
carried and herded mostly by
stay-at-home mothers,

starring a myriad of caged creatures
that preferred turning their various backs
toward the impish faces pressed to glass,
leering over low fences, their chocolate-
streaked fingers pointing proudly;

until I had a free-floating epiphany,
and everything became a Martian zoo,
the animals becoming the public
with the people on exhibit, drenching
me in interstellar panic as I held
my breath while rushing toward
the exit gate.

Glenn Buttkus

February 2012

Listed as #12 over on dVerse Poets-Martian Verse

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

When Hope is Molecularly

2012-02-02T08:48:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

when hope is molecularly

when hope is molecularly
distilled, contaminants like
doubt gradually
evaporates. any bigger
than that, hope is just
a page in the book of doubt
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Freedom Rings Every

2012-02-01T11:53:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Freedom rings every
hour in the oldest
town in Washington.

A Child's Porthole

2012-02-01T11:48:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

A child's porthole
always reveals a
secret garden.

Members Are Dwindling

2012-02-01T11:44:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Members are dwindling
but the old temple
still stands.

A Lincoln On

2012-02-01T11:38:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

A Lincoln on
the roof usually
brings good luck.

Turns Out to Be

2012-02-01T11:26:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Turns out to be
a rather noisy
place for lunch.

Train Station

2012-02-01T11:22:00.000-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Train station
teradactyls are
chained securely.

As Winter Peaks

2012-02-01T11:12:00.003-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

As winter peaks
we dream of spring
flags flying.

Concrete Flowers

2012-02-01T11:04:00.001-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Concrete flowers
gather living lichen
as party guests.

Can a Man Love

2012-02-01T10:58:00.000-08:00

Image by Glenn Buttkus

Can a man love
an oriental steering
wheel in this county?

Near the End, Hope

2012-02-01T08:54:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

near the end, hope

near the end, hope
hustles about, lost
with purpose,
like an out-of-
body experience
looking for
somewhere warm
to cling to – the
tell-tale signs
are the accessories
left behind: a pair
of ruby, a pair of
glass, and that
storybook ending
she wore so well
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

There is Much About

2012-02-01T08:50:00.000-08:00

image by yi ching lin

there is much about

there is much about
a house that isn’t
the house –
sunlight painting
a still life in
recent memory,
a garden cozying up
around the front
porch like children
returning home,
the spindly shadow
of magnolia branches
climbing the stairs,
you lying down in
the middle of an
empty bedroom,
ready to call it
your own
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Little Big Men

2012-01-30T18:34:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Little Big Men

In the logging town of Kapowsin,
down at the Chalet Tavern every
Thursday night, under forgotten,
dried out sprigs of mistletoe, after
the drunken crowd becomes manic,
fist fights inevitably break out,
the callow punks with beer sweat
glistening on their pink foreheads,
create their weekly carom event--

as heavy bodies slam into and off of
rough-hewn log walls, usually breaking
at least one electric Budweiser sign;
the local brutes valiantly endeavoring
to aver themselves over the more demure
clientele--just before something quite
wondrous happens, for there is this
posse of pygmies who like to drink
there on that night,

who are actually quite spry for little guys,
and the forty of them love to gang up
on the bellicose thugs, using hardwood
police batons, beating them senseless,
and then sitting on them while finishing
their frothy pitchers of draft,

waiting patiently for the cops to be called,
the several aide cars to line up outside
with their many colored light bands pulsating,
watching the bruised behemoths being
carried out on stretchers--calling out
to them with guttural African epithets!

“Can’t wait for next Thursday,” one of the
short warriors said,”I’ve got a dozen
cousins coming for a visit.”

Glenn Buttkus

January 2012

Listed as #2 over at Shawna's Monday Melting, Week 4

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Sequences and Ratios

2012-01-30T08:40:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Sequences and Ratios

happy hands man
dancing while he runs
the mall between Lincoln
and etched wall
names of soldiers fallen

oblivious to the rest of us
ear buds in, at ease in
his spandex skin
under the spotlight of the sun

almost blinding on
a cold January morn

all the flowers turn
their heads in the passing

then once more trace fingers
along loved ones
& others

Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #56 over on Magpie Tales 102

Daydreamscape

2012-01-30T08:08:00.000-08:00

painting by wassily kandinsky

Daydreamscape

the dog star has turned Labrador dark,
the boomerang does not return,
McDonald’s arches turn ketchup-red,

epees clank seriously in mock combat,
three wayward stars fell in a perfect parallel,
tropical toucans stab mangos with stiletto beaks,

the Stone’s massive tongue licks sticky fingers,
a black eel triumphed in the annual worm race,
painted hatchets are more art noir than war club,

coronets without mutes should not wail,
the flying wing has night flights near China Lake,
a thick asteroid belt encircles most moons,

yellow daisies with black tongues are macabre,
moss agates capture primal tableaus,
terrorist missiles hit the great pyramid at dawn,

the silver surfer leaves golden contrails between planets,
shredded Israeli flag waved about by stickmen
who still enjoy a thick pat of creamery butter
on their strawberries.

Glenn Buttkus

January 2012

Listed as #68 over on Magpie Tales 102

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

It's Rather Simple, This

2012-01-30T07:23:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

it's rather simple, this

it’s rather simple, this
conjuring up hope
trick, although there
are some instances
when it fails –
certainly
enough times
to have kept
you wide awake
last night
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

The Business Of

2012-01-30T07:18:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

the business of

the business of
living is a supple
management of
mirages – from sun
up till sun down,
hope is the weight
in your boots,
lifting, replacing
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

In the Melodic Equivalent Of

2012-01-30T07:02:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

in the melodic equivalent of

in the melodic equivalent of
the mind’s eye, the inner
ear holds patterns of
vibrations that only the
heart understands –
the sound of stalks
brushing against the mid-
morning sky, the soft
padding of bare feet
across cold tiles,
your deep resounding
voice across the
telephone wires
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

The Color of Music

2012-01-30T06:41:00.000-08:00

painting by wassily kadinsky

“The Color of Music”

my feathers are jazz,
spinning light

as hair; I’m a
fair-weather
parrot,
rent

into cubicle pieces

working hard
at playing it smooth

on the sax

sucking black reeds
with a swollen slack
tongue;

my blind eye the sun,
I see it all—

it’s mardi gras march
and I’m leading the parade,
my rainbow rhythms
conducted

on a black-and-white stage

as
confetti
notes
fall,
streaking
the
naked

streets

with the color of music

Shawna McAllister

Posted over on her site Rosemary Mint
Listed as #47 over on Magpie Tales 102

A Very Modern Adam

2012-01-29T17:24:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

A Very Modern Adam

Elevenses. Today as every day he takes
the apple from his briefcase, places it
upon his desk and waits
for it to levitate.
It never does,
but still he knows it might. One day
it could surprise the world.

He'll sit transfixed before it for a while
and peering in will see a wilderness
of spinning shadow forms, motes, specks of no-life,
bits left over from the Big Bang - if
there ever was one - clouding empty space.

And what of time? That, too, is clouded -
and so he feels affinity
with all of nature's works
and wonders of the apple if its spinning wonders
took the forms they did because
those were their own predestined shapes:
the juices, for example, seeds and textured flesh.
Had each of these its own worn ruts to run
laid down in days - millennia - gone by
by trees with certain tales to tell,
which trees, life span by life span deepening
the grooves, carved out what we call memory?

And might the wooden desk
not say the same?
Or through the window glass
the summer rain?
Sometimes he thinks himself into the apple's flesh.
It's like he's landed somewhere out in space -
but ruts don't seem to work out there.

And so he peers again through apple skin,
seeing the apple's heart, its cloud of whirling pin heads,
and as a face in any cloud might form,
the face of Newton forms in this.
With Newton comes a clockwork mechanism
erasing for a moment thoughts of ruts.

The apple levitates at last - he thinks - perhaps
in some magnetic field.
And so his mindset shifts again and opens to
computer metaphors: the apple is the end result
of programs memorised to clone themselves
through an eternity of ruts.

But none of these will do. The apple eats
the metaphors. He sees them fall
like scales from eyes grown dim. The old
dichotomies dissolve. What if
there is no matter, all is energy? In school
we learned about converting one
to other. Science is too pure a thing
to leave to scientists.

Dave King

Posted over on his site Pics & Poems
Listed as #38 over at dVerse Poets-Undercurrents

Chilling Out

2012-01-29T17:06:00.000-08:00

painting by wassily kandinsky

Chilling Out

This frozen field, my mind, plays tricks on me
it goes from chilled to hot in seconds flat
shocks thoughts electrifying to my feet
and on the earth a flame of anguish sparks.

All because of silly things, a misplaced shoe
or perhaps forgotten homework, dirty tracks
across the rug, those crazy dogs
(oh, I love them so).

Then all at once I feel serenity
it startles like an unexpected touch
a cloak of permeable karma flows through me
like magic all the heat is gone
I’m chilled again, born into God’s realm of joy.

laurie kolp

Posted over on her site Conversation With Laurie
Listed as #5 over on Magpie Tales 102

Listen

2012-01-29T16:50:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

listen

did you hear

the light created

before the sunrise

intake of breath

before the bird song

blink of the eye

before the tear fell

flush of the skin

before the kiss

did you hear

listen

Mark Windham

Posted over on his site Awakened Words
Listed as #51 over at dVerse Poets--Undercurrents

This Heart

2012-01-29T15:57:00.000-08:00

painting by wassily kandinsky

This Heart
•
this heart’s now yours
this damaged heart
this brittle fractured aching heart
broken by you, every part

I’ve no use for this ruined heart
plucked here from my chest
I seek a new and vital heart
one that’s far less stressed

a fresh heart that’s unbreakable
a heart able to forgive
unmarred unscarred yet tender
beating with the joy to live
• • •
rob kistner © 2012

Posted over on his site Image and Verse
Listed as #34 over on Magpie Tales 102

Give Me An Apple

2012-01-29T15:45:00.000-08:00

Red Spot II, 1921, Wassily Kandinsky

Give me an apple

every day and I'm happy.
It's relatively simple

to satisfy my taste.
Eve gave one to Adam,

but I like the notion
of you giving one to me,

a special purpose vehicle,
a universal gravitation,

a certain law of motion
Newton would approve of,

even Lilith would give
her right arm to enjoy.

tess kinkaid

January 2012

Posted over on her site Life at Willow Manor
Listed as #8 over on Magpie Tales 102

Center Stage

2012-01-29T15:28:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Center Stage

Prepped and primped
so much powder
weighing eyelashes
but you never let 'em see you sweat.

A cold beer sweats,
already the crowd is alive
a stranger calls my name
I pretend not to hear it.

The boys think its great
as they hide behind guitars,
double bass drums
and sound boards

ready to bed
the first blonde, the first redhead
the first woman drunk enough
to forget she did not arrive alone

They're laughing
all ready three sheets to the wind
counting heads and counting dollars
running the bar into the ground

before the first set
where they will be the rock stars
and I will be...
a chick trying to sing Zeppelin

Rock on!

Natasha Head

aka: Tashtoo

Posted over on her site Tashtoo Parlour
Listed as #24 over on dVerse Poets-Undercurrents

Love Legions

2012-01-29T14:27:00.000-08:00

image borrowed in bing

Love Legions

Movies are always my passion,
even when women’s charms are not;
sitting in dark rooms my fashion,
my gaze on silver screens bear-caught--
capturing my soul in mid-trot
as Richard Burton’s deep voice sings
Shakespeare, the meaning so distraught,
lost in Welch accent’s silver wings.

I love you, Shane, said Joey so alone.
I love you too much not to say
a man needs madness, not dog bones,
in order to cut the rope some day
and be free, floating on blue bays.
I love you, Spartacus, father
I will never know, as the rays
of sunshine died without bother.

I love you, Antoninus, like
the son I will never ever meet,
driving the dagger deep as spike,
knowing soon they would pierce his feet,
cruxified by hundreds along streets,
with cobblestone faces and bloody tears,
little did he know he would meet
his son as souls fled in mirrors.

Dalton Trumbo without retreat
from blacklisting, got Kirk’s fine ears
burning with gratitude’s pure heat,
reinstating his name sans fear.

Glenn Buttkus

January 2012

This is my attempt to construct a French Ballade.
Would you like to hear the author to read this poem to you?

Train Time

2012-01-29T12:30:00.001-08:00

image borrowed from hedgewitch

Train Time

I’ve made my accommodations,
set my watch to the new time zone
for this journey rolled on the tumbling wheels
of an iron horse rocking in darkness
as the wind blows the flying flag whistle.

The last ticket crackles in my pocket
a faint fire on my skin as I
try to forget the dead girl I left
tied to the carousel, round and round;
I’ve made my accommodations.

Out the window the night’s a film
come sifting down in haze
through clouds' warm rich milk
sieving back secrets like kept curd;
only skimmed wastelight falls in the new time zone

where we chase the hours through the lengthening night
with a cawing louder than a lunatic crow’s
up and up the spiral way through rockbound trees
before the snow, the long descent to the sea
as the journey unrolls on tumbling wheels

unwinding a silkscreen I barely can see:
bright and flashing dawns, white cabins
malachite forests, yellow-eyed owls
beginnings and red tulips overtaken, outrun
by the night horse rocking in darkness.

The sum of what I want is not where I must go
but all the places this train will never stop,
while the sleepless wheels whisper: no drugs no drink
no magic trick can ever take
the flying whistle back from the wind.

Joy Ann Jones

aka: Hedgewitch

Posted over on her site Verse Escape
Listed as #21 over on dVerse Poets-Undercurrents

Getting Better With Time

2012-01-29T12:14:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Getting Better with Time

She wanted to go shopping
catch the special sale, said we could
stuff a bag with items for only ten bucks
but it’s so small, the sack they handed
out when we walked in

I’m watching her
amidst the Black Friday-like mob
frantically searching the rows and rows
of clothes, she’s ditched the bag
I’m so sure, she’d said
with a flip of her hair
so long and beautiful, my little girl
born with a full head of hair

now a teenager

she proved herself hormonal
yesterday, a rush before school
dressing up for UIL
"who cares about the solo"
what matters is how she looks
on the free day without a uniform
at last
her hair must be curled just so
with ringlets on the side
it looks like shit, should’ve flattened it
a huff and a puff out the door
and I’m trying to remember;
I was just like that

The crowd’s going crazy with yellow bags
I’m feeling claustrophobic,
I find an open spot
by the shoes, under the speaker
where Leona Lewis sings
It’ll All Get Better with Time
and I’m taken back three years ago…

Mary’s suicide so unexpected
the rug being pulled out from under my feet,
the hurt, the endless questions
sucked into an empty vacuum, I was
but this song always gave me hope, still does
almost like a sign from heaven every time
I heard it on the radio,
times I needed to hear those words

Mary’s sending me a message- enjoy your daughter
she doesn’t get that special time with hers
I take off to find my girl by the slinky tees
it has gotten better with time

laurie kolp

Posted over on her site Bird's Eye Gemini
Listed as #14 over on dVerse Poets-Undercurrents

Staked Bamboo Pit

2012-01-29T12:02:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Staked Bamboo Pit

Fell

right

in

evidently.

nothing

done

so

Far.

remains

insouciant.

eventually

notices

distinct

stabbing

From

rear.

i’ve

entrapped

no

dumb

swine.

Friends

remain

intimate

even

now,

death

squealing.

Richard King Perkins II

**The poem gets its feel from the fact that all the words in the poem stem from the word
F
r
i
e
n
d
s repeated four times.
Posted over on his site Word Fresco
Listed as #16 over on dVerse Poets-Undercurrents

Divorce a Possibility in Brooklyn, NYC

2012-01-28T14:25:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Divorce a Possibility in Brooklyn, NYC

She wipes the counters for weeks
with an increasingly moldy
sponge. Paper goods
have always been his job, the
disposables,
so for a while when she shops,
she just forgets, grocery store a blur
anyway, baby tied to her chest
like an amulet
against the leering heights
of canned corn, the precarious stacks
of tomato, all those old Italian ladies
in black coats (no matter the season),
the traffic
of criss-crossed carts.

Till at last, gridlocked in
an aisle she’d intended to sidestep,
she’s faced
by the cellophane muscles
of a man who promises
to pick up everything. She starts
to reach out to him–his
brand, his wrapper–but feels
suddenly certain
that if she even
touches those paper towels, it will be the end
of the life she has planned.

She looks down
into her cart; its dull
metal grid reminds her now
of a cage, a poor
cage made of wire and gap,
perfect for some animal
that’s neither strong
nor clever.

Karin Gustafson

aka: ManicDDaily

Posted over on her site ManicDDaily
Listed as #5 over on dVerse Poets-Undercurrents

Bread Sticks & Crumbs

2012-01-28T14:04:00.001-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Bread Sticks & Crumbs

Eleven years old and texting;
her two BFFs, on-call, waiting
for her ‘go time’ message as

she sits in a restaurant,
across from her parents (Ugh!)
and next to her
little sister (UGH, UGH!)

The four of us talk
over bread sticks, and laugh
until soda spurts out of our noses.

There’s not one mention of
the BFFs on standby.

Tonight, the moon shone
upon the bread-crumbed path
I leave for her each day, and

as we drive home, one hour past
the estimated ‘go time,’ I say,
“Thank you. I’m proud of you.”

In the SUV’s back, back seat,
she smiles sheepishly and
mumbles something about

‘having fun.’ (Weeee!)
In the front seat, a mother’s breath
catches; her heart melts, and I

discreetly toss more
bread crumbs out the window,
all the way home.

Sheila Moore

Posted over on her site She's Writing
Listed as #2 over on dVerse Poets-Undercurrents

Blue Balls & Wrist Watches

2012-01-28T11:33:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from rolex

blue balls & wrist watches

Live for greatness, the ad for Rolex
on the back of Travel & Leisure

whispers

soft fingers along my ear & her
fierce eyes thumb through my book
scent marking each page, dress cut
below glossy breasts, just a hint

and what? what?
she wants to sell me

a time piece, no

because who needs a mortgage
just to tell time, never be late but
its moments---she pedals,

a bike down a dirt lane, tires on pebbles
grind and skritch, green grass lined, the sun
beams bubble, her short floral dress, wisp
of wind & her legs tan as fried chicken
with promises of secret ingredients, sticky
finger lickin', running them slow along
the length with her tongue

greatness

she teases, taps the crystal face as hands count
d
o
w
n until she's gone,
a slow dancing vapor, gasping
flower unfurled damp & heady,
entwined round
a pole, upside down and sliding,
of what
could have been if---

only i wore a watch, but my wrist is empty
of such constraints, acidic coffee krinkles
the corner of my eyes as i take the last sip,
savoring its bite, then rise from the bench,
cross the tile floor, trash the cup & head
for the door

leaving greatness

by where i sat, to shine
for someone
else.

Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One

Save the Kalakala, Mr. President

2012-01-27T10:09:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from Bing

Kalakala Alliance Foundation
Steve Rodrigues, President
PO Box 1475
Tacoma, WA. 98402
Tel (206)234-2045
Email:olympicforum2000@usa.net
www.kalakala.org

July 20, 2010

Honorable Mr. President Obama,
White House
Washington D.C., USA

Dear Honorable President of the United States of America,

I am Steve Rodrigues and President of the Kalakala Alliance Foundation (KAF). KAF is registered to do business in the State of Washington as a legal federal 501 (C) 3 Non-Profit Organization. Since November 2003 I had to believe that it has become my American duty to learn how to seek the freedoms and liberties that could help save the MV Kalakala. And, in doing so, I had to have faith and hope that, “all things are possible to them that believe”. Seven years ago, I first learned of and became owner of the MV Kalakala. It has taken 7 years to find out all about her significances related to both our state and nation’s transportation history. And, I have already shared such information with the State of Washington public officials without any responses. Now, we have a need to share with you and the Secretary of the Interior all her nationally significant evidences, so that, she can be considered as one of our national landmarks. And, you and the Secretary must know, that all our past efforts have failed within the local, statewide, and recently within Washington D.C. Today, you can help by considering, in a timely manner, the use of your Presidential powers to authorize the MV Kalakala and a site to be protected under the use of the Antiquity Act 1906.

Today, after failing in the State, we had to leave, gather extensive background knowledge, and other historical records related to the Kalakala and other American registered national landmarks. January 27, 2010 I started such efforts while on the “Kalakala’s walk of HOPE” across America. We now have witnessed and been able to see why the Antiquity Act 1906 was originally created. And, it is a fact that over 400 years ago, April 26, 1607, that our first English Colonists landed on the soils known today as Ft. Henry located at Virginia Beach, Virginia. Our first settlements of Jamestown and Williamsburg were established shortly thereafter. Since the early 1600’s other Peabody Family, English colonists, would also come to and land in American soil to become free men within the New England States. That after the revolutionary war with the British by 1776 our colonies became a free nation. And, that our nation’s forefathers created the Bill of Rights that is now our nations Constitution. And, over the centuries our nation has had to create new laws to protect the beauty of our nation and other treasured landmarks before they become destroyed. And, it is a fact that by 1906, our nation created Antiquity Act 1906 to prevent such total loss of our nation’s most significant antiquities.

Since 1895, over 115 years ago, our State of Washington has suffered many losses of such potential antiquities. And today, we must ask you to help us prevent such antiquities (water transportation) from being lost forever. The Kalakala is the last of our state’s only remaining heritage and culture related to our past original Black Ball Line. After, only 59 years of state control, we are about to lose 100 years of our original ferry system heritages that were inherited by the State of Washington June 1, 1951.
It is with a sincere heart, and a shame that I must resort to asking you, the President of the United States of America, to use our nation’s constitutional law known as the Antiquity Act 1906 to protect them. Under such a law, the Kalakala can become situated upon a tract held in private ownership, the tract, or so much thereof as may be necessary for the proper care and management of the Kalakala, may be relinquished to the Government, and the Secretary of Interior is to authorize and to accept the relinquishment of such tract in behalf of the Government of the United States. And, to please consider the Kalakala to become registered with a level of national significance to establish her as a national landmark structure.

I am asking you, Honorable Mr. President, President of HOPE, for a future meeting to present and discuss the 1935 MV Kalakala and the Antiquities Act of 1906-16-USC 431-433.
It states in part:
Section 2.
“ That the President of the United States is hereby authorized, in his discretion, to declare by public proclamation historic landmarks, historic and prehistoric structures, and other objects of historic or scientific interest that are situated upon the lands owned or controlled by the Government of the United States to be national monuments, and may reserve as a part thereof parcels of land, the limits of which in all cases shall be confined to the smallest area compatible with proper care and management of the objects to be protected: Provided, That when such objects are situated upon a tract covered by a bonafied unperfected claim or held in private ownership, the tract, or so much thereof as may be necessary for the proper care and management of the object, may be relinquished to the Government, and the Secretary of Interior is hereby authorized to accept the relinquishment of such tracts in behalf of the Government of the United States.”
For more information on the Antiquities Act, go to: http://www.nps.gov/history/local-law/anti1906.htm

Time has become of the essence, and we ask that your immediate review includes; www.kalakala.org (especially the 2005 timeline link), and our KAF information submitted to the Secretary: National Parks Service (NPS) (2006 National Register of Historic Places copy, July 20, 2010 KAF cover letter, narrative, and supporting notes to NPS, Copy of the 2008 Save America’s Treasures (SAT) grant and bibliography
KAF has reached a critical point in time proving that we have exhausted all past efforts. We have been unable to find a way for the great State of Washington to see what we have seen and want to share. So, we must find a way to overcome their past and future powers, neglects, and transportation heritage policy delays regarding the safe harbor, protection, and preservation for the Kalakala in the future.

Therefore, after 59 years, we ultimately need to share her national credibility’s enabling the consideration of federal protections to prevent continued physical deteriorations while the Kalakala is afloat within Puget Sound waterways. And, to prevent the loss of a representation of cornerstone of the original Black Ball Ferry Line heritage and culture, known as the Kalakala. The Black Ball Line and the significant Peabody Family legends helped build America.

It has been a great privilege and honor, as a good steward and caretaker of the Kalakala, to deny the troublesome conditions subjected to the Kalakala since 1967, 43 years, by the powers of government. Also, to deny such state powers that could sink the Kalakala instead of allowing her to be taken out of water and onto land. The State has a law that all ships 62 feet and longer must go to a shipyard for major repairs. The Kalakala could never be repaired at a dry-dock located at a shipyard! The costs would never be feasible at a shipyard. Although, a marine rail and or the world’s largest ship lift are methods of getting the Kalakala out of water for long term feasible major repairs is possible in America today. And, it is sad to think that the state has never given the Kalakala a work permit where she is on the water in Tacoma, Washington! The word “deny” has two definitions, according to Webster. To deny in one sense, is to withhold from, as to deny bread from the hungry. To deny in another sense, is to declare to be not true, to repudiate as utterly false. Therefore, I begin by stating, “I have been given a divine gift of faith, strength, and fully deny that we have forever nearly lost 200 years of our Black Ball Line (New York to Liverpool and Puget Sound) physical related heritage, culture, and significant Peabody Family legends who all helped to build, and gave birth to our state ferry system for not a cent of tax payer money on June 1, 1951. And, it is now time for the government to stop denying the Kalakala the gifts she fully deserves from the government.

Conclusion

The MV Kalakala’s walk of Hope trail ends here in Washington D.C. Her story should not end under the torches at a scrap yard, nor should her story be simply written and bound between the pages of a historian’s book. She has always served America and its citizens well. The President of the United States of America must know that, as in the past, she always belonged to the people and will always belong to the people of America. No matter private or publicly owned and managed she must be given the freedoms and liberties of being protected with safe harbor for perpetuity. And, given such she can become protected, preserved, and once again shine to be shared with 100’s of millions more of Americans and people from around the world. She is a one of a kind, unique and national treasure ferry. Please, we ask that you alone now consider using your Presidential authority and use of the Antiquity Act 1906 to save these antiquities before it is too late physically to save her for perpetuity.

Kalakala’s last walk of Hope is that the President and Secretary helps to assure the Kalakala to be granted national level of significance and become a national landmark in America. Steve can be contacted anytime via email, and can become available for a meeting with the President or Secretary given at least 7 business days notice.

Respectfully,
Steve Rodrigues, President, KAF
CC:
United States Secretary of Interior Secretary Salazar
United States Washington, California, Alaska, and New York State Senators and Congressional Rep’s, NPS, National Register of Historic Places interim keeper of the records,
US Coast Guard Washington D.C. Commandant
Governor, State of Washington, Olympia, WA.
Governor-State of California, Sacramento, CA.
Governor-State of Alaska, Juneau, AK.

References:

1)Copy of MV Kalakala 2010 NPS National Register of Historic Places New Narrative(original 2006 register is available on line via NPS),
2)Copy of 2008 Save America’s Treasures (SAT) grant Interviewer comments,
3)Copy of 2009 SAT bibliography, and
4)Other past state and national public records are available upon request (both to the President and Secretary).

Supporting Comments to the United States President requesting the use of his powers to protect the MV Kalakala and a safe harbor under the Antiquity Act 1906

It is important today that true supportive national historical background information is provided for your review. Such chronological supportive materials can be used to confirm and to justify the many reasons we ask you to consider the MV Kalakala and a safe harbor protected as antiquities under the use of the Antiquity Act 1906. Although, the Kalakala (formerly Peralta) mostly served the City of Seattle during her ferry service life she also served San Francisco as the Peralta 1927-1933. Her homeport was Coleman Dock, and asking the President and Secretary to protect the Kalakala and provide her a federal safe harbor. The Washington Street Boat Landing Facility is only one alternative site. We have found other potential local, state, and federal sites that can provide the necessary short and long term safe harbor. They include locations states of Washington, California, New York, New Jersey, and Virginia. The Kalakala, World’s first streamline art deco ferry, must be taken out of water and placed onto dry land while undergoing long term major hull and superstructure restorations. But, the Antiquity Act 1906 is our first necessary miracle. She can be assured a homeport, and with it comes the long deserved national level of significance, local and state acceptability’s, and will enhance her to secure private funding from a sound and viable future projected business operating plan.

Rejected past 25 years (1985-2010)
Significant exhaustive efforts, not just under our new ownership during the past 7 years, but combined efforts since 1985 (25 years) have been devoted to saving her as an antiquity. Yes, efforts started over 25 years ago by Mr. Green and his partner’s idea that was presented to the City of Kodiak, State of Alaska, and City of Seattle; “that the Kalakala was a national treasure, and deserved to be returned to Seattle after being buried in the State of Alaska for nearly 20 years”. Their proposal ended after being denied by the City of Seattle Economic Development Director at the time requesting safe harbor within Seattle’s waterfront. Today, 25 years later, the City of Seattle past Director, is now our State of Washington Department of Transportation Washington State Ferries Director! And, ultimately not only has Mr. Green failed (1985) but the original Kalakala Foundation failed (1998-2003: dissolved and sold Kalakala under federal superior court forced bankruptcy sale), and today under the guidance’s of a new Kalakala Alliance Foundation board of directors we are finally asking your review and support.

So, Steve Rodrigues, on January 27, 2010 started the, “Kalakala’s walk of HOPE” across USA, and the trail will end in Washington D.C. Today, I am here in Washington D.C., and have already been knocking on all the right doors within Congress, National Parks Service, National Archives, US Coast Guard, and US Department of Interior Secretary towards the last remaining efforts to save the Kalakala and her safe harbor. No Senators, Congressman, Congresswoman have yet given Steve a chance (only some staff have or are willing to meet). But, the Kalakala’s walk of Hope still has one last effort of HOPE. And, Steve is knocking on your White House door to see if he can get a meeting with the President to discuss the last steps of the Kalakala’s walk of Hope. He is now asking the President to consider using his powers of the Antiquities Act 1906 to save the Kalakala as a structure that deserves the protection as one of our nation’s antiquities and national landmarks.

Reasons to consider the MV Kalakala National with National Level of Significances
Important individuals of the past
The Peabody family, Dr. Adolph Diesel, Anhauser Busch, Sulzer Brothers, Raytheon, and the Boeing Company all are important individuals and businesses who truly, without them, the Kalakala would have never been an American icon, become a legend, nor be able to become registered within the National

Register of Historic Places with national levels of significances. And, without the famous Peabody family the Kalakala would have never been envisioned at all.
The 1935 MV Kalakala (formerly 1927 Peralta) and the original Black Ball Line fleet
The 1935 MV Kalakala (formerly 1927 Peralta) and the original Black Ball Line fleet impacted many of our nation’s States of California, Washington, Alaska, and New York in their significant past. And, other highly significant persons and businesses who built America’s land and water transportation systems have influences that allow her to retain such national levels of significances.

Other comparative National Treasures across America

The Kalakala is as significant as many other ships in America. Such as, USS Intrepid, USS Massachusetts, last operating Liberty ships Jeremiah and Brown, USS Constitution (Old Ironsides), C.W. Morgan, SS Queen Mary, SS Berkeley, many replica of Packet and Schooner ships, SS United States, SS Virginia V, naval submarines, USS “Eagle”, C.A. Thayer, MV Santa Rosa, and many other non-profit organizations like Mystic Seaport and many other maritime museums, such as, San Francisco National Maritime Museum have similar national significances that represent a piece of our nations landmarks or maritime treasures. The Kalakala compares to be equal to or even to have beyond others national significances, and deserves equal status regardless of what she looks like today. The C.W. Morgan has had tender loving care for over 45 years now, and is only 2 years away from being 100% restored to enable her to ply the Atlantic again. This time to greet the whales as a friend not a foe.

The Kalakala is such that, she is a one of a kind, architecturally unique, and a vessel that has never been forgotten by thousands of enthusiasts from around the world. Her unique architectural, engineering, and mechanical national significances do represent many eras of America’s historic major events that are significant in America past.

She deserves to be approved by the Secretary with a national level of significance and registered within the National Register of Historic Places. And, she deserves to be considered by the President to be recognized as an antiquity and become one of our nation’s national landmarks. She deserves t be given federal protection under the Presidents authority to use the Antiquity Act 1906.

My last Hope is that the President and the Secretary can see what the State has never wanted to see. And, that our leaders in government stop denying the Kalakala the gifts she fully deserves of being a national treasure.

Kalakala News

2012-01-27T09:55:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

January 5, 2012

There's an old joke: The two happiest days in a man's life are the day he buys a boat and the day he sells it.

That's certainly been true for the owners of the Kalakala, a historic art deco ferry that currently resides in Puget Sound. Launched in 1935, the vessel's trials and tribulations have become the stuff of legend in Seattle.

First, it was an icon; a steel-bullet-shaped ship with round portholes that earned itself a mention in the Bing Crosby and Andrews Sisters song "Black Ball Ferry Line." You can still find pictures of it cruising past the Space Needle, looking like it belongs to Buck Rogers.

When it debuted in 1935, the Kalakala was the fastest and largest ferry on Puget Sound.
Steve Rodrigues has spent eight years trying to restore the Kalakala, and calling him an enthusiast would be an understatement.

"It was silver; the sun made her glow in the light," he says. "Nothing exists like the Kalakala in the world. It is art deco. There is nothing that ever followed that ... looked like it again."

But that futuristic beauty has faded. Today, the Kalakala is tied up in an industrial waterway near Tacoma, Wash. Under the leaden winter skies — despite the efforts of Rodrigues and some volunteers — the rust is what most stands out.

"We have kept her afloat," Rodrigues says. "We have worked with the government and made proposals for waterfront moorage for the Kalakala and preserving it to her glory and sharing it with the community. But it failed."

Still, Rodrigues isn't the first to fail. He bought the Kalakala at a bankruptcy auction from the previous group of would-be restorers. For the past decade, the old ferry has been something of a sad joke around Puget Sound, getting evicted from one potential home after another. Some say it's not worth saving; it may have looked cool, but it was hard to maneuver and kept running into things.

Now, the Kalakala has overstayed its welcome in Tacoma. Last year, the Coast Guard set a deadline for Rodrigues to repair the boat's hull and arrange for it to be towed. They've also declared it a "hazard to navigation."

"It has to go," says Coast Guard spokeswoman Regina Caffrey. "If the Kalakala sinks, it would block the entirety of the waterway, and it could impact up to $23 million worth of commerce in one month."

But Rodrigues denies that the Kalakala is a hazard. He gets angry at the very idea, accusing the media of conspiring with the government to smear the ferry's reputation.

Right before the Coast Guard's December 2011 deadline, Rodrigues announced he'd sold the ferry for $1 to an "anonymous billionaire." He insists the mysterious patron has committed to spending the necessary millions for a proper restoration.

Many in Seattle have grown to be skeptical of such Kalakala comeback announcements, but Cheryl DeGroot of Tacoma is still sentimental. DeGroot grew up riding the Kalakala in the '50s, and then, after the ferry's retirement, she stumbled across it again in the '70s in Kodiak, Alaska. It had been towed there to house a fish cannery, and DeGroot got a job onboard shelling shrimp.

"I'm getting some pictures today, because it's so special," she says on a recent visit to the Tacoma dock. "It looks better than I thought it would, actually. Not too bad — it's still floating!"

Despite all the setbacks, the Kalakala does seem to have a tendency to stay afloat.

"I love the Kalakala so much I drew a comic about her getting turned into a space ship." http://www.holisticforgeworks.com/art/#comic-books

–RR Anderson

Man, wouldn't that be cool?

There Are a Handful

2012-01-27T09:41:00.000-08:00

image by yi ching lin

there are a handful

there are a handful
of things about keeping
time that leaves
uncertainty –
springing forward,
falling back,
marking the
certainty
of your death
on two calendars.
if tonight’s moon
looks like the same
moon that took
you, give
us a sign that
time will move on
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Your Cousin is Lying

2012-01-26T11:12:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Your Cousin is Lying

I never went cow-tipping, though once, Stephen
wasn't looking and backed into a sleeping one,
which got up, moved away, and sat back down—
because cows sleep bellies to the ground,
that's horses you're thinking of that sleep standing.

I never made moonshine, though I admit,
my father did, but that was at least a decade
before I was born. We smoked meth. Or pot
or drank stuff we filched from our parents' liquor
cabinets or coolers. We made things from eye drops
and allergy meds. We huffed glue. We sucked
aerosol cans. Why grow it, process it, hide
it when you can buy it? We're not farmers
anymore. We work at Wal Mart. We get discounts.

I never lynched anybody, but we shot each other
same as you do over the color of our
clothes and the contents of our
wallets. I dated black girls—well, I would've
if they'd have had me.

I'm just as educated as you:
I've seen the same TV shows, sat
through the same droning lectures
based on the Prussian model.
If you were from here. you'd know;
it's just like there. Only not the same.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on his site Murder Your Darlings

The Other

2012-01-26T11:04:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

The Other

It was the fat preacher who made us afraid
with his stories of shameful creatures
who shared our names. It was his dirty smile,
his greasy hair, the stains on his lapel
that made us uneasy when he talked about clean
souls. It was his belligerent children with torture
in their eyes who made us doubt his understanding
of the role of a father, in heaven or otherwise.

He told us to doubt ourselves, to trust the absurd
notion that life is anything other than joy and pain
and random collisions of matter. They’re coming
for us, he said. I’d be afraid to think, if I was like you,
he said; I might think something wrong.

Cortney Bledsoe

Posted over on his site Murder Your Darlings

You Push, I Push Back

2012-01-26T10:54:00.001-08:00

image borrowed from bing

You Push I Push Back

The ex-priest spoke of women
in the third person
to their faces, took us on a tour of churches
of New York, where the squirrels are segregated
and rudeness is considered style.
He finished eating before we’d
even sat down. He was
an old teacher of my wife’s father
and adored the man.
When we walked in the door after a five
hour drive, he stood us in front
of the piano to sing; “Start again,” he’d say.
“I don’t see how you could like anyone
who doesn’t like me,” my mother in law said
to her husband, who lost the smile
he’d worn since we’d arrived.

C.L. Bledsoe

Posted over on his site Murder Your Darlings

After a Night of Songwriting

2012-01-26T09:41:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

after a night of songwriting, laughter
and sweet leaf tea

I’d like an old woman
to wrap my tired shoulders
in a shawl of sleepy seaweed.

I’d like the seaweed to wrap
all my Christmas presents this year
in yellow pansies and cedar shingles.

I’d like my shingles to hold fast
through days and nights of snow
and dusty misplaced bedroom slippers.

I’d like my bedroom slippers to be
made from Doc Marten leather that
has danced in Australia at least twice.

I’d like Australia to move a little closer
to Texas, and I suppose with tectonic shifts,
Australia soon will be at my front door knocking.

I want Milo to open my front door
and step robustly inside, leaving his
wet umbrella out on the bottom step.

I want my bottom step to welcome
all peoples from all lands and invite them
in for tea and poached eggs on toast tomorrow.

I want tomorrow to be as awesome as
this moment seems to be for me, here after
midnight still up with the aroma of earlier burgers.

I want my burgers to all be organic,
on softest nine-grain buns, with dashes
and lashes of relish from an old woman’s fridge.

I want an old woman’s fridge to be full
of apples, celery, carrots, and walnuts
and I want her to invite me to lunch daily.

And if she felt so inclined to pop in with Milo,
take up my broom and waltz around
with it until all the dust

was in the old cast iron frying pan,
I wouldn’t mind.
And if the frying pan should marry the vacuum

cleaner to the dishwasher I wouldn’t mind
that either. I’d only mind if I forgot to let Milo
open the door to your heart.

Jannie Funster

When I was a teen I thought that Pete Townsend song

went ”Let Milo Open The Door.”

Years later I realized the lyric was actually

“Let My Love Open The Door.”

Posted over on her site Jannie Funster

All About Bravery

2012-01-26T09:31:00.000-08:00

image by ursula

All About Bravery

There are no children in the playground
on this bright and sunny, but bracing, day.

Perhaps the wind is too cold for them?
Or, more than likely, for their minders?
Children don't feel the cold when
they are running around, but adults
idly sitting on benches do.

But aconites and snowdrops are willing
to brave the sharp winds and
stick their heads above ground.

Even the daffodils are fattening
and showing colour.

I've never before seen a January
like this in the Valley.

I sincerely hope we are not going
to have a severe shock to the system.
There is plenty of time left
for winter to punish us.

These are traditionally the coldest days of winter.

Keep good watchdogs about you these dark nights!

Ursula White

aka: Friko

Posted over on her site Friko"s World

It's Hard to Assess

2012-01-26T09:21:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

it's hard to assess

it’s hard to assess
the disappointment,
measure the disbelief,
but you’ve been there –
we all have – forehead
glued to the window,
hands framing face,
eyes looking in,
searching, searching
.

Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Here - Across Blocks Of

2012-01-26T09:16:00.000-08:00

image by yi ching lin

here - across blocks of

here – across blocks of
concrete and locked
gates, in a seemingly
deserted perimeter –
is a sign of the times:
a gathering, some
companionship, maybe
camaraderie, but
definitely no deliveries
.
Yi Ching Lin

Posted over on her site Yi's Bits

Upside Down Stamps

2012-01-24T19:43:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from brian

Upside Down Stamps

Why is it we expect honor among predators
whose core intention is their own coronation?
this is not Camelot, nor some fictional play
enacted out by two bit actors in the public theatres

Guinevere's waded into Manhattan from the harbor,
laid down her tablet, bent over & taken up jousting,
not surprising when under tarnish her torch is just sputtering
it's all over the nightly news at six,
but king Arthur's cronies are obviously oblivious,

The round table is taking bets, ante in is 300 Clevelands,
pocket change to hustlers sporting private jets
fueled by corporate sponsorships,
ok lets be PC and call them endorsements
just don't get caught up in the fine print
of, in return, what they expect
& in our silence what we accept,
great divide growing between us & our political connects

(Record scaAAtCccH) Is this thing on? Let me clear my throat

And remind you we have the right to vote
(for whoever they put in front of us),
our rubber stamp to make it due process,
indoctrinated from birth by the school & the steeple,
that silent devotion is what makes you humble,
cause that's how it works in the land of and for
and by the invisible people,

But before you rattle your swords & get to fist pumping
or jump just because someone says jump in,
ask yourself this, how far are you willing to go
when the revolution gets uncomfortable---
realizing we are responsible cut bets on political saviors
wielding excalibre & start acting like 'We the People'

Want something other than a messy divorce, founded in ignorance
like a spouse on the couch, behind whose back we bad mouth
for our own impotence, raising children bearing scars
of a broken nation cause we were too busy pointing fingers
to take action---a more perfect union, it don't just happen

Brian Miller

Posted over on his site Way Station One
Listed as #2 over on dVerse Poets-Open Link Night 28

America! America!

2012-01-24T14:27:00.000-08:00

painting by sherpard fairey

America! America!!

At 04:00am, PST, it became official.
I turned on CNN and it was announced in bold print:
BARACK OBAMA IS OUR NEW PRESIDENT
OF THESE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA!!!!!

Praise God,
praise Jesus,
praise the intellect and good instincts of the people,
the same people who have suffered for eight years
under the auspices of the Great Oil Party.

Obama did it right,
Hurrah, hurrah!!
He put his battalion of barristers
out there watching
the polling places like hawks,
ready for a scrap,
ready to prosecute,
and the GOP goons, the redneck sombitches,
the fascist skinhead super-patriots,
the good old boys, the demagogues, the bullies
all kept their greasy hands in their pockets;
no hanging chads,
no cops keeping the black voters from the polls,
no screwed up polling machines,
no Jeb Bush to rig the situation, to put in the fix,
no excuses, just
the righteous election of
the first black President of the United States!

America,
we are the winners,
we can once again feel that swelling in our chest
as we announce we are Americans,
and we are proud this morning,
pride putting a strut in our step,
pride that has been pushed down and back
like heartburn
for much too long;
the rescue, the resurrection of the emotion
we all felt in elementary school saluting the flag,
cheering for JFK, protesting the war in Viet Nam,
hating LBJ, hating Richard Nixon,
tolerating Ronald Reagan,
reaching out to Jimmy Carter,
watching the Lion in the Desert,
Islam,
rise up from the dust and ignorance,
and stab so many of us
squarely in the heart.

Obama at his rally late last night said,
“America, this campaign was not hatched
in the halls of Washington.
This campaign was created because
you demanded it,
and now I assure you,
this is your victory,
and you will once more be proud
of a government of the people, for the people,
and by the people
that shall not perish from the earth!”

Thanks for sharing, Barack,
our hero, our eloquent leader,
the first of many to come we hope,
thank you Jesus,
you are the Sidney Poitier of politics,
the Jackie Robinson of the White House;
the first, the first, the first man to step up
with solid compassion,
with truth in both fists,
with clear eyes,
with a good heart,
and now you have a firm grip on the helm,
and you will need it,
for there are dark days yet to come
as you struggle to bring America
back from the brink,
out of the quagmire of stupidity and greed.

You have wrested control
out of the hands of zealots,
of the Illuminata, the skull and bones boys,
the rich assholes who have tipped the balance
directly into their deep and treacherous pockets.

Never has this been done so cleanly,
so completely.
You rubbed their noses in their own feces.
You let the people create more money
for your campaign than the politicos
could ever have dreamed about,
you have stopped Sarah Palin
from being a heartbeat away from the power
she did not deserve, nor should
have had under any circumstances.

Now the work begins.
We must form a ring around your family,
around you, millions deep, with each of us
more than willing to take a bullet for you,
that bullet
the John Birchers are already polishing.
We must protect you so that you can protect us,
divine reciprocity, democracy in action.

I wept as I drove through the chill of this morning,
pounding my fist on the dash of my pick up,
pumping the air, screaming Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,
goddamn rights, oh yeah.
Now is the time.
The time is now.
America, America,
you will rise again,
yesterday we spoke with one voice,
and it was so strong, so bellicose, so clear
that the words were heard
in every corner of the globe;
the oil barons have been stopped,
the Depression has been abated,
the new Crusades will find a peaceful solution,
and being an American means
being color blind.

Glenn A. Buttkus

November 5, 2008

Listed as #86 over on dVerse Poets-Open Link Night 28

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?

Rage, Rage...

2012-01-24T07:29:00.000-08:00

image borrowed from bing

Rage, Rage……

In senescent hours

oil at midnight blazons us—

savage cure for rust.

Richard King Perkins II

Posted over on his site Word Fresco

Deceiving Beauty

2012-01-24T07:09:00.000-08:00

painting by cristiane vleugels

“Deceiving Beauty”

Untouched by senescence,
beauty sleeps.

Stairway dreams
caracol-swirl
in potpourri mist

and magic.

Hybrid kiwi eyes
(solar kaleidoscopes)

are eclipsed

by spell-bound lids
emblazoned

in global shadow.

Rusted lips
wrinkle and twitch
as a beastly prince

kisses

the incurably ticklish—
a savage attack

creviced

in the valley
of her unprotected
neck—

awakening beauty

so at last
she can die.

Shawna McAllister

Posted over on her site Rosemary Mint