Thoughts on email from a friend far away.

He sits down each evening
regular as clockwork.
Sixteen hundred to be precise;
reads his email.
Dirty jokes from a brother,
admonishments from his mother.
Happy pictures of a well-groomed garden
From a well-meaning wife.
Within a portable aluminum cocoon
he still hears random gun shots.

At night, instead of children
He tucks men in bed.

I feel you could expand the last two lines......bedtime stories are of enemies losing their coordinates, and sands that lie calm. I say get into the whole tuck them in routine. I like songs myself.

Thanks for the read, Lavonne.

D

Yes, I will.  These thoughts were going through my mind as I drove home last night. I posted it without any modifications hoping to get someone elses take on this subject.

Thanks!

After reading SLEEPLESS MUSINGS and "I" POETRY:

"We spend several lives learning how to shut up and then bam! One life will do it."

This line struck me, so true. I have lived life after life, biding my time, biting my tongue. Then something or someone else inside me will choose a hill on which to die which never seems worth the fight in retrospect!

Virtually all my poetry is I poetry. It becomes my petcock and often I surprise myself when I have finally been able to express an emotion, reaction, or experience that I have been dealing with.

Fall flushes first
in poison ivy;
with a scarlet shout
ivy vines up the pines
and chokes color
from oaks
forcing the forest
to rummage
the last of its palette
before the canvas
is washed in
winter white.

At my house that would be happening all summer.......the ivy choking oaks.

Nice read. Thanks.

Backlit,
an S-curve silhouette
patters in the bathroom.
Jars and bottles
tapping on the counter.
Frogs peep-singing,
heard through
the window screen.

Nestled,
her match is already
drowsy and dreaming
of puzzle-piecing
the night.

I hope you'll move some of these to the submission board later.

Good read.  d

Thanks - D
Still searching for title ideas on the last two...

Lavonne, I think you know very well what poetry means. I like very much your poem. Impressive and moving.
Vasile

Thank you Vasile. Your compliment is appreciated so very much!

The Chilled Air

Across my street
is a telephone pole
and beside it
is a white cross
marking the last stand
of a boy fleeing the police.

Last summer
I drove a stretch
of Highway 431 where
a string of 37 white crosses
shouted names at me
as I passed.

Again today,
one quarter mile away,
three boys dared to
test the physics of
an object in motion
and lost.

The lives of these
children hang in the air
and the chill clings
to my skin. This fall
air is colder
for the lack of their warmth.

Made changes. Needed to see it in print so I could adjust a few words.

observing myself

Although I sit at my
drawing table
nearly every day,
I have just now
noticed the cobweb
spanning watercolor
brushes in
a tomato can
within my reach.

Looking for a title for this one


My son and his girl
live in a flat
in town
with access to fine dining.
So when my birthday
rolled around
they took me
to a little out-of-the-way place
where all the PHD candidates
gather to postulate
and where I would
be sufficiently impressed.

It was while I was enjoying
my pan-seared tilapia
with baby vegetables
that I glanced at the wall
across the room,
vaguely trying to fathom
the artwork
hung for sale.
From underneath
a faux antique frame
crawled a roach.
One of those
big,
black,
shiny ones
that you imagine
must have come
from a jungle
somewhere.

I smiled behind the rim of
my wine glass;
thinking
this is a much better birthday
than last year
when I spilled the
cheese fondue
down my white shirt.

No need to remember
orchestrated edibles.
After all, the script
is always available.

I prefer memories of
Cheerios stuck to fingers
and foreheads,
steak knife in an open jar
on the floor,
peanut butter footprints
leading out the back door.

And that first cup of hot tea
shared with a tentatively adult smile.

Sounds like some Grandma time?  Love the second stanza.

Happy Thanksgiving. D

LOL. Only wishing. Memories of my own babies. :)
I hope you had a Happy Day, too.

Excellent. Just how I feel about Chrstmas.

i love it! and hey, nice picture...meow...
joseph

In Bed

I hear someone singing saying
that I break like a little girl
I lie under quilts
that I stitched
and try to hold myself

so I cry
and crying makes my head hurt
and that I like
because I can feel it
inside.

Found a shriveled black thing
under the bed
while vacuuming today.
Gingerly picked it up.
Humph, I puffed. An apple
and all the time I thought
that sickly, sweet smell
was love.

I had more fun
back in the old days
when I drank Boonesfarm
and could eat butter
and drink all the milk
I wanted out of a jug
and feel satisfied.
 
Back in the day when Mother
was saddle-stiched
and printed on newsprint
and eating brown bread
was only for us hippies.
   
I'm cleaned up
now in more ways than one
and digging the technology
of this Brave New World
but Man, what I wouldn't
give to be camped
in the woods
in a van that might not start
with you and a joint.

Lavonne....

  I had a giggle.... Tickled Pink by any chance? 

Laura

Huntress

Diana on the hunt
  with poison-tipped pen,
Pauses to admire
  the thoughts of some men
But quickly returns
  to the point of the hunt
The goddess states clearly,
  “I must always be blunt.
If you place on display
  the plumage you cherish
Be prepared for my shaft
  or you may soon perish!
My arrows are true
  And pain they can cause,
So bandage the wound
  With much thought and some gauze.
Though you have survived,
  My aim was still true.
I’ve improved your verse
  By expressing my view!”

for a friend who can be very pointed in her criticism and who is usually correct!

Daily Dance

found poetry

Tap here.

Wait for 0.0.

Step on.

Addiction

“You’re addicted
to that computer.”
he said.

I thought,
“How clever of you
to think
deep thoughts
and use
a remote at the same time.

This sure made me chuckle.

Pamme

I

Larry waited until I walked
to the mail box and when
I turned around
He was right there
blocking my retreat,
asking me how things were going.
He was dripping with sweat;
mower crouched beside him,
engine growling.
Again, he was telling me
I should clear out that back garden.
“Tall grass invites
rodents, you know.”
I kept my eyes focused on the junk mail
and muttered that
Chuck would get around to it.
Larry gave up; he hates to waste gas
and breath.


II

Later,
when the sun was sinking
I lay down in the grass
at the back of the garden.
From my cradle I could see
Larry with a beer in his hand
watching me
from his redwood deck.
All I could hear
was the creepings
of polka-dotted ladies
and rabbits.
I ignored Larry.


III

Larry finally got to my husband
and when I returned home
from the market yesterday,
my front yard
was raked clean. The forsythia
and rose of sharon were gone,
guillotined at the root by rusted shears.
“Looks great, doesn’t it?
It took me all day to do it.”
I’m going to work on the back garden
tomorrow.  I couldn’t speak. No pink and yellow
flowers next spring. No green
to block my view of
a noisy highway.
I remember Desiree told me,
“The poetry's in the clippings
not the groomed lawn.”

My poetry sits
in black plastic bags
at the end of the drive.






I'd appreciate your thoughts on this raw poem...

I know-it needs paring down to the essentials.
It's a long read to get to a weak ending.

Unicorns and dragons are definite no-no’s
as subjects for poetry.
Wolves are OK but only just.
Never use soul or butterfly
and avoid love if at all possible.

Oh. And if you start a poem with the word THERE
you aren’t, so don’t.

Lavonne....

As always... just add this to the amazing things you write..... wonderful!

Laura

You make me giggle. :)

Every sugar tit lick
and slap of reddened skin,
every indignant, angry
fling of arm and hand
and word,
every proud epiphany
of adolescence and
old age,
every struggle for overstimulation
of nerve endings
that ever
I experienced is quickened again
by your breath on my neck.

Lavonne, this last piece deserves its own page. Nice work.

Just hiding this away for review - it will emerge again.

 Breathes there the girl
« on: November 11, 2006, 09:30:15 AM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
At twelve I learned to breathe a poem.
It took me weeks but in the end
the words came forth upon their own.
The moment I stood before the class
reciting lines to help me pass
tears filled my eyes. I understood!
My teacher said I sounded scared.
She did not expect to find I cared
for the meaning in the words.
So came a zero from her pen
and laughter from the children
Yet doubly dying as I did that day
I could not turn from poesy's sway.
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"I may be a sheep, but I'm pissed off and I don't run in a herd."
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #1 on: November 11, 2006, 09:39:19 AM » by milner place
Rhyming it this way is so apt for the subject. I wondered if to escape the inversion in the last line, you coudn't use 'poetry' as a rhyme for 'day'?  'I couldn't turn away from poetry.'  Could use 'my back on').

milner
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'Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar'
- Antonio Machado
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #2 on: November 11, 2006, 09:46:32 AM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
Yes! I'll think on that. I want the right number of syllables in that end line.
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"I may be a sheep, but I'm pissed off and I don't run in a herd."
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #3 on: November 11, 2006, 01:44:57 PM » by Vasile Baghiu
A very beautiful and poem, Lavonne!
Vasile
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  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #4 on: November 11, 2006, 01:47:04 PM » by Lynn Doiron
I like this, lavonne -- but also have a problem with that end line; it seems more natural for "I could not turn away" to open the line.  I'm wondering if "from poetry" might be altered somehow --"from sonnet's sway" -- I dunno.  "from word and rhyme" "from rhyme and poem"

lynn
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lynndoiron.wordpress.com for memoir/journal/poetry blog
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #5 on: November 11, 2006, 02:21:09 PM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
Thanks all. I always thought the end line was very weak.  It took a few new eyes to set me straight.  Lynn, your suggestion was perfect. I have the correct number of syllables and a much stronger line.
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"I may be a sheep, but I'm pissed off and I don't run in a herd."
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #6 on: November 11, 2006, 11:44:44 PM » by Lynn Doiron
*grin*
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lynndoiron.wordpress.com for memoir/journal/poetry blog
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #7 on: Today at 11:14:08 AM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
With all this sonnet talk going around, I thought I'd pull this out to work on. I've replaced the word sonnet in the last line with poesy.

I can count on one hand the number of rhyming poems I've written and this one has some meter problems.

Any suggestions gang?
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"I may be a sheep, but I'm pissed off and I don't run in a herd."
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #8 on: Today at 12:35:04 PM » by maggie flanagan-wilkie
el vee,

Head into meterland with this el, vee.

I learned to spit out poetry at twelve* IP

I got a chill from poetry at twelve. ** Tetrameter

The difference between the two is in how you scan the word poetry,
with one or two prominent stresses.

Mugs
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  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #9 on: Today at 01:37:22 PM » by silent lotus
Dear Lavonne

if there is an unstudied poet here at the circle
then it is certainly me......so i am in no position
to offer assistance here ......

yet

i should like to say that the beauty of the sentiment expressed
is one that i find compassionate to the soul of poet Greenwolfe
and so many other poets who truly care for the universe
of the creative voice

i hope that whatever revisions may come
that the essence of your message does not
become diminished.

thank you for resurrecting your poem
from the archives

and that you will one day also share
this with us at Buddah's tea house

silent lotus
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  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #10 on: Today at 04:10:53 PM » by Lynn Doiron
So pleased to see this back, lavonne.  [Will let the meter experts play with what may need helpl -- I'm useless in that area].  The rhyme fits the age, nostalgia, voice.  A treat.  lynn
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lynndoiron.wordpress.com for memoir/journal/poetry blog
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #11 on: Today at 04:20:36 PM » by maggie flanagan-wilkie
sl,

Why would you bring up greenwolfe's soul in a thread that should be addressing lavonne's concern with her poem and only that?

If you try and stay on track in the submit, editor's pick and front page threads, less time would be wasted in reading non-essential dialogue that belongs in discusions or pms.

Sidebars have no place in threads when writers are expecting
poet-speak from reviewers which lavonne indicated was her
purpose in reviving this thread.

You yourself say, in the quoted text below, that you are unstudied
and in no position to offer assistence to lavonne in this thread.

A simple I like this lavonne, or anyone else whose poem you read in the future
would serve the poet.

Maggie



Quote
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #9 on: Today at 01:37:22 PM » by silent lotus
Dear Lavonne

if there is an unstudied poet here at the circle
then it is certainly me......so i am in no position
to offer assistance here ......

yet

i should like to say that the beauty of the sentiment expressed
is one that i find compassionate to the soul of poet Greenwolfe
and so many other poets who truly care for the universe
of the creative voice

i hope that whatever revisions may come
that the essence of your message does not
become diminished.

thank you for resurrecting your poem
from the archives

and that you will one day also share
this with us at Buddah's tea house

silent lotus

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  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #12 on: Today at 04:29:20 PM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
Mugs,

Thanks for the road sign. I've been reading it over and over this afternoon. Trying to decide accents/stresses. This is helping me - lots.

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"I may be a sheep, but I'm pissed off and I don't run in a herd."
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #13 on: Today at 04:34:27 PM » by silent lotus
Quote from: maggie flanagan-wilkie on Today at 04:20:36 PM
sl,

Why would you bring up greenwolfe's soul in a thread that should be addressing lavonne's concern with her poem and only that?

If you try and stay on track in the submit, editor's pick and front page threads, less time would be wasted in reading non-essential dialogue that belongs in discusions or pms.

Sidebars have no place in threads when writers are expecting
poet-speak from reviewers which lavonne indicated was her
purpose in reviving this thread.

You yourself say, in the quoted text below, that you are unstudied
and in no position to offer assistence to lavonne in this thread.

A simple I like this lavonne, or anyone else whose poem you read in the future
would serve the poet.

Maggie


 


Dear Maggie

Thank you for the tongue lashing.

Yet as i remember it Greenwolfe is a friend of Lavonne's
and came to this site at her invitation.

How unfortunate that my attempt at being
positive about him as well as other poets,
and my way of expressing my most positive appreciation for Lavonne's poem
does not sit well with you in your world.

silent lotus
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  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #14 on: Today at 05:11:20 PM » by Tom Riordan
Very curious little poem, Lavonne. Very girl-like indeed. Compellingly interesting. I'm not crazy about "poesy" for "poetry," seems either too seriously lofty or too facetiously lofty to me. Unclear to me: did N never recite the poem, or did she recite it fear- and tear-fully, and got a zero for that? -Tom
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 Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #15 on: Today at 05:22:20 PM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
I got it out - tearfully and fearfully - she thought I didn't know it but it was burned in my heart and emotion overcame me. Really - it's not very good - I just feel I should expand my horizon! It used to say sonnet but that didn't seem right either. Anyway, isn't poesy just the type of word a girl would use?  Smiley


Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
"This is my own, my native land!"
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,
As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.
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"I may be a sheep, but I'm pissed off and I don't run in a herd."
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #16 on: Today at 05:33:53 PM » by Tom Riordan
She gave you a ZERO for that?? That's why I was confused, made no sense. Give  me  her  name!

Yes, a girl might well write "poesy" but I want to see that omen of maturity that the poem is, after all, about. I don't read a sentimental girl infatuated with poetry as with a matinee idol, I read the beginning a mature poet.

--Tom
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  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #17 on: Today at 07:10:53 PM » by Lavonne Westbrooks
Teachers in the sixties - what can I say?

and That's why I'm duke-ing it out with this poem - the woman will win in the end! Smiley
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"I may be a sheep, but I'm pissed off and I don't run in a herd."
  Re: Breathes there the girl
« Reply #18 on: Today at 07:55:28 PM » by EMH
I remember my sophomore year, in an all girl's private school, reading a poem out loud and after I finished it the only thing the teacher asked me was, 'do you write poetry often?' I mumbled yes and quickly sat down. She gave me a D and said it was, 'for effort' because, 'it didn't have a rhyme scheme' (which wasn't required mind you).

I feel ya sista
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"Then a very gentle voice in the distance said, "She must be labeled 'Lass, with care,' you know."
- Through the Looking Glass

I haven't read everything in this thread, mind you. There may be others that deserve their own space as well.

:)

Tentatively entitled

Damn Americans

my grandson brought the Americans
to dinner and they were inquisitive 
always wanting to know things
how we buy food
they called it
                     groceries
I gestured to the garden
that is food I said
I don’t buy
                     groceries
how we travel
                     why should I travel?
I went to Russia
during the war and that was enough travel for a lifetime
I was a general then
these Americans they do laugh a lot
it is enough
I brought out the cognac 
the American boy saw a medal on the wall
what is this? he said
I told him


later I went to the bedroom
and opened the old chest 
in the bottom
was the uniform
I laughed and put on the jacket
the Americans toasted me and I laughed 
by the end of the night the cognac was almost gone
and I was wearing my full uniform 
the holster was stiff and cracked but
the gun had been wrapped in oiled paper.

the snow and rain made a mess of the road
I said stay
tonight
this stone house is cold
but we still have cognac
and blankets
they laughed
and left
the car got stuck halfway up the hill
they all got out to push
I left the house to help
that stiff uniform - I don’t know
maybe it was cognac
I felt strong

we pushed, the woman, the men
got that car to the top
and then I slipped
rolled all the way to the bottom
mud and snow in my face
damn Americans
it was god damn cold 

I was god damn laughing


My son is just back from a trip to Moldova to visit with the family of a friend.
His description of this elderly man had to be told.
He was a General who fought with the Russians in WWII

this is not a poem
she argued
its just a dozen words

perhaps

                 I thought

a picture
would have been
worth more

just pining:
between
respondeat superior
prima facie
and more to come
there is little room
for poems

i rest my case

Paralegal studies is intense.  I miss you all!
My goodness, I admire you CEO!

Carl Sandburg

ruined it
for all cat lovers
and poets

no one
can use
a cat simile
or metaphor

evermore

god doesn’t do
anything
we can’t do
for ourselves
including


destruction

Down at Thirsty Kirsty’s

Poor Stewart laid down the law
one time too many
and what did he get for it?
Booted to the street
for being indiscreet!

Old John Throw
lived up to his name.
“Kirsty would have
turned over in his grave
if I hadna read ‘im the bans.”

“There’s one thing more
that’s as certain
as death and taxes,”
John said as
he mopped the bar.
“Stewart’s opinion always
follows ‘im wherever ‘e goes."

Privately Tom and Pat
raised their glasses
to the newly legislated
smoke-free atmosphere.




LOL I need to get out more - this is the second poem in a row in this subject.
http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/147091/Barred_For_Creating_A_Breeze

Hey Lavonne! Really enjoy your playfullness here. The end stanza made me go "whoa, I missed something here" so I re-read it and I really like how you leave just the right amount of holes inside the poem to create an intrigue with the reader. Thank you. Smoke-free rules.

Thanks Joseph.  It won't be saved for posterity but maybe it'll "hang around in the air" for a while!

LOL : )

Actually, I'm looking for a suggestion.  A colloquialism I can use for line 10.
Not really satisfied with: if I hadn’t read ‘im the bans.”

This is hilllllarious, and reminds me of a story, a friend of mine met this guy in a bar (smoke-free, yea!) and he had a job,education, no previous marriages, no psycho ex's, great dresser, straight, polite, not a heavy drinker, not a drug user and she just stared at him (kind of drunkish like) and said, 'oh my god' poked him, looked back up at him and said, 'are you a unicorn?' random? yes please. :) thanks for the reminder, I really do like your poems, they all have this cute playfulness to them, even the serious subject ones have a lightness to them, like your telling your reader not to really take themselves so seriously, its just life after all!

so pleased EB so pleased. thanks!

Of Happiness

The traffic reporter
is hovering
over our local
theme park

Traffic on I20
is jammed from
here to Alabama

Admission is free

And people are
actually
leaving their kids
on the roadside -
the damn expressway

to brave the lanes on foot
in pursuit

I like how the last line circles back into the beginning, it kind of reflects the never ending, tiresome factor of theme parks. Why is admission free? Parents would rather pay than deal with that big of a line...wouldn't they?

OMG - there was such a mess down here in Atlanta today.

A radio station sponsored the promotion. Opens at 6 am free admission until 11 am.  They actually had to close the park at 6;15 am. People had clogged the xway by 3:30 am and were parking in the shoulder! Letting kids out to fend for themselves! There were at least 6 car accidents and several fist fights!

Struck me as a strange way to achieve "the pursuit of happiness" but somehow typical for our hedonist society.  I think the promotions department had one toke too many to come up with that idea!

Thanks for noticing the construction of the poem!

I have just read number 30 for the first time, and I absolutely agree with Nora. I love the sassy, matter-of-fact-ness...it's almost like a "note to self" type dealy-o. Keep 'em comin' Lavonne.

Perceptive Joe! LOL I used to keep a sticky note on my computer that read NO ING'S, ANDS, OR BUTS as a reminder to find new ways to say what I want to say. AND I post things at another very chaotic site full of teeny-boppers, "emos", first timers, etc.  Most of it is crap but isn't every first poem? My little note to myself and a unicorn poem inspired the tongue in cheek advice.  Of course, I've broken ALL my rules...except I haven't written a poem about unicorns - yet.

Fight to the finish

snow
on cherry
blossoms

This reminds me of Pablo Neruda's short, one liner...

"I want to do with you what spring does to cherry trees."

I like your image...isn't this a strange winter/spring? They really are fighting.

Just being somewhere close to being kinda like Neruda - that is high praise. You made me happy!

How a man rests
and a ship sinks


funny
what goes through
the mind of a tired man
who drinks
Irish whiskey

as the evening glides
hour by hour
thinks about
how bad life can be
how good life is for him – for them
how she’s a damn good cook
and a damn bad housekeeper

refills the ice trays
which reminds him
of the Titanic

you know
how the ship sank
chamber by chamber
filling with water

Lavonne, left and right today, I tell ya. This is a keeper. I got to the end and a huge smile washed over my face. I love the simplicity of how you write, it's comforting in a way. I also like how the "hour by hour" mirrors "chamber by chamber," as if the hours that go by in his drinking is a slow decent into the ocean, and death. This works so nicely...I think you should post it.

well...OK
I was wondering if the connection was there.

you have spurred me on!

What poetry is:

Once in a while
a swift and graceful swimmer
will cut across the lake
pushing aside the frog-kickers
ignoring the skimmers
and outrunning the snakes

Thanks Nora. Much appreciated and BTW you deserved that bump!
Finally thought of a title:

Chef-d'oeuvre

Once in a while
a swift and graceful swimmer
will cut across the lake
pushing aside the frog-kickers,
ignoring the skimmers,
and outrunning the snakes.

Am I?

I never kept my brother
but my bones have turned black
with his pain anyway.
I cannot lie in any place
without feeling
the gravel and asphalt
of his travels.

I watch from a broken chair
in a shabby hospital room
as he strong-arms the air
for breath and wins

while I
am the one who wants to die.

When you do it right

I can use rasp
and play mandolin
but I'm no carpenter
or musician.

I am a chef;
I bake pâte à choux clouds,
pipe royal roses
and buttercream shells.

It's just that
         nothing,
nothing
is so satisfying
as the moment when
the opposites of
white and yoke meld
into harmonious,
buttery yellow
and I hear the
perfect tone,
the thunk, thunk, thunk
of fork
never touching the bowl.

Breath
On my neck.
I turned.
"Sarx," he said.
"My name is Sarx.

Gravel road,
dappled sunshine.
Countless versions of green.
High banks:
earth falls away
from roots,
flesh of the land
revealed.
Trees lean
into the road.
Truck windows down,
wind scours my skin,
forces stray hair
back and massages
my forehead.
Fingers splayed,
I hold hands
with the wind.

What the girl friend said
 
Man, it’s fucking
weird how those cars
get into the pit
and gassed up
in just a few seconds.
 
It’s a cool job
to have, I guess.
Intense,
but I’d still rather
be the ride.

Cars


She licked the backseat with her
selflessness and, I guess, with her
teeth intact bit the stickshift.

Crabs, anyone?

Wonderful! : )

no more walking on water
the fish float belly up,
lie scattered on a brimstoned beach
or stored in baskets with weeviled bread

children turn from the smell

Oh, yeah...I believe

the preacher raised his hand
and asked
who wants to go to heaven
everyone in the congregation
raised their hands

who wants to go now
he queried
and all the hands went down

including his

heart trouble


she’s sick
short of breath
dry cough
all the symptoms
she’s had a good run
she knows it

 
   
what’s scary
is watching him
he’s slowing down, too
   
and she hopes like hell
they’ll cross the line
together.

lmao!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! you crack me up. nothing is ever fun without imagination. (I just wish I had one)

New knives today. As sharp as words ( and cheap as words to boot!)

No, no, no, you misunderstand and thereby prove my point. (Bless every word you write!) New knives, chef and sotuku, parers. I am deliciously happy! And they were so truly inexpensive! I'm seeing the world from my own selfish point of view!  It's a wonder how powerful this weapon of language can be!

: )

I get excited over the smallest of things. I buy my aprons, tablecloths, half sheets at Sam's club and now they carry Tramontina knives. White plastic handles for sanitation, high carbon steel. Nice heft.  $12 for two chef's or two sotuku knives! $6 for four paring knives. 

Been julienning carrots and have no idea what to use them in. It just so easy again!

good gawd! to think I'm a buyer for a subsidiary of Sam's club -not culinary but clothes - a bit out of the loop recently, the restaurant and all is weaving my way out- go figure, right under my nose you see.. frickin moron I am- I can't help but believe it... sheesh! make no mistake, I'll be checkin it out and heaving my discount heavy before I'm done.  I have a Cuisinart at home and a jenn-aire ? stovetop, it's so old now I can't read the label but I love it, and my double oven is stored downstairs until the house is finished- I've redone the kitchen about five times so far..we could be finished with construction lickety-split if I'd just move on... last house we lived in Seattle, we had just barely coverted the island to hold a wine cooler beneath, That kitchen was about 14x12 in the shape of a U except for the island I mentioned..I loved it. I have every gadget known to man but still use my hands mostly ....lmao.

Ahhh. But there's always one more improvement to make!

City

Eighteen year old secretary
on the corner of Peachtree and Fifth
Clutches bag to breast
nonchalantly, of course.
Prays behind sunglasses
that the bus won't be long.
Damn Cutlass speeds by and a bottle thrown.
Shards and beer splash her pants
there’s a cut is on the top of her foot.
When she boards the bus
no one notices – she's wearing black pants,
black hose, black shoes. Sits in the front.
She can feel the blood run; and is glad
for a reason to hang her hatred on.

awwww....

Mess with the line breaks and this should be submitted...You've got that matter-of-fact tone working.

larry

Gosh - I was just commenting but now you've inspired me!

The Established Path

animal path to human trail
wound round to towns
and routes for wheels
encircled the earth
and leapt the edge
to navigate the star-mapped sky

Forrest, I think your mama was wrong
Life is like Mexican food
The same ingredients are always on the inside
It just depends how you wrap the tortilla.

Authors Preface

What did you expect to find when you opened my book?
Erudite revelations? Practical advice? Jolly anecdotes?

Well, Einstein already explained the photoelectric effect
and God already wrote the bible (so they say.)

All that was left for me was my own thoughts.  So if you
are disinclined to read further, please don’t.

Been preserving barbecue sauce today. My own recipe, "Screaming Tomato'" I have never lived in a home with central air conditioning, so the windows are open. But the screens are tight and sturdy. Perhaps it's in the kitchen that I learned one catches the biggest flys with the sweetest honey.

However, there's not even one insect part per million in my sauce so I guess the government can't test it.  Anyway, I'd rather putter with pots and poems in my own way and enjoy the respect and requests I receive for both. I think it's the libertarian flavor in my cooking.

Your wish is my...

Screaming Tomato
Barbeque Sauce

1 c Worchester sauce
¼ c liquid smoke
6 T pepper flakes
3 t Black pepper
2 t canning salt
12 c catsup (I've been the make your own route and its just too many hours added to the process)
7 c honey
6 cans green chilies (prefer fresh if you can find)
5 onions
25 cloves garlic
¼ c hot sauce
12 t dry mustard
2 t celery seed
3 c balsamic vinegar (inexpensive)
2 c chopped celery
2 c chopped green and red sweet pepper
2 habanera peppers (seeds and pith removed)

Process all vegetables into very finely minced slurry. Combine all ingredients and simmer for twenty minutes to combine flavors.  Use a heavy pot and stir constantly as this WILL BURN EASILY.

Can be used immediately or canned. Pour the hot sauce (180 degrees Fahrenheit or greater) into hot, clean pint or quart canning jars. Place hot lids and seals onto the jars and place in a hot water bath for 10 minutes (for half pints or pints) or 20 minutes (for quarts).  If canning DO NOT reduce the amount of vinegar.

Makes about 18 pints. Recipe can be halved. (or quartered! I make enough for the family!)

Actually, Screaming Tomato comes from a silly incident two nights ago. But the name is just too good not to use! A sliced tomato was the last thing left on my plate and there were two drops of butter on it. I realized it had a face and seemed to be screaming at me.

As I pondered late that night
about the poor tomato's plight
I couldn't help but take a bite...

I have a strange affliction, I see faces. Yes, in inanimate objects. When I point them out everyone else sees them too. But I see them all the freaking time!

For instance, the "Send a Free Love Letter" ad on the right side of this web page...don't you see the face? The two people make the nose...

I know I'm a sick woman.

The Confession of a Cottingley Fairy

The years wore away the look on his face,
the look she saw that night.
That one and only night.
She was twelve; he was drunk.
The years wore away the guilt he felt
after he felt
                         her

She was a bookish girl
and for a long while after
only spoke to books
and books were the only things that spoke to her.

She wanted to be Tinkerbell for Pan,
Jim Hawkins, or the Lady of Shalott.
Galahad sitting at the Siege Perilous.

She wanted to quest
but found it was paper,
                                 after all.






His epitath

He died old and jolly.
The big heart worn out
Never had to be anyone but himself
and almost everyone loved him for it.

So, for years I've experienced this seeing of faces everywhere.  I always thought it was a reaction to stress; my mind wanting to find some order in the chaos.  Turns out it's real and called Pareidolia -  "...describes a psychological phenomenon involving a vague and random stimulus (often an image or sound) being perceived as significant."

Related to: Apophenia is the experience of seeing patterns or connections in random or meaningless data. The term was coined in 1958 by Klaus Conrad, who defined it as the "unmotivated seeing of connections" accompanied by a "specific experience of an abnormal meaningfulness".

I don't know - sounds suspiciously like the definition of a poet to me...

Intel inside

Today Macs and PCs
talk each other’s language,
language means
nothing anymore
unless you want to order
a cup of black coffee somewhere.

There is a key sequence
for any translation you want to hear.
In fact, Dr. Shivers, computers
can even read your handwriting.

And it is still
hot as hell in August
in Atlanta
and the buzzards ride thermals
trying to catch the smell
of rotting meat.


After reading 16-bit Intel 8088 chip by Charles Bukowski

Sun Valley

Your sunburn
and your shining moon
of an arse
reminded me
of childhood days
at the beach
with bucket and spade
grinding the sand into our hair
and every crevice,
even the ones
covered by our bathing suits.
We knew well
the next day would mean
a good hair brushing
to remove the sand
and a slathering of mom's
skin problem cure-all, calamine
to combat that
Vitamin D glow.
Somehow the sand
never bothered us
in the bright of the sun
but in the deep, dark back seat
of that green ‘53 Buick
that sand would begin
to itch it's way out
and the burn would itch it’s way in.
We'd be in agony and tears
by the time we got home
and all of us,
brothers, mom, and dad
would go to bed mad
and sunburned.

We always went back.



Thanks for the encouragement Gaia

Brown Hair

At noon
he pulled the bag
from his bottom drawer
produced a fat-free
bologna and cheese
sandwich,
baked chips,
and a pickle.
One bite and
found a
24-inch brown hair.

Her brown hair
gets in everything
he thought.

An impulse
made him stuff
it in his
shirt pocket.

Maybe the roach was Archie the free verse poet (of Archie and Mehitabel fame) come to rescue you from the Phuds!

LOL you could be right!

In a field before a storm

I stand.
A well-kept red barn to my right
and far to my left a stack wood fence.
Bounded East and West
by subdivided parcels
of mortgaged and manicured
split-levels and ranches,
this place seems corralled,
a sort of concentration camp
for pastoral life. 

The dappled grass captures my eye;
recently cut and baled,
the ground resembles
a great expanse of camouflaged cloth. 
“Don’t find me yet.”
I hear the words
in the rustling grass
and I can’t tell if it’s me
praying to the sky
or the field praying to me.

Turning my head skyward,
searching for the sun
which caused this phenomenon,
I am privy to a field of battle.
There is a line of demarcation
between a blue sky hiding
in hedgerows of fire-stained clouds
and a menacing army
of dark thunderheads.
I hear drummers urging them forward.

The light side fairly sparkles
with prismatic rays
casting themselves upon the field
while the dark side
prepares an offensive.
There are areas so murky
that the volatile flashes
of young lightning
only deepen the colors
of the militant clouds.

My skin begins to prickle;
my heart pounds.
I feel the changing air pressure.
I know the danger
of remaining too long,
but the fierce air
strokes my face.
It tastes good.
Besides,
I smell a good fight coming.

This made me cry, in a good way, I love, LOVE this poem :)

Thanks EB - I was giggling the whole time I was thinking about writing it. : )

A poem is like a fart
Both build up inside you
until they have to come out.

Sometimes they are little toots
meant to ease or entertain the moment
and sometimes they are great yawps
and come with emotion.

Once out
the poet and the fartist
are both satisfied.

But often the audience is not.

How to become successful
(which is much different from becoming famous)

The thing about John Denver
is that he wasn't afraid
to use cliches.
Love and dolphins,
sunshine and hope.
It's all there.

He's resting easy
I'm sure
knowing that
whether we liked
his music or not
every damn one of us
can sing something he wrote.

I have no idea what he sang, seriously. I kind of feel bad....

BUT, a fellow writer of mine used to always say after long periods of not writing that she had to take a 'big poetry shit' lol....i was reminded by your fart poem, lol....

I, on the other hand, am constipated by my own ineptness. ha!
sorry, know you were talking ~ but seriously ~ you can't think of 'anything' he sang? I wish I couldn't lol. (sometimes)

EB you be downright unA!

lol, I have absolutely NO idea what a 'unA' is, young? lol...yea, I know what he looks like, does that count?

UNAmerican!
she says while humming...

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me haaaapppy
  Sunshine in my eyes can make meee cry

LOL! Lavonne are you tempting me? I thought unA was a southern thANG ;)

(and I am so NOT, I love america/troops/red,white&blue/pumpkinpie/rape&pilageothercountriesandlietotheentirecountryabout it, you know, american! yay! ;D )

You so fiunny EB!

aggregate of bone
and earth

a ripening bowl

cup marked boulder
under the sun

Girl, this one's for you
(A little background knowledge; I have a neighbor, who has been trying to get me to go out with him for about a year, he is creepy and I finally told him so and now he makes his mission in life to fuck with mine. k? k.)
'Colored Music'

So I was cleaning
(what else is new?)
and all my windows were
wide open, letting
the fullness of
Ms. Nina Simone's
'To Young, Gifted and Black'
sail in the crisp apple dust

when dickwad comes 'aknockin'

Hey! I can hear your music.

                                      and?

And, you can't listen to that.

                                     what?

You're not black, you can't listen to that music.

                                     So you're trying to tell me that people are only allowed to
                                     listen to music if its, what, catagorized by their skin color?
Yea.

                                     So, what do white people listen to? John Denver?


;) Luffs!

once again roflmao

the cd's in my car at the moment:

Usher
red hot chilli peppers
the chieftains
ira copeland
toby keith
ladysmith
janis joplin
SRV
jimi hendrix
patsy cline
milner place
tom waits
miles davis
james brown


but yes I do have a john denver album!

I was talking to my girl friend at work last week (who has a french name)
when her sister called, she told her sister she was talking to Lavonne and her sister
asked her how come that white girl got a black name!

I hate sterotypes!

BTW somewhere on this site back in the historic pages I huffed and puffed about how I didn't like leetspeak.

but h3ll, I'm even warming up to that speakage tekniq!
I don't want to be a lamer or a luser anymore!
I'm a newbie at it so I hope I haven't munged anything up!

lol

I was with you till I saw the toby keith and then I threw up in my mouth a little bit

you so funny.
that's for going to the bar with the gurlfriends.
after all this is Georgia!

having a journal here
is so much better
than a paper one
that never
talks back to you

I was thinking the same thing....lol....
Um, there was something, but I forgot.shit.

O, yea, mike down here in the disrict we call that 'glow in the dark'

you know, if you want to be a really HONEST leet speaker you type TOL

thinking about laughing
cause nobody ever really
laughs out loud!

We've been in trouble for a long time
she mused

I said
What do you mean?

God
she said
Lost his claim on light
when Edison invented the light bulb.

The comments below refer to a post that has been removed for publication in Trash and Crackers, Pigeonbike Poetry.

aw, I really like this. I hate the Metro bus, its not this friendly, someone always gets stabbed. Which is not as funny, but no, no its not even close. I hope you make this longer!

Lavonne,

Know right where Doraville is.  My great aunt and uncle lived there. We used to visit alot.  I can picture that city like the back side of my hand.... nice.

Laura

LOL I grew up a mile away from the gasoline depot!

Thought I left my praise for this, but ??? Where did it go???  Great, L. 

WOW!  What a great piece all on its own!

To be enlarged (or should I say engorged?)

Lake Tanganyika,
shivers and the ripples
lap at Gustave’s feet

Gustave is charismatic
and huge
such a healthy appetite

We call him serial killer
but he doesn’t savor the label
so he endures in the shadows
lolls by the river

Does the dry season
draw us to the river
no
we are the ones with the
demonic appetite

Killer
hunts to live
more successful
than the average man

one woman
one flirtatious woman
brings famine
and abundance

passes me by
or lingers on a whim
once my name
was on her lips

tonight
while I sleep
her hands will
pull me
to her bosom.

my one
intimate friend

I admire her
she’s 77
and has never
touched a keyboard
writes letters
longhand
keeps her jewelry
in all the original boxes
wears nylon underwear
and rolls each pair
into a tiny
unrumpled package
whether on the way to
the wash or from

Hides her regrets
in a lump
in her throat
behind an
unwrinkled
stiff
upper lip

Today
I've racked the wine,
massacred two pumpkins for pies,
AND roasted their nuts.
Mopped a floor,
cleaned two toilets,
and wrinkle-released his shirts-
I don't do irons.

So why do I feel so bloody
unsatisfied?

because you didn't get to eat the pies

yet : )

Light, blue and yellow
deliciously licking bamboo floors
beneath frosted windows

'Hides her regrets
in a lump
in her throat
behind an
unwrinkled
stiff
upper lip'


thats some smooth sentence

he teeters on the edge
tries to hug me
and hold his crutch
at the same time
tries to celebrate
but he cuts his eyes
at the door
every time it opens
to admit another relative
he breathes deep
the icy air
recalling an old rush
and listens
to the imperious voice
of the wind

I wish this last one was longer

Overheard by the coffee pot:

"...that wii thing
wii, wii you know that game.
They have this new game for it.
It's called PowerWord
or something.
It, like, teaches
you to
to
to
express yourself
better
by you picking
the right
word."

I love my wii ;)

success
sounds in
the tap
high heels
bare floors

she’s passed

On the edge of my field
a tornado dances.

My nostrils flare,
capture the wind
and I savor what comes.

A pretty much true story.

Squirrelly Cheeks went fishing

"What the hell." he said "There's nothing else to do." So he called up Jim and got out the John boat. The sun was hot, the beer was cold. They both got burned and drunk and sleepy. The lake was quiet when Jim hooked the fish. Later he said he must have fought for it an hour but really, he was just having a hard time standing up. You know how time slows down when you are dizzy? When he saw its scales flash in the sun he just knew he'd finally hooked the one that would make him famous in the bait shop. A picture of him, Jim and his great big fish would make the bulletin board by tonight, if he got his wish. Squirrelly got inspired and cast out far to his left but his thumb missed the button and Squirrelly hooked Jim on the back swing. The cooler tumbled over the side and the tackle box went in, too. Then all the worms and the food and the beer and Squirrelly's wife's Polaroid went in. Jim fell in too. And he lost the fish.

Squirrelly pulled Jim back into the boat with a sheepish grin on his face. They both used the paddles to rescue the floating beer cans and the poles. Squirrelly let Jim have the beer and that kept the cussing down a little. Jim pulled into Squirrelly back drive and watched him get his remaining gear out of the truck. He muttered to himself that it was only a carp, but it was the biggest damn carp he'd ever seen. He could still remember the flash of the scales. Later that night Jim's wife said the truck smelled of wet dog and what the hell did he do that day. Jim said he'd leave the windows down. "It's gonna be hot on the lake tomorrow," he said. "It'll air out while me and Squirrelly are fishing."

L.

You've been busy resurrecting all kinds of stuff. Thanks and great little story...

larry

LOL Thanks! It's the time of year for looking in closets to see what you can find!

I look for the profile of Sinai in every mountain
and for the sea in every patch of reeds

I love those last lines [among others].  Happy Eight! 

Email as poetry:

Aren't you glad
there is only one

of me? 

I do have a twin
but her beard
comes out black. 

She tells inquiring minds
that my eyebrow
is straight across.

Kindly

just past Cave Springs
there’s a gas station
by the looks of the stair step
facade it must have been built
sometime in the teens
the gas added later

I hear her voice
when the clerk speaks

yeah
it is kindly unusual
to sell beads and dolls
at a gas station
but
they’s a lot
of old ladies
live alone in this county
and this here place
is where they
like ta hang

she was kindly country
and liked beads and dolls
made biscuits and gravy
every day

i like her
and what you've written of her, nice characterization and place setting in not much space.

Jan 15

I’ve been sitting around this house for a month now and spending too many hours on the computer. I’ve rewritten my resume as many times as I’ve applied for jobs. The count must be over two hundred by now. No one has called me or emailed me. Well, that’s wrong, I sent my resume to my insurance man, whose office is down the street and he responded! Wanted to know if I would like to sell insurance.

I don’t think so.

I tell you I feel as if I’ve been sucked out of my body and deposited in some vaguely familiar place.  January 1 saw me sick as a dog and I couldn’t cook my traditional dinner. The dinner I did cook was awful. After explicitly following AB’s recipe for city ham, both my husband and I were disgusted when we tasted it.  We felt the meat was over cooked and damn it, ginger snaps just do not belong on ham. He must have gotten that recipe from Mrs. Cropley.

Jan 16

Paid all the insurances and tomorrow four trees are being removed from the front garden. That depresses me so. Both for the thousands of dollars that are bleeding from my bank account and for the pileated woodpecker, goldfinches, kinglets, grey squirrels (including Half Tail,) ground squirrels and myriad other creatures that will vacate the premises.

Jan 17
7 PM

I have 23 logs in my front yard. The smallest is 14 feet and the longest is 23 feet.  Every time a portion fell to the ground, the house shuddered as if it feared to be next.  The house seems colder.  He-who-must-be-obeyed (I will forever be grateful to Rumpole for that nickname) was overjoyed to see the mess in the yard. All evening he complained about the cost. I’m worried to death about the tortoise who buried himself in the pine straw in the fall. Is he crushed beneath the great logs?

Jan 18

There is more light in my studio but it’s strong light and there are no dancing shadows in the corners any more. Will my paintings suffer, survive, or surmount? I locked myself out of the house this AM. Is there such a thing as a physical Freudian slip?

The woodpecker’s pine has one hundred twenty-two rings. Judging by when it died, it must have been born sometime in 1884.  Half Tail’s tree was an oak whose acorn sprouted in 1933. At its heart it was strong but its failing limbs posed a danger to my roof.

I imagine my mother at three years old, hand in hand with Nanny Gracie being taken to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace at the moment of the tree’s germination. (I know, but I was steeped in tea and Christopher Robin as a child…and I loved it.)

Oh lavonne what a great post and i hope with all my heart the tortoise is safe and okay. 

Waves shuffle the deck
present me with a new hand
before I can act on the old.
It’s conch to jellyfish low
when my ante
disappears with a bubble
down the gullet of a clam.
Damn ocean is clam rich
and ready to break against me.
I guess I’m in till I’m busted
and the waves call the clock.

I leave windows open
as if there is no danger outside.

Through windows float
words from two houses down.

Angry words that search for my ears
so they can continue to mean something.

The saddest thing I know
is that words really mean nothing.

Monarch of the Glen (revised)

There’s a bare spot
about three feet off the ground
on the gum tree at the wood’s edge.

I can see it from the
window over the sink.

In the twilight Cervidae
scars the tree, rubs his scent.

It’s late in the season
and the only female
he can attract

is me.



Monarch of the Glen (original)

There’s a bare spot
about three feet off the ground
on the gum tree at the wood’s edge.

I can see it from the
window over the sink.

In the twilight
solitary Cervidae
scars the tree
rubs his scent.

It’s late in the season
and the only female
he can attract

is me.

Had to google Cervidae but that's okay; well worth the sounds in that word and certainly always worth learning another bit of knowledge.  I like this, especially in what he attracts; not sure you need solitary; would it be out the window?  title's pretty great, too.

Yes, solitary can probably go as most people know that the male lives a solitary life. I don't know about from or out. It's a colloquial toss up I guess. Will ponder.

well, beyond the knowing they live a solitary life, there's a use of "only" a bit further down that indicates solo to me.  Yeah, I have a hard time with those prepositions and how something is properly said and skewed my comfort zone goes with trying to saying them thus . . .

Marcel prowls runways
Los Angeles - New York

sees bargains behind his
saucer-size sun glasses

runs two shops you know
Venice - Naples

when the dollar is down
it’s a trip to the USA

what costs half now
is sold to tourists for double

And so many Americans come

:-) I enjoyed visiting Venice and Naples in Florida
a little while back. You don't need to go to las Vegas
to see the world.
Don't know why I am mentioning this
but here seems as good as anywhere.

e

Out of the Box Talking

I think - when I think I
grow the least - that's
when I grow the most
but mostly -  I think I
grow -  when I think.

Your link led me to this Lavonne
I don't know if you ever did pare it down.
I hope not.

It is so exellent as is.

e

Too funny, lavonne!  enjoyed!

What a photographer is worth

saw the photographer next door
leaving with a suitcase
asked him how long he’d be gone
and should I check the mail

he shook his head
she thinks I left the house last night
but I slept in the darkroom

laid my head
on the enlarger table
and even pissed in the sink
I listened all night
but she never cried

so I packed
and left the negatives
clipped to the wire.

Lavonne!  This is superb.  Amazing good, good write. 

There's a yellow ball in the ditch below the house.
Every pass by the picture window
makes me think of the sun
fallen from some child's sky.

Love this one, too, Lavonne.  So inventive.  Makes me love your mind and how it works.  If you decide to post as a poem in Submit, the notes I might offer would be to change the sun to a sun and some child to a child, as in "makes me think of a sun / fallen from a child's sky."

You have a keen eye, my girl.

Lonely things.
The longing
and shortening of years
bites tongue;
feathers uvula
(cough and sputter.)

Pumping wings
without scales
and
a brain that drips down
the back of my throat.

Bitter track behind.

Dear Sam,

I hope you get well soon.
I’m enjoying the book.

I found your medical center receipt
in the middle of
the chapter about
The Jungle Goolah Boy

The spine is cracked right there
as if you couldn’t continue
so I’m sending my best wishes
to Washington
and thanks for the book.

I wish I could let you know
how it turns out.

I was trying to explain
to Auntie Janie
in Portsmouth
how good the thing tastes
but she dismissed it
a mud pie with toothpaste filling,
its very,
very sweet.
Milk? A biscuit dipped in milk?
Who does that?
I do not
twist,      lick,

or dunk.

#182 needs to go on the submit board. It has perfect pitch in the sense of playing on a couple of levels. Nice.

larry

I have this idea
that if you can
say everything
you want to in
your poem then
you needn’t have
written it at all.

On Searching for Poetic Voice

I used yawp
in a poem once
but it didn't sound
BARBARIC

That's
That's because it was a Southern yawp.  Hard to make that accent sound barbaric.  :-)

I have this idea
that if you can
say everything
you want to in
your poem then
you needn’t have
written it at all.

Ha-ha, like that one Lavonne, very true.

charged air
the smell of wet leaves
and beaten down honeysuckle
remission after a storm

Conclusion of the television documentary doctor

"What happened
to this lady
was clearly
a mystery."

I like 190-190 a lot.  Cut "remission" from 189?

I posted this on a poem thread the other day but the author has removed his poem - hopefully to work on it and repost it!

It's a subject that we should keep discussing so I am reprinting my response here:

One of the definitions of grammar is: "The study of how words and their component parts combine to form sentences."

Without grammar, spelling and punctuation, words are just so many letter forms scribbled on paper. It is like trying to fathom an ancient pile of rocks. Stonehenge has been studied for centuries but we will never know its purpose. The only understanding we can have is what we conjure in our minds.

Whether you like it or not, everyone, even the most rebellious poet, uses language and grammar and punctuation to communicate.  The most skilled know how to 'not use' same and get their point across because they first learned correct usage.

There is no requirement that the poet use punctuation and spell things correctly but if the poet deviates from the norm it should be to lead the reader in a specific direction, otherwise the reader gets lost.  The reader reads because he or she wants to understand.

That being said, one should never post anything without reading it backwards and forwards. Literally. If you read it backwards you'll find misspelled words easily. Spellcheck doesn't catch everything. Posting sloppy work isn't rebellious and it doesn't say what you really mean.

Another thing you can do is read it aloud. It is amazing to notice how the meaning of a poem can change when it is read aloud.

Line breaks, special forms, the use or non-use of punctuation, etc. are all tools the poet uses to get his special thought out to the public. Yes, the poet can break the laws of grammar but he has to take what the firing squad shoots at him!

(Believe me I am the first to admit I ain't no grammer xpert.)

Great advice Lavonne. Appreciate your thoughts on the matter.

#185 and 190 are keepers!

in the town of Sand Rock
the gun store
the pharmacy
and the hair salon
are flying flags

“That’s a nice dog.
All she wants to do
is lie down
next to somebody.”

“Isn’t that all
any of us
wants to do?”

Regarding an old cowboy

It’s not that he loves it.
It’s just that
it’s all he knows,
all he ever learned,
and all he’s got left.

You can’t pass that many flags
on top of that many crosses
without crying
No matter what
side you’re on.

The house leans
to the left
just a little
and the chimney
is older than the house
but the yard is neat
and the oak shady
and there’s two rockers
on the porch still.

It’ll last.

We stood in the center of the cornfield
on a little hill. The night was clear
Fire works sparkled all around us.
The stars and lightening bugs
were vying for our eyes

Along the horizon, behind us, before us
were splashes of red, white, and blue.
John said,
“City didn’t do fireworks this year.
Them’s the Mexicans at all the trailer
parks celebrating the fourth of July.”

the farmer down the road
was damn angry this morning
overnight
his tractor barn was tagged
orange dayglo:
                        John 3:16

July 6

A wasp
carefully visited
every Christmas light
tacked to the porch.

Missionary Baptist

at the church after the storm
birds are calling

berries, black berries on the fence line!
wild cherries in the trees!

silk flowers litter the graves

yellow dog on guard in the drive

Rick's recent entries inspired me to post some thoughts. Thanks Rick.

The similarity hadn't gone unnoticed Lavonne.
And I'm enjoying these as much as I am those.

B.

Oh my oh my oh my, el vee!  What a feast of delights here.  What a feast.  #199 might be my favorite.  Or 198.  Or I may not have a true standout favorite and just be loving them all.

If dogs could drive
they would drive convertibles

it would be like
hanging their heads out
big windows.

You give me goose bumps, friend.

What I get for sleeping late with talk radio blaring and three new kittens crawling all over the bed.

John McEnroe strode into my back garden
and startled me awake
from a nude sun bathing session.
Clutching my breasts, I lifted my head.

He was complaining about the blow-up plastic balls
which were strewn across the yard
“Why,” he said, “Do you people train
your children with these things?”
I tried to say that I had no children,
at least none that needed training with plastic balls,
but he would have none of it.

Meanwhile the three kittens
were stalking a helpless baby bunny.

“Shut up, McEnroe!”
I screamed but he droned on
while the kittens sated their thirst
and I was paralyzed by modesty.

 :D

LOL!  Poor bunny!

Rick

LOL - Good one Lavonne!

The visuals in this are too...good.

Oh, you guys! :)

She read her poems with emotion
to a rapt audience
who clapped a little longer than she expected
and afterwards at the meet and greet
the only questions she was asked were
who is your publisher?
and
how do I contact them?

LOL! You have tapped a rich vein of truth lately Lavonne - loving these little kernels.

Somebody googled something today
and my poem popped up on a list.
Somebody printed my poem today
Someone in the far, Far East.

That's what I call being published.

S'weird ain't it!

It always freaks me out a little when I look at Who's online and see anonymous guests printing off my work.
Who are you?
What are you doing?
What do you think?

It is VERY WEIRD!

Makes me think "Shit, I musta writ somethin' good!"

Lovely poem!  Those claps are hard to read, aren't they?

Rick

Damn straight.

OK, then
write a poem about…
an egg
he said
holding aloft
a refrigerated
orphaned embryo

OK, then
Shall it be about
the greenest blue
of the robin’s hope
or the sly speckled
brown of the red tail?

Or shall it be of
the red phoenix that rises
each month within me
and has survived twice over?

He closed the frige.
OK, OK then.

Dear Lavonne


You're a good egg, so was this
So, too, are these
Both, I think, may suit your taste
And so, will be well worth a visit

• www.poetryfoundation.org
  
• www.americanlifeinpoetry.org
  
  

I would also recommend you seek out
 — Daisy Fried


Ciao, bueno


DR

Know how I know
the world is round?

She slipped from my lap
and began to pirouette

I like 222 and 224 a lot.

Rick

Thanks Rick

and

Thanks DR!

yup, you and Rick (Bear) are the nugget holders of little words of wisdom......much enjoying these threads...

xo M

M, Thank you so much!

thirty-five years
of falling leaves between us
too many layers
for the grasping wind

Very nize!

Rick

Years ago he used to bring home crudely drawn jokes that seemed to lose something after being xeroxed five thousand times. Now he sends them in unblemished email to five thousand people, but they are still missing something.

Good one Lavonne. Technology gives with one hand . . . .

B.

I used to write poetry only when I got depressed, now I get depressed when I can't write poetry.

signed,
bummed in Suwanee

Nudged by Neruda:

It couldn’t have been beauty because that didn’t last.
I think it’s just the way I fill the air around you.

pretty

#229 just really grabs me,  was going to say blows me away  ha, ha,
like that one though, like it a lot. N

she fears everything
a slip on the step, every step
what the postman brings
and hours

her fears crowd the bed
so full there is no room to miss
the weight of him
he sleeps in another room now
a special bed
she settles down when she wakes
sees his chest rising and hears the cpap
puts on red lipstick and faces the day.

what would happen if "puts on red lipstick and the face of a day"
what would happen if "puts on red lips the belted dress of one more day"
what would happen if "puts lips on the waking day"
what would happen if I shut up? 

cool!

What would happen if you kept typing?

I would keep reading
and writing.

Type a little louder please.

:)


The repartee between poets is as beautiful as
musicians trading licks.

 

Fairies do exist.  ;)

Those are some toadstools!  I thought they were stones at first.  Glad to see you back.  I found your map to iguaria.  phenomenal, el vee, phenomenal!

There was some sort of underground mycelium revolution in Alabama this weekend. A one hour drive through the country side revealed more than thirty whole and partial fairy rings. It was such fun. Glad you liked the map - and the scholar's plate. :)

loveloveloved it.  i thought it was something you'd found through research on the net.  and thought, how cool is that to find something with iguaria on it!  then i saw the bottle of acrylic paint in the corner and KNEW you'd painted it.  you tricky, clever devilwoman you.

Old folk talking politics:

He'd rather climb a tree to tell a lie than stand on the ground and tell the truth.

Ginny homeschools because she doesn't believe in evolution. When city folk come to visit she shows them her scuppernong vines, talks them into tasting and then reminds them it's like having a strange loogie in their mouth.

A found poem:

Susan
Smith
was born

In the corner of a meadow graveyard. A special place I know in North Georgia.

The bottom portion of the stone is not completely legible but she was born May 7, 1756 and died in September of 180 --

Rustically hand-carved in hard granite. She must have been loved for someone to take the time. Time must have loved her for it to have survived. The graveyard has been used by two or three related families since the 1700's and most recently saw a burial in March of this year. There are soldiers and mothers, fathers and babies, farmers and preachers. Most are marked only by upright stones. There is a pavilion nearby, open to the woods and fields where services have been held each week since the 1850's - except when the snow is too deep. There is no building. Just benches made of native trees.

Time must have loved her.

Indeed.