Baranoff Falls, by Richard Schmid.
quicksilver
pressed for answers
retreats, reforms, refuses,
disappears, and in sublimated
substance coheres, becomes
atmosphere, the here and not here
moment of light that can only be remembered
Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
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slow learner
a woman given
to wearing black
and a serendipitous
affinity for mostly
white cats, needs
to learn the quick roll
of the sticky tape
a skilled application
the prosthetic tongue
that removes the lovingly
deposited fur
under the watchful
and approving eye
of the Dude
who has only been
trying to teach her
how to groom.
The rocking chair in the tree
Hooked upon a helpful limb
it moves as it should in the wind
back and forth while
threatening to come unhinged
from its harbour far from the porch
from which it floated when
the flood distributed everything
to which it was pinned
It remains whole, a shape
whose rhythms gave comfort a place
to be in harmony with the iambic pace
of life that rocked and moved
even as it stilled us into infant sleep
while the rain was near enough to hear
but far enough away
to give no fear.
I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this, the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Well, your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Well, baby, I've been here before.
I've seen this room, and I've walked this floor.
I used to live alone before I knew you.
But I've seen your flag on the marble arch,
And love is not a victory march,
It's a cold and it is a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Well, there was a time when you'd let me know
What's really going on below,
But now you never show that to me, do you?
But remember when I moved in you,
And the Holy Ghost was moving too,
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Well, maybe there is a God above,
But all that I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you.
It's not a cry that you hear at night,
And it is not somebody who has seen the light
It's a cold and it is a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Leonard Cohen, Hallelujah
of course I really kdlang's rendition of this song. just great.
shoot, its just about planting
then I remember
your voice as sand
that flows and smooths
as if its irritation
isn't love and time
can be reclaimed
by flipping the hour glass
I keep the garden
in case your absence
is just a part
of the plan, and pull
the summer plants
in anticipation
of turning the glass
to run out the grains
of winter
A favorite song. Thanks for reminding me of it. Gonna go find it right now.
+++++
The crop failure I prayed for wasn't what I wanted. But I don't have to keep gardens anymore...there's that, at least.
bears repeating
the path thru
the rock garden is draped
in fragrant thyme which
sighs in scent a signal
that the gardener is stepping there
its a hands and knees garden
with little use for the hoe
which is made
more for the careful rows
that lie in the fertile bed
at the foot of the hill
it terraces hold and slow
the scourging tearing rain,
keeping what it can (but little)
and sending coursing water
a little gentled
on to the thirsty plants below.
a mistake to think
its apparent arridity makes
it less needful of the rain,
for it is given what it needs
tho in its rangy rocky carlessness
His attention seems unknown
perhaps the formal paths
and carefully clipped shrubs
make a more satisfying show
but we have to bloom where we grow
(groannnnn) LOL
still, i learn
she laughed
her face a record
of her emotions unerased
a mirror of her life
cracked upon her
satisfaction
but she said
she'd known many men
some who were jerks
that just couldn't
pull off love.
Bwhahahaha!! Oh no you di'nt!
Brave lass. I don't know if even I would have touched that with a ten foot pole. LOL.
but now I am off, traveling shoes on again, must get more material for my memoirs, its a bulldungroman. German, like me. Hahhahahahahaha
brown toes seem happy
just to feel attached to feet
that know how to dance
waitress-red tonails
smile up at sunshine moments
lost in the romance
I'll take the tropics
and dream of Baked Alaska
and shiver, cold, cold
Jetlagmartinireverie(twisted logic)
Straight up with a twist, you said
bitterness cuts the dryness of the gin
and things seem more interesting
for their association with dissonance
( you were so easily bored)
like the scent of flowers stands for the apology
you intended but didn’t cause you know
I have always preferred musk and sandalwood,
So what should I do? dab my own perfume
behind the ears of flowers who never
presumed to speak for us, for me, for you?
But I got the message anyway
with a strange twist at the end
not quite what I expected,
tho I remembered “righty tighty, lefty loosey”
the mnemonic device which is more or less
a tap that opens or restricts
depending on what we want to do,
I guess I could go either way so hell, lets just drink to
the guy who invented the screw
and knew a twist of pepper makes the stew,
and anyway, whether the wine comes
with a twist off cap, or a cork,
we can’t get at it without torque.
And let us lift our glasses high in a toast and celebrate
fate’s cruel twist which by the light of another day
we’ll call good luck, as if we must decide if the jar
is half empty or half full, which is only about outlook
and interpretation, not whether it actually contains
something we would want to save.
And yeah, a rose by any other name
still must entwine its blooms with spines
beauty and pain, those eternal dancers
who cannot manage to exist
each without the other, so lets just put a lid on it
and keep it for another day sealed
with our complimentary threads
that hold us together, even as we come undone.
Baranoff Falls, by Richard Schmid.
quicksilver
pressed for answers
retreats, reforms, refuses,
disappears, and in sublimated
substance coheres, becomes
atmosphere, the here and not here
moment of light that can only be remembered
someday
I have chalked my words
upon the walk, in bold
colourful glyphs that waited
for the review of rain,
and tossed with copper pennies
wishes into the fountain,
freighting redundant coins
with singular desires,
put messages in bottles
without postage for return
casting upon the water hope
that lives as long as no reply
and broken backs of fortune cookies,
to find what became of the future
promised upon the crumbs of a meal
done save for the bill,
but I was always careful
not to want too much
from you.
Mediterranean blues
In my dream I saw a trap
of my own designing
that whispered in blue shadows
the wave of its strings that defied
the constructed the space it ruled
with such fragility tho it seemed
it could not hold but only free,
so barely traced it could not be seen
till it turned to the light
and I wondered
at its breadth and delicacy
For it was so finely stretched
that it barely etched
the light interrupted by its lines
untouchable except by sight
but singeing every nerve
A hope that I could not hold
but neither could it be untold,
haunting like the past that wraps
its translucent truth
around present certainties
for which we plan,
but still marks us with
its stinging strings, the medusa’s
unseen tentacles that leave
a brand that can not be
unburned from memory.
dejeuner sur l'herbe
cats have copped to the secret
of drawers and busted the stash
of nip, rolling on the floor
in the distributive abandon of
herbal ecstasy and aquarian
love each for the other
sometimes I just hate to vacuum
but all good things must end
and that sucks.
Of Mere Being
by Wallace Stevens
The palm at the end of the mind,
Beyond the last thought, rises
In the bronze decor.
A gold-feathered bird
Sings in the palm, without human meaning,
Without human feeling, a foreign song.
You know then that it is not the reason
That makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine.
The palm stands on the edge of space.
The wind moves slowly in the branches.
The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
I was told my poetry failed to “leap”
Is there any doubt that the cats
preparing for the night can
make shudder the most substantial
mattress, as if tectonic plates
should shift under the devout
ministrations of the tongue
as their bells ring
a vesper song keeping faith
with night that claps like broken glass
tho we put our hands together
in silent prayer, we are
just one clashing palm
away from giving it up
to praise, the frond fingers
that we stretch to feel the wind we make
each time we strike still cannot fan
to fright or force the down-fangled
feathers to fire unless there is a spark
so the bronzes weight
something to lean upon
collecting colour like dust
and call it decor and everyone thinks
of mere being as if the palm tree
is the only place to look
for the bird in hand
for which reason the cats
settle their disputes with their own
fur with such violence,
palming tomorrow
like knowing is a bird’s song.
Paws
the only sense
to made of cats
is as metaphor
for things that
don't.
A feather in the cap
We have plucked the plumage
of the birds whose advertising
campaign created such demand
that it bred scarcity,
and wrapped in those
iridescent decorations
dull heads well helmeted
against irony,
which is the light work
of heavy thinking,
but risks leaving us seriously
in the dark.
Wind cleared
skys
sink quiet
now
soft yet
changed
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