Such a poor rhymer,
A nickel and dimer,
A shell without primer,
Rusting away.
Throw out the words, son
Steer away from the bad pun
Avoid the over done
This ain’t child’s play
Can’t help but dream
In a metronomic scheme
Nothing’s easy as it seems
These visions never stay.
(Michael Cheval is the artist featured in this post.)
I woke up (at 2:37 a.m) with the first stanza rolling around in my head. I told myself if it stuck around, I’d write it down. Almost wish it hadn’t.
Peace, people.
Huddled under cardboard,
Old Annie shivers.
Surrounded by layers of rags and bags,
Scavenged bits hoarded against the cold,
Shoved into cracks, or
Worn as a layered mantle
No room open for her tonight
No place to warm her tired bones
They say it’s not cold enough.
Twelve degrees.
The winds howl,
Sweeping down these city streets
Stirring up ghosts of every December
Those souls who couldn’t be saved
No place to warm their bones
No room opened for them
Someone said it’s not cold enough.
Some nights my dreams evaporate into waves of self-recrimination with little transition from sleep to wakefulness. A weight settles onto my chest, my heart races, and my thoughts chase one another in an endless loop.
Other nights I fall into peaceful slumber, amusing vignettes keeping me company through the long night. I stretch luxuriously upon waking, and a smile remains on my lips.
I wish there were a vending machine into which I could insert coins for either choice A or choice B. I really need a B night.
Peace, people.
Hand outstretched, waiting
One orange leaf wafting down
Crisp cascade follows
Spread wide your fine nets
Fingers splayed, arms extended
Raking the glory
Try catching autumn
Crunch and crackle, red and gold
Store Fall if you can
Don’t be skittish, dear
Brewing potions takes some guts
Among other things
(“The Witches Brew” by Adrian Higgins)
Tongue of toad, fileted
Eyes of newt, plucked one by one
Rattle of snake, sliced
(“Witch’s Brew” by Angus McBride)
Stir in spider eggs
Black widow for best results
Simmer, chant, enjoy.
Photography by Julie PowellIf in death I succumb to the depths of a cold, dark grave, my dear,
Heart stalled permanently; no sights to see, nor sounds to hear,
Then why waste time on costly coffin accoutrement?
My nakedness will not offend worms in search of nutrients.
Why sing songs, most mournful dirges to send me on my way?
Just close the lid and lock it tight against the light of day.
Better still to light a pyre, or set adrift in Viking ship
Burning boldly through the night, ashes sifting, soul adrift.
Note: Look for more of Julie Powell’s photography at juliepowell2014.wordpress.com
Old cowboys don’t die
They board planes and fly away
Run down boots, no spurs
I picture his horse
Long put out to green pastures
Bent neck and swayed back
The man still stands tall
Smelling of leather and dust
Old straw hat in hand
I wrote this while waiting in line at a Southwest gate in Dallas. The photos aren’t great–I was trying to be surreptitious.
Never in my life
Have pennies been offered
In trade for my thoughts
Should it happen now
I would most likely decline
Given inflation
Except, google says
The cost of thoughts have
Dropped to all-time lows
Little known fact, the more thoughts that are shared publicly the cheaper they become. Thoughts were 1¢ back in 1522 and reached an all time high of 79¢ in 1895. Once the patent for radio was gotten in 1896 thought value began to decline due to the growth of the newly patented invention. By the time of the first televisions, thoughts were only 54¢. After television, the value began to drop exponentially. Nowadays, with the invention of the internet, an individual thought is only worth about .000005¢.
All of these numbers are accounting for inflation.
Yesterday I published a piece called “Choosing My Religion.” My friend, Luri read it on Facebook and asked if I’d ever read “Salvation” by Langston Hughes. I hadn’t, but rectified that mistake immediately. Mr. Hughes has always been one of my favorite poets, this piece I’ve linked to just makes him more so.
http://www.spiritwatch.org/firelangsave.htm
Here are some more of my favorite pieces by Langston Hughes. His words are as timely as ever.
This first one’s my favorite:
The next one needs a fervent “amen!”
Last night I imbibed
A Cabernet Sauvignon
Mellow vibes accrued
Sweet drifting on sips
This languid summer evening
Deep in these red cups
Oh, deepest vintage
Layered tastes on eager tongue
Rich flavors ensued
Praying for Eyebrowz 