brady max

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Friday, May 22, 2015

In The After-Glow



In The After-Glow

they came to lunch – the lilt of erin twinkling in the gatherer – beginning
at once with deft hands passing the shuttle of vivid wool - 
gathering – one to another – the Galapagos tortoise – Africani 
leopards – soles and souls - children aching for embracing arms – 
inequities and outrage- soft sands of Aruba calling again again 
constants of turquoise joy – Anglo -vista-miles treked 
on foot – scuba dives - Wool thrown 
expertly one to the other, over and under and through - 
into the looming – a bloom – blossoms –
wistful and wondrous rhapsodizing 
Gershwin lights of the white way - 
glowing 
for those who can and do and did – realistic-metaphoric -mixing- melting – 
dextrous differentiated tongues into common chorus – 
singing - a safari here another pondered – 
over and under the yarns move from hand to hand – 
in sweet spring - coffee-scented air- 
weaving heartbreak loss and love and pain
still  sweetly throbbing – new hipped 
hair waves crisp, upturned and gleaming 
bright as a child’s hope-filled grin – new grandchildren–
canine-feline-equine children - phones 
flicking photographs and friendships - ubiquitous 
facebook virtual friending in three dimensions- 
over and under the wool shuttles back and forth, 
 a sprinkle of indigenous magic – rescues and poetry – 
remembered reunions recaptured in four delicious days – 
then and there and here and now - twinkling 
gold and silver threads – 
the tapestry grows – glows 
as a Josephed-many-colored-coat 
wrapping them all as they lunch and loom 
weaving their many storied story of selves -
together – 
until...



Wednesday, May 20, 2015

Un-titled






I was a constrained contained trapped adult
chained within childhood convention confines
and chronology – a compacted adult blowing
birthdays away with great puffs hotly eager to
grow – suffering enforced politeness at a host
of indignities – from “children’s menus” to all
that was held from me by simple size – seeking
to step into my future to come in the whisper of
the wind, in ruffled pages -books swallowed al-
most whole – …. Only now – when there is no
like-hood whatsoever that I should be mistaken
for a child – do the giggles bubble and a skip
slip into my step.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Never for Wendy

In the land of “lost boys”
a little girl could only be
a gentle Wendy suffering
in sweet silence her
subjugated loss of
capturing pirates –
tending the others
and ending with a
needle and thread
still sewing shadows

Picnic

It was a family circle picnic
there were faces never seen
children running in circles
in the dappled summer sun
to the lake where I was for-
bidden and so,wandered on
a winding path through cool
trees -light filagreed through
-barefoot – and dreamy and –
three – the clatter chatter of
their voices fading to bird-
song and then vanished and
there I was –
lost

Only a locket

It was only a little thing
they told me – again and
again – not worth much at
all – replaceable in any low
end jewelry store – They’d
buy me another – Another –
Sweet secure, ignorant young
faces – mystified at grandma’s
tears overflowing the sharp
ruts in soft creases that was
now my metaphormized face
dripping onto my parchment
hands -older now by decades
than my mother’s ever got to
be – It was the remembering –
My mother her smile like a
dream – putting me on that
boat – my name pinned to my
good navy coat – My mother
sea wind whipping her hair
from its pins – clutching me
to her hard as the ship’s horn
blasted – and in an impetuous
fumbling final frantic moment
reaching up -into the tangle of
her hair and unclasping the locket
I had never seen her without –
Pressing pressing it into my hand
closing my fingers around it – as
the crowd surged forward
pressing pressing – that little locket
in my palm – holding it so tightly
that even as the crowd carried me
off with them-as the ship pulled
from shore and all the people dis-
appeared I could still feel its mark
– and the heat of her heart – with
me in the wake of the waves as
a cold wind blew me to America.



Sunday, May 3, 2015

The making of Honey



The making of Honey

“Oh I is so tire honey”
My mama worked “in
clothes” that’s the way
she liked me to say it –
Once I peeked in after
school when I sat on
the bench in the front
of the store and waited
for that opening of the
door that would spill
her out. Once I peeked -
and there she was lining
up a row of shirts so -
straight and fine I could
have taken my grown-up
-engineer-self’s level to it
and a bubble would have
floated just perfectly -
Back then on that day –
could have been any day
“Oh I is so tire honey”
lingered in the air sweet
mysterious and sacred
as a Latin service I heard
once – ending with a bell
shimmering like a tear -
Everything come together
in the hot steamy waiting
to a discrete symbol -
A simple element on
the periodic chart of
our life together –
ever remembered 







Thursday, April 30, 2015

PAD - Day 30 - Bury the .... Poem 1. Berry-The Sweet China-berry Days

homeguides.sfgate.com





Berry- The Sweet China-berry Days 

Mari-Beth wore her
 glorious flamed-hair 
piled high in a careful 
musssed affair- gliding 
into the OutRigger hang-
out - that place with 
the hatch cover tables
and the concrete floor
dart board in the corner
burgers on the grill -
back there in St. Croix 
USVI - She wore a flowy 
white organza shirt and 
linen slacks -ordered some 
pink drink and let her Peke
take tiny sips as we all
listened to her roll out 
a sweet-strap-molasses
southern drawl -all of
us barefoot-flip-flopped
expats - in cut-off jean 
shorts, tee-shirts and 
bathing suit tops -
brown from windy sun
on sailboats - salty
from afternoon swims
dried off and drinking
cold Heinekins in 
icy green bottles as 
she told of china-berry
tales ....


Oh... wait "bury" ?



Love you all - each and every one of you here - those who are familiar faces and voices - those new-to-me fellow travelers - I love each syllable drifting down this Street grown so bustling - and though the voices have over years gone by expanded into a chorus worthy of a tabernacle we still make sweet poetic music together...  Happy April - Happy PAD Challenge - Adieu - until next April or next Wednesday - happy poeming ....

Farewell ....


Farewell 

To all my fellow travelers –on this poetic voyage – I offer this farewell as we begin the last day of April and the final day of the challenge we have come to love on the Street we have walked together. The words below were taken primary from the “Nobody Knows” prompt … anything I have added you will find in black- your own words are in blue … 
Spring has arrived in my part of the spinning blue marble we all share – I am certain that blossoms born of this month are flowering for all.  As always it has been a pleasure and it is with both a sense of release and a sense of melancholy that this day has finally arrived…. as…

April inevitably, irrevocably draws, as she always does, to a sudden close and …
Sometimes I have a hard time knowing the me nobody knows. (Walt Wojtanik) 
No one knows that I am…Already gone and not quite…yet born – (pkp) -the door closes…smile fades… …the lock clicks (C.b. Wentworth) -Nobody knows what to say,..not really, at the moment of..another’s loss… all lives do not get closure, (Dan Palcopulos) -
Nobody knowsthe tingling down in my toes (Jacqueline Hellanback)-

Some believe it all goes dark in an instant,… departure with no connecting destination…. others speak of …floating … into a world of white, wings forming in the mist. 
(Linda Evans Hofke)-I don’t know why…some stars fall and why some hearts break(Marilyn Braendelholm)- I am left aching to call out to the inevitable…
…Halt, please… Let's mend the bleak path…Erase the darkness … /Time … threatens to run out …will. For sure. Sooner. Not later. …(Nurit Israeli) –

Of course, some will linger longingly willing one more day – one more poem – others will happily,- When the sun curls over the windshield, toss peanuts out the windows... 
(Janice Extrom Sheridan) - as they take their leave – but no matter the mood we shall all ultimately leave –

Once I thought memories remained in the walls... -(Barbara Ehrentreu)
held in a shimmered -…cup of Confidence … now …I am unsure/though… I earned a Ph.D….in kaleidopathy...(Patricia A. Hawkenson)... We watch the colors of each passed day dance, swirl into newborn memory and yet -

…My body, ….betrayer…gorgeous giggling…continues skipping along soon to be …dusty …paths (Kimiko Young Martinez) –off into…The green galaxy,…yet to be found, (Andrea Heiberg) –Now as ... rain falls, the sky black… with the coming vacuum of this…day.  (Sally Jadlow) –The shes and hes that were the collective us have the audacity to think we deserve… better;… (S.e. Ingraham) –

for who among us -…Who hasn’t wished…on these intricate faces,…facets set in...inertia and our own..long- ing… Who hasn’t wished…for constellation
-esque order? (De Miller Jackson) -…layered on what went before…and I hope for a day when..I, when we shall look back on this… (Michele Alter Brenton) –
and simply smile sweetly without a trace of ache - yet today the a mist of moony melancholy seems to beckon with a cool crooked finger

…Optimism can only…Carry me so far…But we shall remember that the love that called and kept us here each day … has no…(m)ileage limit (Sara Vinas) –
Yes, we need the...Handyman…one who on a day like today when In this our toddler's eyes, feel keenly everything… coming apartis broken… we need the world's greatest handyman… to fix each aching voice  (Bruce Niedt)-

...until one and all will gaily chuckle with glee and wave adieu calling out to each other in a language of  sweet rhythm, light with laughter such rhymes as……“I stole the cash, I took the purse…I do not know which crime is worse…I’ll lie and call it ‘borrowing.’… I will confess to anything…(RJ Clarken)- 

Yet on this final day as the last poem is written and The Street begins to empty - it is far more likely that in the indomintable way of poets ...…layers of invisible….masks promising protection…  will now be pulled on over smiles and good wishes, and  never seen……the real faces./… I suppose I could love you..next month maybe…(Kimiko Young Martinez)-
calls departing April - but we know this cannot be ….for she is - already vanishing …

…Today I miss, again…I scratch out, pressing down…until the lead begins to bend… 
(Rick Fenwick) –and we pause for a moment to ponder …
...How many seconds, minutes, hours…Turned into days, weeks,… held us…
together in our secret life… (Ellenelizabeth Cernek Kashk) –
now yearning for -…MORE – Always – more… Love’s rhythm drums invisibly… it toils in the mundane and equally spills its passion in creative endeavors… (Hannah Gosselin)-

Now, on this final day and the tomorrow to come, we shall continue as we have been – our questions and answers folded together in an origami of our time together. -  
…How to be Kind ?… Stop talking…Walk slower… Open your heart …Notice things… Commiserate…Don’t shame people…( Diana Terrill Clark)-
because
…Even with happiness,…of this month of poetry on this our Street of poems - one still counts the bruises…and mulls over the heaviness of one’s limp…( Mariya Koleva)-
as we turn to walk away -it is hard to accept responsibility… declare regret  that it is truly over… (Annell Livingston)-

There are perhaps as many emotions as there are poems and posts and poets for thirty days –yet – one constant holds true for all -  …happy hour… now …draws to a close…leaving us …reminiscing about the past…heading home (Richard Walker) – 
collectively we are…a myth born out of…Stardust and water and…Willed intentions of a roving soul.…continually…rising, reaching for … a destination, unknown…. (Meena Rose) –as the day folds over – the page turns and another April folds her wings- there

…A CHILD SWINGS…Gentle breeze whispers…Stories of …star-dipped toes … (Marie Elena Good) - and ...

...Tomorrow has already turned to todaywe’re leaving ..again, … …plotting exit, …with…the little time left…heavy with imports of departure… a bit like Hamlet, perhapsalready pierced with sorrow,…we shall never … feel the fatal nick,… while we look down…at the empty street and see the idling …taxi…already at the curb. (James Von Hendy) -

...until all that remains are the echoes of footfalls on the Street -once a bustling metropolic avenue - now returned to a quiet cobble-lined lane shaded by chestnut blossoms drifting in the breeze of May.  Until next April .  Until next April.