Saturday, March 30, 2013

Powders’ Peak

Sunrise by Javier Baño

Powders’ Peak

On Powders’ Peak
the Lost calls fall
mutely into the pit of Locks
thrumming through the moon-light

On Powders’ Peak
the ancient staff etched
ever faintly in stone
points to the dawn

Where the lost are found
persons are reconfigured  
and all answers are
written on soft petals falling
from Powders’ Peak



Mountain by Anna Langova


They climbed just the two of them leaning
on a staff pretending to be old ones

They climbed up the peak
where they had been forewarned
tickled to laughter by the joy of life

Perhaps they were laughing as
they dropped - softly as petals on eternal stone

Lost these many years - Now found
in this ancient ivied-over pit

Their calls imagined - echoing
there – wafting through the luminous
locks of platinum hair sparkling
atop moon-silvered bones

Sweet as talcum powders
Innocent as the laughter
of children climbing
Just the two of them

Long ago and unafraid.

Saturday, March 23, 2013

Not to Be

Fog At Sea by Junior Libby

Not to Be 

The note came disguised -
Nearly forgotten your delicate
placement  of words along 
the blade unsheathed neath
sand stirred in the
guarded jar of your 
ambered memory

The note came disguised -
A single flower drifting from
a towering tree of hanging hurt
floating across the years

Revealed now, the still gaping 
wound of what you
name a quite natural drift
rather than a self-severed

I watch you 

Dragging past pain 
across the country of Never Future
Watch you 
hurry back to Shared Yesterday
See two little girls laughing -
Running, hand in hand -
Chestnut blossoms falling in our
hair as we floated into a forever future
Only one of us yet yearns to share

The note lingers 
its song sung
clear and aching
as bagpipes on a foggy moor
on a cold morn
The note is heard

you will not come 

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Walking through a prompt

Sometimes it's fun to just let your fingers walk and see where they go....
Hope you enjoy....

Road In A Field by Larisa Koshkina

Walking through a prompt 


Just a walk
Just some talk
Why the balk
Why not talk
Just a walk
Grabbed her arm
What’s the harm
Just a walk
Just some talk
His glittered eyes gleam the night
Her banged heart drums in fright
Not just talk
No more walk
Stopped in fear
No one near

First Steps

One small step
in carpeted
and fresh
red dusted
to waiting
or alone
they rise
they rise
on new legs
soft feet
set on
uncharted paths

A Girl Named Walk

There once was a shy girl named Walk
who barely summoned nerve up to talk
she smiled and she simpered
pup-like she whimpered
Until she met that hands-on-guy Never Balk

Six grade graduation

“You will walk.
You will sing.”

She says, her voice
deep and echoing
in the near emptied

Dust motes float
on sunshafted light
As we, the class of then
stand straight
and as endlessly instructed
Inhale deeply and

SING as told

of storms
“walk on”

heads held up
“walk on”

“walk on

not being afraid
“walk on”

and melt into
sweet silver warbles
of larks and quiet giggles

all the while
tears sparkle full-fallen
in the creases of taciturn
teacher’s face as
she leads us
this last led rehearsal
toward the opening door
through which we will walk
and she will stay

Saturday, March 16, 2013

Master of the Street

Inspired by Wordle Words # 100! 
With congratulations and profound appreciation to Brenda Warren and the entire community who have opened doors to shared worlds 

Master of the Street *

Master of the Street” lounging loose against the wall, cigarette hanging from your moving lips - hands gesturing affairs of the world.
“Come!” – the train calls for you - “Hear!”- the insistent whistled beckoning across the ribboned stretch of places yet unseen.
“See!” the plainitive cries falling together melting into the crescented faint future fast-fading over the horizon.
Master of the Street” the world awaits – Touch! – the textured scents against your naked skin - Your die is not yet cast amid the cadre of the commonplace- 
There is still time - Come! – Taste the words! - the train calls for you – swing aboard and share the shouldered bump of comrades’ change - lest - 
all that remains is but a puff of evaporating steam – vanished -  as you lounge loose against a crumbling wall, cigarette hanging, imagining with - withering hands – a world that has always existed.


* Published in Poets Quarterly - summer 2013

A special note: ......

Happy 100th anniversary to Brenda Warren it has been a pleasure "whirling" each Sunday wherever the handful of words led...  Thank you to all...


(thank you for unlocking these worlds to be shared each Sunday)
"Master of the Words" 

Master of the words
Scattered on the street
Calls that bring from faint places
worlds to stretch, to share,
to march across psyche’s page
Rising from who knows
As I bump along a sleepy passenger
On the Wordle CreateTrain where the images
Never die