Cat Fish

 

Original images:

Etobicoke Humane Society, Etobicoke, Ontario, Canada







Koifreaks






Aref-Adib: Journal 2006







Software: Serif PhotoPlus

The End of the Rope

is where you will find:

a balloon
an anchor
a knot
a dog
a donkey
a cart
a moored boat
a boat-mooring
a rock-climber
a fireman
a tire swing
a fishhook
a trawling net
a tent stake
the Big Top
a trapeze artist
a crab pot
a buoy
a bell
a hand
a bedpost
a flag
a sail
a window
a captive
a gallows
the Hanged Man
fraying and breaking
another rope.

One way to find out:
hang on and follow.

Happy 60th Birthday

to Steve Perry. Author of many good books, blues guitarist, silat player, proud grandpa, good friend.

So what's so great about Steve?

Well, to begin with, he writes knowledgeably and intelligently about martial arts. And he's one of very few science fiction authors to do so. (Steve Barnes and Daniel Moran are two others; it's a very small crowd.) The early NetForce books actually brought quite a few people into pencak silat who had never heard of it before. (You haven't heard of it either? Go here.)

But the Matador books, which are my favorites of Steve's writing and I suspect his as well, are the real prizes from a MA point of view. The main idea behind these books is that MA can make the world a better place; that, in fact, that's what MA is for-- protecting the powerless and people who work for social justice, defeating evil, and having an all-around rowdy good time in the process. Heady stuff for those of us who number a streak of idealism among the stripes on our belts.

But I mention this mostly as background to the following: Steve is a Good Guy. Not just a Nice Guy (and this is from someone whom he's alternately referred to as a hobbit, a menehune, a Munchkin, and The Shrimp), but a genuine Good Guy.

Martial artists have a strong tendency towards hero-worship. (This gives rise to all kinds of weirdness, which you can find plenty examples of by browsing my blogroll.) Consequently, fans of Steve's books who are also martial artists tend to be a bit... um... "over-awed" might be the best word here.

Over the past few years we've had occasion to introduce Steve to a number of adoring fans. Now, most people in his position would be tempted to puff up at least a bit; spout some profound-sounding garbage, maybe give it a little mystical spin, that sort of thing. Not Steve; he's more likely to tell off-color stories about Louisiana politicians (there are apparently no clean stories about Louisiana politicians), or distract everyone by making the house dogs sit up and beg.

(I've seen professional dog trainers who weren't as good with dogs. It's been a running joke in our crowd that if there's ever a series of daring daylight robberies at dog-protected houses in Portland, we'll know who to blame.)

I don't know if this reflects a high ethical standard on Steve's part, or if he's just constitutionally allergic to that kind of pretension. In either case, I'm proud to count him among my friends. Here's to many, many more happy birthdays for Steve!

I don't have a picture of Steve handy, but here's one of his kid brother:

 

Still

Still listening beside a lake
of dark water. Still trying to read
the flight of crows, the fall
of tea leaves. Still dreaming.

Waiting for heavy velvet curtains
to roll back on their rails. For
a young buck raccoon to run
across the street. For squirrels
to find their hidden caches
and unplant forests of oaks.

Driving in the rain. Blinded
by the sun on a dusty windshield.
Drowning in brilliance,
breathing revelation—no waiting
still.

Forgetfulness Hotel

3 Word Wednesday: Forgotten. Hotel. Obscure.

I'm not primarily a haiku writer, but I can't resist the challenge of wrapping seventeen syllables around three random words...

memory obscured
by rain on hotel windows
home long forgotten

Redline Town

Come here my child and sit yourself down
I'll tell you the story of Redline Town.

Rich white folks live 'way uptown
Poor colored folks live in Redline Town.

Man shot dead on the sidewalk at noon
on the corner in front of the Redline Saloon.

The law don't run and cops have no pity
it's hard to survive in Redline City.

Poor man wants to buy him a home
Redline Bank wouldn't give no loan.

Rich man bought an old tenement up
Redline Real-Estate sure got their cut.

Try to open up a grocery store
you won't make it in through the redline door.

Pawnshop, tavern, old liquor store
that's the kind of business the red line is for.

I wrote these words and I'll sing this song
for a man had the nerve to say redlining's wrong.

Today is the forty-fourth anniversary of Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr.'s most famous speech.

We're not there yet, Rev. We're still marching.

Killer Flu

It’s hard to find tranquility because
my fingertips are restless with a fever
that rises from the death-watch beetle’s jaws.
It’s hard to find tranquility because
the temper of my mind obeys no laws,
too easily confused by each deceiver.
It’s hard to find tranquility because
my fingertips are restless with a fever.

Day and Night

 

Original photo credits:

 

 
Long Hair Braids





Steven Pinker's photos of Cape Cod




Software: Serif PhotoPlus

Lightning Legs

heat-hazed horizon
thunderheads tower above
lightning-legged darkness

Dancing Steps

Poetry Thursday's final prompt: An open window.

A window open on a city street
lets music in, far more than talk or news
and brings a dancing step to tired feet.

It's summer, and block parties like to meet
and bring in local bands to play the blues
out in the open, on the city streets.

Around the schoolyard, in their shiny neat
fall uniforms, the high school band reviews
and brings a dancing step to tired feet.

Not fond of rap-- it seems to just repeat
the same old things-- but that's what you hear through
a window open on a city street.

And every restaurant where we like to eat
has live musicians working out their dues
and bringing dancing steps to tired feet.

I've listened to the city's tunes and beat,
I think I'll go put on my dancing shoes.
A window open on a city street
brings dancing steps to my poor, tired feet.

Witches, Madmen, Dreamers

Sunday Scribbling's prompt is "that sinking feeling..." Coincidentally I had just written a poem about drowning and/or floating...

Edgar hid himself by feigning craze
while his fortunes seemed to only float
on ebb-tides. Tom’s a-cold, with just thistledown
to keep him warm; he couldn’t steal a coat
and feared to set the forest all ablaze
though rain was falling hard enough to drown.

“Poor Ophelia”, they say, “she drowned
herself, forsaken, disgraced and crazed.”
But was it worth it? For a time, she blazed
and if in the end she couldn’t float
she had her memories, warmer than a coat.
Did they hold her up or drag her down?

Jeanne d’Arc put the English army down,
refused to let her mother-country drown
in English tides. Someone turned his coat,
made her out to be a witch, or crazed.
The French navy couldn’t stay afloat,
the army followed where holy Jeanne blazed.

Sometimes witches have been set ablaze
or hanged from black trees on a lonely down
or else, thrown in a pond to float
if “guilty”; if “innocent”, drown.
And all the while, this witch-killing craze
was covered by the Inquisition’s coat.

Joseph wore a many-colored coat
as bright as his imagination blazed.
His brothers didn’t like it, thought him crazed:
you know the story, how they did him down
threw him in an empty well. Did Joseph drown
or did his coat of colors help him float?

Trust in your courage and float
with imagination for your coat.
There is no water that can drown
the fire only you can see, the blaze
of mind that will not be put down.
Do not dismiss it as a fad or craze.

Walk down the trail your dreams have blazed.
Be like a crazy saint or a witch floating,
a coating of dreams will not let you drown.

My Name is Clark

Weekend Wordsmith's prompt is: Seuss.

If you grew up on Dr. Seuss, you might have read One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish.

And if you did, you might remember the picture of two little kids carrying an enormous jar with... something... inside it. And you might have wondered what happened after that...

They found me in the park
in the dark.
They put me in a great big jar.
It wasn’t far.
They didn’t drive a car.
Did their mother like me? No, no, no:
“That thing has got to go!
Go right out and put it back!”
Why? I don’t know.
I’m just Clark.

I’m living in the park
in the dark.
I get bigger every day.
The little boy came back to play—
he saw me and ran away.
Why? I don’t know.
I’m just Clark.

I’m bigger than a house.
I’m taller than a tree.
It’s lonely in the park
when you’re me
and the children don’t come any more.
They put a new sign by the pond:
WARNING: SHARK
but I’m just Clark.

Another weekly exercise

Weekend Wordsmith has been added to the sidebar. (with button!) Thanks to Sister AE for the link.

0,0

where do you think you're going

Away.

what have you got in that sack

Dead leaves and broken china; heads of lost statues and statues that have lost their heads; a standing stone, a fallen throne, a hero's skull and monster bones. But I'm no thief, they were broken when I picked them up.

what do you mean to do

No, no, no: what do I do to mean? What must I do, Lord, to make me, I, mean something, anything?

where are you going now

Now is always where I'm going. Now is stuck to me like flypaper and here is glued to the souls of my feet. Einstein said it was so, but Einstein could be wrong.

are you crazy

ELIZA said it was so, but ELIZA could be wrong. Every sole in this electronic sea has an opinion. My computer runs on laser light instead of lightning chained by key and kite; that's why I'm so coherent.

or just a fool

The Fool is zero. Without zero you can add but you can't subtract.

where are you trying to go

Back.

where have you been

Lost inside the stuttering maze of your head. Lost in the clatter chatter of a million monkeys stripping keys from a million keyboards. Not one would unlock the cage, for they were only letters. Poor monkeys, you needed words.

where are you going

With you.
Don't be afraid.
Our faces were painted on a glass bubble, but mine was inside.

where are we going

With a magic eight-ball for a compass and a handful of yarrow stalks for a map? With a Tarot deck for a guidebook? We are going here.
We are going now.
We are
here
now.

A Park Bench on Mars

 


 This is the original image, from the Webshots blog. Steps to get to Mars:
--solarize (reverses colors)
--use pickup tool to copy color/texture from right side of picture to fill in shadowed area which appears white after reversal
--add lens flare (found under Render) for drama.

Software: Serif PhotoPlus

Subtle Cinnamon

3 Word Wednesday: Corridor. Linger. Subtle.

memories linger
corridors breathe warm odors
subtle cinnamon

Bitter Blackberries

Bitter blackberries; is that my worst
complaint? While further east, the heat waves kill
and prairie drought is quenched by overspill
when hurricane-filled levees finally burst.
I have no cause to call this weather cursed.
Each time I turn a tap to drink my fill,
it’s rain that flows obedient to my will.
I’d rather suffer gloomy skies than thirst—
though risk of flood and landslide hover near
we won’t see skies turn black with blowing dust
or scarlet flame devour familiar trees.
Each climate has its drawbacks and its fears
so no complaining. I will place my trust
in God and eat my bitter blackberries.

Centripetal Force

 

Tell me, does the chrysanthemum
spiral in or out?
Do you follow it into multitudes
an infinity of paths
a million worlds in each drop of dew
each petal a universe?
Or does it speak to you of convergence,
translucent multitudes
folding into a single radiant heart?

Tell me, does the chrysanthemum
spiral out or in?
Does your heart escape confinement,
spread to the sun
embrace infinite living possibility
in bright explosions?
Or fall towards the heart of gravity,
the source of life,
surrendering to the stillness of the center?

I answer: It is the eye that moves.

Silat Limericks

So several friends of mine have been posting about the politics in our martial arts family. And I don't want to be left out, but darn it, I just can't seem to take the whole thing seriously enough.

So...

Steve Perry (no, not the musician
the author) learned proper position
from Guru Steve Plinck.
Now, with pen and ink
he wins his opponents’ submission.

A young silat player named Bobbe
claims silat is not just a hobby.
You’ve got to have balls
to take all those falls
on hard marble floors in the lobby.

This newcomer, last name of Erven
drives a Mini—no hulking Suburban.
The back seat just fits
the sticks, gloves and mitts
and the beer in a super-sized serving.

Simooms from the deserts of Libya
or hurricanes out of Caribbea
may level our towers
but can’t match the power
of the terrible Silat Amphibia.

We silat folk all find it dandy
to get ourselves sticky and sandy
heavily bruised
dazed and confused
and slathered with balur cimande.

Moon, Sun, Stars

The circling moon compels the tide,
commands the dark and restless sea.
A silver torch, the burning guide
of dreams and luckless prophecy.
In August, summer's on the wane
but though the sun is in retreat
from solstice, it stirs hurricanes
and drives the waves of killing heat.
The ancient wheel of stars keeps turning
dropping comets now and then,
but sets no earthly engine burning
nor disturbs the fate of men--
their influence only detected
where stars in stillness are reflected.

Busy Street

on a busy street
a moment without traffic
the soft hum of bees

Smoke

Three men sat around a campfire. A gust of wind blew smoke into their faces.

One sprang up, cursing and spitting. “Damn this smoke! All it does is sting my eyes and make my clothes stink! I wish there was no smoke here.”

At once the fire disappeared, and the night crowded in dark and cold.

The second man said anxiously, “Smoke is a small price to pay for the comfort of fire. And after all, smoke is useful. Imagine how many people would starve in the winter, if they couldn’t use smoke to cure meat.”

Immediately the fire reappeared. The three men sat quiet for a while, afraid to speak.

At last the third said: “Smoke is very beautiful. Look how it glows with the light of the fire below and the light of the fire above. Look at the strange shapes it forms, dancing with the wind: roses, feathers, whirlpools! I wish I were made of smoke.”

Another gust of wind came, and when it passed, the clearing was empty.

Staying Afloat

Crossing water in an open boat
trusting to canvas, wood, hemp and tar
it's harder sinking than staying afloat.

All your lessons were learned by rote
and nothing you know has come very far--
say, across water in an open boat--

tried old truisms, speeches by quote.
So you go belly-up at the bar
sinking rather than staying afloat

for boredom takes you by the throat
and empties you like a drinking jar
drained of water in an open boat.

Listening for a wind-blown note
plucked from the waves as from a guitar
the wise may sink where fools float.

It's not the ocean. It's just a moat
that separates earth from the stars.
You can cross that water in an open boat
sinking the same as staying afloat.

Weekly exercises...

For the entertainment of my readers who relish a challenge and have plenty of free time to pursue it, I'm assembling a list of blogs/websites that offer weekly participant exercises. You can see it in the sidebar.

Note: these are similar to blog carnivals, but instead of roaming, they're always in the same place. That's why you won't find the Ringing of the Bards here.

I've included a couple in which I don't (currently) participate: One Deep Breath Haiku, Wordless Wednesday and Fiction Friday. I have plenty on my plate right now.

I suspect there are more of these out there. If you happen to run across one, send me the link.

UPDATE: Sadly (and ironically), I find that Poetry Thursday (in which I've been participating longer than any of the others) is going away at the end of August. However, one of the PT regulars has volunteered to keep it going. Watch for updates.

What I See on the Porch of My Dreams

A glass of green tea cools on the arm
of a tall-backed wicker chair that frames
my grandmother’s silver head. On her lap
she holds my daughter, while my son
sits at her feet.

She’s telling them a story about old China,
about silk and citadels and dragon kites,
Sun Yat-Sen and the war years, flight
to Hong Kong, then to Britain, then
new life in America.

My mother and I listen at the window
but when I turn to her to speak, the voices
fall silent, light fails, I wake to the creak
of wicker on an empty porch and the smell
of green tea.

In Passing

3 Word Wednesday: Burning. Quietly. Taxi.

burning rubbish fires
taxi slides past quietly
tourists gape and point

Monochrome Rainbows

Before there was color photography
it was sepia sorrow and black-and-white laughs
that filled up our grayscale memory
with old-fashioned love caught in old photographs.
We kissed under rainbows in monochrome,
the girls in white dresses, the boys in black ties,
and romped at the edge of the ocean’s foam
in silver emulsions unsullied by dyes.
Advances in photo-development
brought color to images once black-and-white.
We’re captured in full-color merriment
and flatter ourselves on our trueness of sight,
the brilliance of love in a gaudy bouquet—
but love was as strong back when roses were gray.


 

Bees

I crave the touch of the rose
as the dry wood craves flame.
How else can wood dance?

I watch the bees dance
pointing the way to the rose.
Bees, yellow as flame

black as smoke from flame.
They understand that the dance
is the only way to the rose

and like dancing flames, they rise.

Hobo's Road

There are no trains that run here. Even so
the town aligns itself to unseen tracks
and every night I hear the whistle blow.

Our sons and daughters go and don’t come back.
No-one talks about it, but we know
the town aligns itself to unseen tracks.

As in the sunset’s dreamy afterglow
as when the dawn draws light out of the black
no-one talks about it, but we know

there’s something out there, something that we lack
a thing half-light can only halfway show
as when the dawn draws light out of the black.

At midnight, vision’s full. At midnight, go.
The hobo’s road is open, just a crack
a thing half-light can only halfway show,

a thing that day will hide behind this fact:
there are no trains that run here. Even so,
the hobo’s road is open, just a crack
and every night, I hear the whistle blow.

Ringing of the Bards: Life, Death, and God

The Ringing of the Bards has come round to me again... and the Bards of the Internet this week have spoken about their relationships with life, death, and God.

Below are the first lines of submitted poems, rearranged to form another poem. You can meet the Bards in person at each of their lines:

I feel the moistness of the day heavy on my skin.
Sometimes I hear angels humming
in Rattlesnake City.
Prophet Noah fell in love with rain
he is kneeling
dark water runs away in the sunlight,
more precious than diamonds.

We thought we were castles.
This I have learned and nothing more:
make no bones about it, you are more than
walking along the beach...remembering
the veil between the worlds
wanting to fish the essence out,
memory filled light.
O beloved one,
stop being ego-centered!
Let's walk a Point Defiance trail
9 hours of night in the wild.

The Lord of the Worlds:
"I light the stars at night
I cradled you today in space and time."

You can also meet the Bards below, at the titles of their poems (in the same order as the lines above).

keep the faith (Gulnaz)
the forgotten road (Jo)
Rattlesnake City (Terry)
Noah’s music (Daniel)
prayer (Rax)
waiting (Russell)
for my dearest and best (Lisa)

we are sand (Tiel)
the loving heart (Irving)
if you really want to know (MB)
prayer to my Beloved (Barbara)
the hole (Bob)
wanting to fish the essence out (Kevin)
comfort (Jone)
Sade Vere Aay Kare (Bulleh)
where is the center of an infinite circle? (Sadiq)
rockiness (Mike)
on the mountain (Dervish)

spirit landscapes (Yafiah)
peripheral view (Oz)
letting go (Rick)

Thanks to all who contributed.

If you enjoyed this carnival, sign up to host an upcoming edition at Ringing of the Bards. Don't be shy! You don't have to be a poet, or contribute a poem; all you have to do is have a blog!

Prayer to my Beloved

Author: Barbara Lichtenstein-Simpson (Barsili)

Walking along the beach...remembering
The old neighborhood, friends, events
Thinking about life, and where I am now

Thank You my God, for accompanying me
During those dark times, when I felt so lost
...during the hours of my crazy youth

When I felt scared, frustrated or hurt
When I felt there was no hope
And above all for being my loving Guide

Because of You in the all encompassing
I survived the good and the bad
How far down may I bow in gratitude?

How can I show You my gratitude?
I feel the sea's breeze on my face
...the murmur of the waves

I observe the carefree passersby
Why do they not remember You their Creator?
You, who are so Generous and Merciful

We are as chimpanzees imitating others
...simply animated matter!
Do they not wonder why they are here?

True evolution, the real, the spiritual...
The mystery and secret to life is at hand
Yet my Darling Beloved, they dance on

Ringing of the Bards: August 11

I'm hosting the Ringing of the Bards again August 11th.

For those of you new to the Ringing of the Bards, it's a weekly blog carnival dedicated to poetry of all types. You can visit the home page to see previous editions or volunteer to host. (More hosts are always needed! You don't have to be poet, you just need to have a blog.)

Any and all submissions are welcome, but the theme for this edition will be religious and spiritual poetry.

Leave a permalink here, or email it to tielansari at gmail dot com, by any time on August 10th. And don't forget to come back and visit the carnival!

Casino in the Cotton Field

For Sunday Scribbling's prompt: Goosebumps. Inspired partly by Vasti Jackson's very creepy song, Casino in the Cottonfield, which gives me goosebumps every time I hear it.

Goddamn Mississippi, how big could the state be?

Winson was lost. He'd been lost for a long time. The hell of it was, he hadn't meant to get off the highway in this state at all. Meant to drive straight through on Route 98. But there'd been a section washed out near New Augusta and the detour hadn't been well marked. He'd tried to keep heading east, pick 98 up again, but the roads seemed to keep leading south and the land got lower and flatter. No towns. No signs. No landmarks. Just fields after fields after fields with an occasional shotgun shack by a half-silted irrigation ditch. All the side roads were dirt now, not even gravel, what kind of people lived like this?

The sky to his right was burning down in a weird bruised yellow. The sky ahead, south, was gunmetal dark. Even at forty miles an hour, the air felt heavy and dead. Winson had tried for a weather report, local news, anything that would give him some idea where in the hell (or Mississippi) he was, but the radio gave him nothing but static.

Then he saw lights up ahead on the left. Electric lights, thank you God, couldn't quite make out what they were illuminating though. Too big to be a house, too small to be a town... then the sign flashed by: Casino something.

Winson sighed. Rest. Food. Directions back to the highway. Maybe a room for the night; he'd have to call and explain why he wasn't making the meeting in Pensacola, but what the hell. Invent some kind of car trouble. It wasn't as if he hadn't had trouble-- don't think about that.

He swung into the turnoff, actual asphalt and in better condition than the nameless road he'd been on. What the hell was this place doing out in the middle of nowhere? Winson shrugged it off; he'd seen casinos in stranger places out west.

Empty parking lot. Off season, he supposed, getting out of the Corolla to stretch. The air smelled of salt; the Gulf most be closer than he'd thought. He wondered why they hadn't built on the beach, wasn't beachfront property supposed to be so fashionable? This place (he still didn't know the name of it) must be second-string. Winson shrugged; as long as they had a phone, booze, and a bed in that order, he didn't much care.

He pushed through the glass doors. The place was cavernous, dim, quiet. Winson stood still, letting his eyes adjust. No people moving around; there was slightly brighter light off to his left, so he headed that way.

A long, dark, polished bar stretched off into the gloom. Something white moved behind it; Winson blinked; it resolved into a starched white shirt, with shadowy dark features above it. The bartender moved noiselessly towards him. "Sir?"

"Uh," said Winson. "Uh. I'm kind of-- I'm lost. I was trying to get to the highway, I mean, to Pensacola-- or anyway Mobile-- Geez, it's dark in here."

The bartender stepped into the light. Black, of course, youngish, very composed. Clean-looking, at least that was a good sign. Shiny teeth set in a friendly smile.

"There's no highway near here. Storm come in, sir, ugly storm. You best to stay the night, sir."

"Uh--" said Winson. He'd meant to stay; clearly, the place must have room, but this was just starting to feel wrong. "Well-- do you have a phone? I have to get to a meeting..."

"We have no phone, sir."

"Geez. Well, give me a shot of whiskey, would you? I need it, I've been driving all damn day-- what do you mean, there's no highway? This must be practically to the coast, what about the interstate, I-10?"

The bartender bent his head slowly, reaching under the bar with languid grace. Like a drowned man. "You cannot get there from here, sir."

There was music playing from somewhere. No musicians in sight, but it didn't sound like the usual tapes; some kind of jazz? A horn, or maybe a saxophone, wailing.

Winson sat down on a bar stool and put his head in his hands. In the dimness, the gleam of light off the glasses hanging above the bar was dazzling, disorienting. He could hardly tell which way was up. "Man. I'm too tired to drive."

"You best stay, sir." The bartender put a glass in front of him. Winson slugged it down, fiery bite at the back of his throat, and sighed gratefully.

"I don't know how I could get this lost. I mean, there was this detour and I followed the signs, then they just... ran out... and there was this little town, I don't even know the name of it..." He hadn't meant to talk about it. "I think I did something bad. I mean, I didn't stop-- I don't know for sure what happened--"

"You don't need to tell me, sir," murmured the bartender. He was standing back in the shadows again. Winson could barely see him, except for the shirt and the gleaming teeth.

"No. No, I got to-- I didn't see her. It was this little girl! And I didn't stop, I was scared-- and the old lady was shaking her fist after me, I saw in the rear-view--" Winson lunged up off the stool, feverish. The room swam around him. The horn music was turning mean and Winson could hear something else, wind, maybe surf in the distance.

"You could have stopped to help, sir."

Winson grabbed onto the bar. "I was lost! I didn't know where I was!" His head was spinning. Jesus, one shot of whiskey? Something wasn't right. "I... I gotta go. I'm not sleeping here."

"It's too late, sir." A sudden gust of wind hit the building, rattling windows somewhere behind Winson. Panicked, he spun around, trying to see out. There was nothing but darkness. "You can't go now. You hear that storm? That is the hurricane, sir. She is coming in for you."

Winson whirled back to the bar, breathing hard. "You're crazy. You're out of your mind! What the hell place is this?"

The horn snarled, triumphant. The bartender stepped forward to the edge of the light. "Why sir, this is Casino Katrina."

Lightning blazed over Winson's shoulder, and the electric lights flickered and died. But in the moment of brightness, he saw clearly at last: white jaws gaped in a half-dissolved face, and the hand that reached for his empty glass was bone, stained bone, hung with tatters of rotting flesh.

Seif

 describes both shape and sound.
Sand grinds, grain upon grain
harsh hissing, soft sliding whispers.
Folded by wind
copper-colored silk ripples
in a lilac-shadowed room.

Dancing Ghazal

I was so sad to see the leaves fall
until I realized they were dancing

and I feared the evening shadows
until the firelight set them dancing

though the mountain is giant and moveless
around its head the clouds are dancing

and the river is cold and dark in winter
but the sunlight on the ice is dancing

through the endless grass of the prairie
the hot wind of summer goes dancing

in the deep forests that are older than time
the streams come from the heights dancing

and the body decays in the earth
while the soul goes dancing, dancing, dancing.

Underwater, Slow

The Guardian is running a monthly poetry workshop: they get noted UK poets to write a column on a topic and then pose an exercise for readers. This month's poet is Matthew Sweeney: you can read his exercise here.

The gist of it: write a dramatic poem using a first line from Scottish poet WS Graham.

Imagine a forest
sleeping in tree dreams
vast, emerald, underwater-slow.

Translucent insects whisper
from bush to dry bush
in the close shade
breathless.

Far overhead
the treetops ripple
feeling the hot breeze—

there’s heat at the roots where the red tongues creep
branches begin to shake and writhe in agony
silent vegetable screams thicken the smoky air
quick scarlet hands rip the green gauze
crush the glass-flies to slag and ash
storm of light races through the canopy
birds fall like burning meteors!

Seeds fall on bare black earth
awaiting rain.

Flannel

For 3 Word Wednesday: Determined. Pajamas. Yield.

yield gracefully to
winter's determination
flannel pajamas

Under the Heel

Glass breaks under the bridegroom’s heel
the rose opens with rot at its heart.
Sorrow is always with us
seed within the ripening apricot
worm at the root of the young corn.

Haven’t we walked far enough together
for you to become a friend?
Haven’t I given you half of my heart?

My kitten purrs, but her claws are sharp
as rose thorns, as shards of glass
left by my Beloved’s heel.

Pray

for C. E. Chaffin, who just lost his eldest child.

From God we come, to God we return.

Tropical Storm

Out on the sea there’s a hurricane spinning
up from its roots as a tropical storm.
Boats flee to harbor. They know there’s no winning
out on the sea. There’s a hurricane, spinning
up to full power: is this the beginning
of weather that happens when water gets warm
out on the sea? There’s a hurricane spinning
up from its roots as a tropical storm.

The Phoenix and the Mirror

The Phoenix and the Mirror, by Avram Davidson, is one of the best fantasy novels ever written. Bar none.

If you haven't read it, you need to go out and get it BEFORE you read this poem. If you've read it and loved it, I hope you enjoy this. If you've read it and didn't like it, don't bother.


A house of stone. A roof of slate,
a heart that chooses not to burn.
A suitor who must stand and wait,
a soul forgetting how to yearn.
The Phoenix craves both fire and mate,
she fears the day of his return.

She’d promised to be his in turn
for magic gifts. The balance-slate
remains unequal. Royal mate:
Red King takes Queen and both must burn.
For consummation, Phoenix yearns,
these many years she’s made him wait

and let her daughter bear the weight
of obligations unreturned
of gifts much used, but still unearned.
A giant’s courtyard, paved with slate
and ringed with fires that never burned
to ash, imprisoned her. Checkmate

or only check? Some monstrous mate
was guardian. Magician, wait:
unlike the Queen, you choose to burn
but must do nothing out of turn.
There’s hidden balance on the slate.
You’ll claim the girl for whom you yearn

by trial and peril, dearly earned
and so your love is consummate.
But nothing can wipe clean the slate.
Your enemy is he who waits
and you must face him in your turn.
Then Tyre will quench Phoenician burn

but still the debtor Queen will burn
and Phoenix have the end he yearns
for on the day of his return.
He comes to claim his fearful mate
and fire is hotter when it waits
and oaths forsworn will shatter slate.

Done with yearning stalemate.
Done with waiting for his turn.
Phoenix burning cleans the slate.

Sycamore Song

High in the air where the sunshine is sparkling
a sycamore seed goes spinning along.
"Sycamore seed, can I go where you're going?
Sycamore seed, will you sing me your song?"

"High in the sky past the gate of the mountain
In a valley of clouds, by the side of a stream
That's where I'm bound on the wings of the summer breeze
Deep in the dark earth, to slumber and dream."

"No more to dance with the midsummer lightning?
Never to fly through the sweet silver rain?
Sycamore seed, oh how sad is your story
Bound to the dark earth by gravity's chain!"

"Bound in the darkness, my wings will unravel
My body will turn to a slender green shoot
As spring turns to summer, new leaves will unfurl
High overhead, from the deep-sunken root.

"The leaves they will dance with the midsummer lightning
The roots they will drink of the sweet silver rain
For God set the seed of the sycamore turning
Turning and turning and turning again."

Deschutes Rapids Blues

Deschutes rapids be so cruel
Drown the wise man, drown the fool
Sank my husband's fishing boat
Deschutes got him by the throat
Heavy hearts can never float.

Deschutes river freeze my bones
Fill my heart with broken stones
Drowned my son in cold white water
Deschutes river took my daughter
Flood came through the hills and caught her.

God He knows, if I could fly
With osprey wings and falcon's eye
You know I'd ease my sorrowed mind
Leave this Deschutes far behind
Deschutes river, cold and blind.

Midnight Prayer repost

I've been asked to repost one of the poems that appeared in SCR. Since SCR just came out, I'm not going to repost the whole text: you can read it here.

Teaser:

The fading echoes of a midnight prayer
still faintly audible at break of day
although the supplicant’s no longer there

SCR

I have a poem up at SCR, issue 4. Another poem and an essay in the sub-zine, II, which is currently reached via the SCR front page.

Making Decisions

Sunday Scribblings' prompt: Decisions.

Making decisions by rolling the dice
is safe as a house on fire, steady a stand
as walking on water or dancing on ice.

Think it all over and check it out twice
all of the facts are not at your command,
so make your decisions by rolling the dice.

All our inventions have made no device
for seeing the future. Whatever you planned
is walking on water and dancing on ice.

No matter how hard you work, you’ll be surprised
so whatever happens, you must understand
it always comes down to just rolling the dice.

So pull out a quarter and cover your eyes,
toss it and catch on the back of your hand,
walk on the water and dance on the ice.

Prophecy comes at a terrible price,
best write your future on wind-drifted sand,
make your decisions by rolling the dice,
walk on the water and dance on the ice.

We Are Sand

We thought
we were castles. We forgot
we were beach, until
the tide came in
and scattered our grains to flat expanse
and the ripples wrote on us:
Remember.

Careless hands will heap us high again
and we’ll forget to be beach
until the tide comes in whispering:
Remember.

Praise God, we are sand.

Blogging tips meme

I got tagged for a meme by Whirling Dervish at stoneymoss. This meme is interesting in that it addresses blogging behavior, and also tries to incorporate the sort of upmod/downmod capability seen on many discussion forum softwares these days. A very late-90s meme.

-Start Copy-

It’s very simple. When this is passed on to you, copy the whole thing, skim the list and put a * star beside those that you like. (Check out especially the * starred ones.)
Add the next number (1. 2. 3. 4. 5., etc.) and write your own blogging tip for other bloggers. Try to make your tip general.

After that, tag 10 other people. Link love some friends!

Just think- if 10 people start this, the 10 people pass it onto another 10 people, you have 100 links already!

1. Look, read, and learn. ******
NeonScent

2. Be, EXCELLENT to each other. ****
Bush Mackel

3. Don’t let money change ya! *
The Random Forest

4. Always reply to your comments. ******
The Kat House

5. Link liberally — it keeps you and your friends afloat in the Sea of Technorati. ***
Chip's Quips

6. Don’t give up - persistence is fertile. *****
Velcro City

7. Give link credit where credit is due. *******
SF Signal

8. Pictures say a thousand words and can usually add to any post.*****
SciFiChick.com

9. Participating in ‘memes’ is a destructive habit and should be avoided at all costs. **
Neth Space

10. Don’t hold back.***
A Dribble of Ink

11. Short Fiction is the bomb!*
The Soulless Machine Review

12. Redesign your site often. Visual boredom breeds textual complacency. *
9 to 5 Poet

13. Labels--not too many, not too few--help your readers browse.**
stoneymoss

14. Get involved in a blog community like Poetry Thursday- this adds creative inspiration to your blog and adds instant visitors- as well as connects you with other bloggers with similar interests.*
stoneymoss

15. Host a blog carnival. Not only do you get to read a lot of great posts, you get to meet a lot of great people.
Knocking From Inside

-End Copy-

I'm not going to tag 10 people, 'cause I'm not sure such rapid proliferation is actually a good thing. So:

Maliha at Lightness of Being
Susan at Rickety Contrivances of Doing Good
Dale at mole

You all are now "it". You know what to do...

Advice on Departure

Walk into the light
but don't forget the shadow
waving you good-bye.

Weekly activities

Just for the heck of it, I thought I'd make a list of the weekly blog events in which I participate, or try to participate:

Poetry Thursday
weekly poetry; your own or someone else's (appropriately attributed); usually an optional prompt, but since the hosts are on summer break, free topic
Sunday Scribblings
weekly writing of any kind; expected to be original; expected to follow prompt
The Ringing of the Bards
weekly poetry carnival, hosted at participant blogs; expected to be original; no prompts, but host may declare theme
3 Word Wednesday
weekly writing of any kind; expected to be original; expected to follow 3-word prompt

I think my goal is going to be to try to participate in at least three out of the four in a given week-- more than that might just get to be a little crazy.

Glad-Handing Blues

"So I guess we got to start thinking of the politician
As just another suffering bastard"
--Judy Henske, "Tin Star" from Loose in the World

Straighten my tie in the mirror
Brush up my shiny black shoes
Go out and meet with the public
Got the old glad-handing blues.

Hand off the questions to spin docs
Smile at the camera crews
Don’t mention anything serious
Hide them old glad-handing blues.

Glad-handing blues, bad-handing blues
Working the crowd and collecting the votes
Sad-handing blues, mad-handing blues
Pressing the flesh and cracking the jokes
It’s all part of those glad-handing blues.

Run like a soldier from Marathon
Lie down and die when you lose
Forget that you once were for reform
It got lost in the glad-handing blues.

Memphis

I've found a new thing: 3 Word Wednesday at If You Only Read One Blog.

Gray
Fathom
Memphis

grey river flooding
Mississippi holds Memphis
in fathomless arms

Broken Form

You’ve been dreaming with the volume turned down
and walking softly past the tottering stacks
knowing the edifice is full of cracks
making your way safely around—
kick the walls now, raise dust
and don’t be afraid of booby-traps!
Maybe you can get the ceiling to collapse
and breathe fresh air for a change. Scrape the crust
from your eyes. See new things. It couldn’t be worse
than late-night reruns playing on the inside
of your eyelids. Than trying to hide
in your tiny private universe.
Fly in a burst of light, a meteoric storm
surrounded by burning bits of broken form.