Attic Light

Light... I don't mind the light
it's quiet in this attic, though it's cold.

The flare of sunrise at the dirty window
is all right. It's all right

the window's bright, but peaceful. I
heard traffic murmuring all night.

Once a squeal of swerving brakes—
the VA gave me stuff for nerves

to help me sleep. It didn't keep me
from waking, grabbing for a weapon

but there was no crash, and the flash
of headlights on the wall was faint.

I crept into the quiet corner and slept
again, and now it's light.

Only light. No noise. No screaming
bleeding piles of shattered stone and metal,

don't look underneath. No smell of death.
I breathe the dusty attic air and watch the light.

I'm hungry, but it's quiet here. Maybe one
more day without food, without fear

it's all right, watching shadows drift across
the floor with gifts of light and silence.

--image by Shane Gorski via Read Write Poem
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Overcast

As much as we claim to hate the rain, we're uneasy with the clear, sunny days the East Wind brings in winter. "I just think it's weird," a co-worker said to me. We're not prepared for that kind of clarity; it seems to demand response, a brisk walk along the frosty sidewalks, a deep lungful of crisp air.

Today the clouds are back, like a grey flannel blanket over the city. We sigh in relief, curling back into our warm houses and onto our couches. Pretty soon it'll rain again, and no-one will expect us to go outside.

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Unnumbered Releases

Have you not considered tragedy
behind the infinite reduplication of a smile
in shades of the same color?

Look at me
an unromanced Harlequin,
mosaic of stained-glass pains.
This skull-faced grin surmounts a stack
of hearts, as the conqueror's
throne rests on a pile of skulls.

I can't remember the color of my face
but the bone structure's terrific—
if a little pronounced
(or unpronounced, because no-one
will talk about skeletons).

I can't remember the number of
duplications and divisions that create
this matrix. If I destroyed it from within
would it be matricide?

Which of my numberless versions
should I choose for release?

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Illuminations from Inside (update)

"Illuminations" is now also available in pdf.

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Progress

3 Word Wednesday: Hinder. Journey. Rigid.

rigid ideas
can only hinder progress
journeying means change

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Bud break

I'm predicting an early spring: I think we've seen the last of the really cold weather.

It's still going to be wet, of course. Maybe windy and stormy. But I'm betting no snow, no ice storms, and highs well above freezing from now on.

One of our camellias has broken bud. I trust them more than I trust any weathermen.

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Homecoming

mourners ring the graves
to the sound of muffled drums
flags blanket coffins

For Miss Rumphius' three-word prompt: blanket, drum, ring.
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Refinements

Sugar is yellow light captured
by the alchemy of emerald, dissolved
in the thin liquor of plant saps.

Bled forth in drops of liquid gold
that tiger-furred bees swallow and
bring forth as slow amber honey.

Or dripping from translucent bodies of aphids
clinging to the undersides of green
umbrellas raised against solar desiccation.

Or recrystallized from the verdant blood
of lush canes smashed, ground, boiled
to tar-thick black molasses.

Sugar is sunlight--
no wonder we crave it.

--for Read Write Poem
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Illuminations from Inside

So, I've put together a collection of images and image/word combos off this blog, and I'm giving it away. Want a copy? Email me at tielansari AT gmail DOT com.

Note that it's in MS Word format, and the format looks OK to me, but your mileage may vary depending on your version of Word, platform, etc. Also note that the zipped file is over 13 MB, so you may have trouble receiving it if your email has size limits for attachments.

Most of the images are, or are edited versions of, images I got off stock.xchng. There are a few public-domain images from Wikimedia and the NASA photo archives, as well as some I made using Apophysis. But the majority of these images were other people's property originally, and I'm very grateful to them for being willing to share their work. You'll find individual image credits in the file. Please take a minute to check them out.

Sample images below:






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Monadnock

3 Word Wednesday: Bleak. Hiccup. Queer.

bleak monotony
hiccups into monadnock
what a queer mountain

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Hand on the Wheel

Oh I remember it well:
all week in the bitter frost the trains were crying out
"Don't drive me so hard. Mercy, mercy,"
to the hand on the wheel.

And all over town the tender-hearted
wept for their lost ones and whispered
"Mercy, Beloved,"
to the hand on the wheel.

The earth groaned in her orbit
and the moon with her million meteor scars
wrote their pleas against the darkness: "Mercy!"
to the hand on the wheel.

As flour calls out to the mill
and stone to water: "Mercy!"
every living heart begs mercy
from the hand on the wheel.

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Blues for Absent Friends

When twenty years had gone the musketeers were reunited
for one adventure, after which their fellowship divided.
Porthos was a hero, Athos had a dream
D'Artagnan was a soldier, Aramis had a scheme.

Oh Lord, we carried on and on for years
just like the musketeers
just like the musketeers.

We give too much into the care of strangely absent friends
as if we don't remember how the story always ends:
Porthos under stone, D'Artagnan on a mission
Athos of a broken heart, Aramis in suspicion.

Oh Lord, it seems we're victims of the years
just like the musketeers
just like the musketeers.

It's age and time that make the world a place of solemn strangers
and habit killed the hearts that had defied a thousand dangers.
Porthos never changed, but Aramis was colder
D'Artagnan soldiered on while Athos just got older.

Oh Lord, deliver us from endless years
just like the musketeers
just like the musketeers.

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Under the Radar

You know it's safer to be under the radar. Look what happened when the stars threw down their spears. Meteors hit the curled back of the moon and left abiding scars. The firestorm wind pulled down trees everywhere.

And yet, the moon's precious heart wasn't pierced: only her shell was so marked. If you had never moved me, I wouldn't be waiting neglected by the telephone: still, the green sweep of the screen comforts me.

words courtesy of Read Write Poem

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Manticore (image)

Classically the manticore has the tail of a scorpion, the body of a lion, and the head or face of a human or ape. I've chosen to emphasize the scorpion aspect, as it's the part that disturbs me the most. This image goes with the Manticore poem.

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Untended Cemetery

3 Word Wednesday: Grave. Lithe. Offend.

neglect offends graves:
wind and lithe willow branches
sweep the headstones clean

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Cold Flesh Blossoms

The wind rumbled in last night
like heavy freight on an overpass.
No moans or whistles: just the growl
of bitter air and the tinkle of
frozen rose petals falling like tiny
scarlet windchimes.

The dead leaves felt it coming
days ago. They crept from my feet,
whispering anxiously with
cadaver tongues in a language
of sibilance and clicks. They
fear brittleness.

It's here to stay in the bone forest
the grove of frozen fingers
the cold flesh blossoms
among the tongues that only speak in hissing whispers
all drowned in the echoes
of the rumbling wind.

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Roses in December

December fifth, and though the trees are bare
there's still a rosebush with a late-blown bloom.
A trace of summer lingers here and there

a dab of red, a waft of scented air
a touch of August captured in perfume.
December fifth, and though the trees are bare

and dead leaves rustle down the concrete stair
a scarlet blossom braves the winter gloom.
A trace of summer lingers here and there

on bushes as disheveled as the hair
of sleepers roused from winter-darkened rooms.
December fifth, and though the trees are bare

defiant roses challenge the despair
of dead grass shaking out a seedless plume.
A trace of summer lingers here and there

although this morning, frost was everywhere
and on the calendar, these numbers loom:
December fifth. But though the trees are bare
a trace of summer lingers here and there.

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The Void-Gate Opens and Eldritch, Ichor-Dripping Tentacles Emerge, Writhing Hungrily

I mean, honestly. What does it look like to you? Apophysis fractal.
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William Stafford Birthday

Jan 17th, I've been invited to participate in the William Stafford birthday celebration at the Columbia Center for the Arts in Hood River.

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Solstice Spell

Sun going down
Candle and crown
Drive back the night
Lingering light
Edging the sky
Hovering high
Kissing the earth
Mistletoe mirth
Head of the beast
Fire-hall and feast
Bonfire and bough
Sun return now.

--for Read Write Poem's December prompt.
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What book am I? II

I'm... Romeo and Juliet?
Thanks to greenduck for the heads-up.

You're Romeo and Juliet!

by William Shakespeare

While people think of you as the most romantic person alive,
you may actually be more prone to offer practical warnings of what happens when
people follow their feelings too severely. You do believe that love has the power
to conquer the sharpest divides, no matter the cost. It's just not entirely clear
whether that cost is worth it. People spend a great deal of time referencing the
things you've said or even singing about you. Nevertheless, they are most likely
to describe you as "star-crossed".


Take the Book Quiz II
at the Blue Pyramid.

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Barefoot Shoes Blues

Woke up this morning feelin' for my barefoot shoes
Lord, it's come to something when you can't have no walking blues.

Some people tell me hard-soled shoes ain't bad
But I swear these barefoot shoes feel like the best I ever had.

Yeah, I woke up this morning and put my barefoot shoes on
And I looked in my sock drawer but all my socks were gone.

Well, I'm leaving my cross-trainers and I won't be coming back
I'm leaving them this morning, I got toeprints in my tracks.

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Black Friday Stomp

Warning: in bad taste.

Just see them crowding at the plate-glass doors:
they'll open soon, there'll be blood on the floors
as people fight to get those special deals.
The holidays are here, you know it feels
like we're dying in the Black Friday Stomp.

A ten percent reduction, though the price
had gone up yesterday to almost twice
what it was week before last. Oh, but wait:
include the manufacturer's rebate
and it's worth risking the Black Friday Stomp.

Black Friday Stomp, Black Friday Stomp
You can call it a dance, you can call it a romp
In dire circumstances, we bring on the pomp
and celebrate the Black Friday Stomp!

We barely can afford the food and rent,
the winter heating budget's overspent
but no-one can resist that sales tag.
So throw that one-time item in the bag
and fight through the Black Friday Stomp!

--for Read Write Poem's December mini-challenge, which seems to find me cranky this year.
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This is NUTS

If you Google PV=nRT... my sonnet comes up at #11

That's nuts. You want to tell me a goofy little poem that uses the ideal gas law as a political metaphor is more relevant than the hundreds, if not thousands, of chemistry and physics reference works that are available online?

Google works in mysterious ways...

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Department Store Display

3 Word Wednesday: Fondle. Kick. Sumptuous.

mannequins dressed in
sumptuous yet kicky clothes
fondle sleek torsos

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Super-mart Santa

The poor guy in Santa apparel
must think he's in hell all day long.
They stuff him as big as a barrel
the poor guy in Santa apparel.
He's stuck with the super-mart carols--
excuse me: they're "seasonal songs."
The poor guy in Santa apparel!
I think he's in hell all day long.

--for Read Write Poem's December mini-challenge
Collection available! Knocking from Inside