Birthright

3 Word Wednesday: Ambitions. Incredible. Ugly.

sky-high ambition
incredible achievement
ugly duckling soars

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Cellmates

You
think yourself a White Knight
galloping expressways in search
of invaders to kill

I
am only a porter
carrying supplies as needed

You
treat me as an enemy
Red King's pawn

Who
ever said this was
a game made up
of rows columns square cells?

We
are at war, but it's
auto-immunity, my
reflection, other self
cellmate

Image courtesy of Thomas Hawk via Read Write Poem

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Humility

Hats? Oh, not for me; I never care
to cover up my head. I like the feel
of openness, of wind in ruffled hair.
I’m always one who’d rather stand than kneel—
you’d never find me walking at the heel
of someone called a shepherd, called a guide.
Everyone said I had a will of steel
and whispered of my cold cast-iron pride.
It’s all gone now, sand fortress in the tide,
the surf came in and washed the beaches clean
and left untrodden silver sands inside
my heart. The rippling hand of wind wrote: Deen.
I kneel now, with covered head, unshod
where turning tides inscribe the Names of God.

Original images: beach by Timo Balk; Ar-Rahman calligraphy from Wikimedia; fractal image of kneeling woman created in Apophysis
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Comet Velocities

3 Word Wednesday: Eclipse. Languish. Velocity

comet velocities
admit of no languishing
swifter than eclipse!

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Sacred Geometry

is not a question of
streets named after dead Masonic presidents
or rayed eyes framed in classic pediments
on aging brick facades.

It's not about a wheel
of boulevards around the central treasure vaults
aligned with monuments that dance a measured waltz
while dropping names and winks and nods--

but in the fractal edges
of buckeye leaves that line the walks of Northeast neighborhoods
or pools of rain among the ancient rootstocks of Mt. Tabor woods
a breezy shimmer shapes a glimpse of God.

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Mt. Adams at Sunrise

is posted as part of the Columbia Center for the Arts Plein Air anthology, 2009.

Addendum: I have several poems in the current issue of The Road Not Taken.

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Ending Ramadhan

The fasting month of Ramadhan ends this weekend.

My belly, empty as a bell
for four full weeks, is ringing close
to closing. Shrinking moon-shapes tell
the tale of days. A dimming dose
of moonlight limns the month's demise
as shadow claims the silver limb
and turns a mouth of round surprise
to glimmer on a goblet's rim.

We lay aside our fasting garb
and celebrate the feast of Eid
but elsewhere hunger's bloody barb
still rides and rowels those in need.
They toll in silence, tales unsung
like empty bells without a tongue.

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Leaving the Archive

Click: the filament
goes dark. Billows of stifling
dust erase footsteps.

--for Poefusion
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Flannel Flamingo

I never should have listened to the recruiters from Land's End.

"You'll be a model," they said. "Glamorous. Seen by millions. You'll stand out from the crowd."

"You'll be unique."

And the clincher. "Do you want to be stuck on this lawn with 107 other pink flamingoes for ever?"

I'd hoped for something... sober, understated. Like a great blue heron, all those delicate twilight shades.


Or a sacred ibis. Dramatic, yet elegant.


Of course they didn't tell me I'd be stuck up to my ankles in snow-- and painted like this!



Original images: heron by Konrad Mostert; ibis by Joe Kucharski; plastic flamingo by Chris Browett; flamingo legs by Mehmet Goren; plaid by Erika Thorpe; snow by Amy Burton
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For ThomG

ThomG is the regular host of 3 Word Wednesday. His father passed away last week.

In his absence Pia offers the following words: Drift. Hanky. Thick.

mourners clutch hankies
huddle close, throats thick with tears
a soul drifts upward

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KBOO

I'll be making a brief appearance (is that even the right word??) on KBOO's "Talking Earth" show, Sept 21 at 10 PM. (Actually sometime between 10 and 11. But listen to the whole show anyway.)

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Scribblers on the Roof

has published "Leavened Bread". You can read it here. I'm very happy to have found a home for this one.

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The Company of Seekers

Original image by Karin Lindstrom
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Torch Singer

They think it's hip to be scofflaws,
nonconformists, not members of some
faceless multitude. They're all half-asleep,
nodding over flasks of plum wine
and sugary confections in an illegal
all-night dive

where in the harsh limelight she sings
husky-voiced, for a pittance. Her life's
no bed of clover, but she's content.
She's extending her talents, and they
find their own crushing mediocrities
unremedied.

words courtesy of Read Write Poem
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Family Quarrel

3 Word Wednesday: Disarm. Engage. Mayhem.

an engaging smile
disarms angry relatives
stops family mayhem

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Laundromat

He puts the quarters in the washer and pushes in the slide—
click click click rrrrasp rattle
He selects the temperature and cycle and presses the on-button
beep beep-beep beep
The washer fills
RUSH
and churns
glug glug glug glug glug
and drains
gurgle
and spins
WHIRRRRR...
THUMP BZZ!
the unbalance light went on.
He opens the lid
creak
and starts to rearrange the load
of fifty-seven unmatched socks and a duvet.
It just doesn't pay to be eccentric.

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Straight Lines

chair by Amr Safey
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Plein Air

I'll be reading at the Plein Air Writing Exhibition at the Columbia Center for the Arts-- Sept. 20th, 7 PM. After that date, the poems from the event will go online.

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Mandala

Flames burst from the magician's heart
and onlookers stare in shock,
mesmerized by the whirling wheel.

Flames spin above the magician's head
and they crackle, hiss and whisper: you think
you can make out words like handle, abandon,
landau, almond, sandalwood,
mandala.

No-one thinks to call
a fire engine or an ambulance
because it's clearly meant to be,
this unselfconscious miracle that will consume
a magician by morning
and leave a pile of ashes.

Image by bradlyolin via Read Write Poem
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Urban Wildlife

Original image: hawk by sabeth
This image is the basis for Read Write Poem's poetry postcard contest. I'm submitting a different treatment, which I'll post later.
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Glare Ice

3 Word Wednesday: Glare. Lustre. Threat. I prefer the British spelling of lustre.

the lustre of snow
brightens to an icy glare
threatening skiers

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Conversation Overheard in Downtown Hood River

"and he ran away from home for two days..."
"so at least he was smart enough to find his way back..."
"except instead of coming to the front door he was on the roof..."
"the roof?"
"on the roof all night in the pouring rain..."

and he wailed, wet-faced
lean and matted, clinging to the ridgepole.
She stood in the yard banging his food dish
with a spoon: "Here, here, good boy!
Tasty Niblz!" Strident ringtone
from her breast pocket: a neighbor's voice:
"Can't you shut that beast up?"
Tires hissed in the wet street until he
jumped down, wild-eyed, jaws clenched
around the unheard cries of
a little brown bat.

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Drought

This morning there was rain that I could hear
but could not feel, falling all around
while grass turned grateful toward the water-sound.
Though drought stood on my skin, my open ear
heard liquid domes on every leaf appear
then swell and merge, and tumble to the ground.
The roots drank deep, their thirsting finally drowned
but on my lips fell nothing but a tear.

And all the while the vegetation glistened
with new moisture, while the rainbow arched
across the gentle heaven, I stood parched.
I could not taste the rain; I only listened
to the raindrops pattering on leaves.
Drought's the condition of a heart that grieves.


photo courtesy of Muhammad Imran
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