Daily Poetry & Prose

Heave up a brick and slap on the mortar I am building a life. Covered in mud the first brick layers used clay and sticks.  A sloppy undertaking but the results came anyways. The Egyptian pyramids weren't built in a day and the road to Rome is paved with good intentions. Never the mind. I have long eyelashes and old galoshes I will wade through the ponds. Sending a baby in the reeds for good measure. Image source:  https://www.bl.uk/learning/cult/inside/goldhaggadahstories/mosesstory/moses.html (what a way to interpret drawing water)

Tying shoes in an intimate way, the loops fell over one another.

The supreme intelligence is out there, the mastermind behind The pristine happenstance is hanging in the balance between my eyes and my mind trapeze blow wind blow a puff of smoke and all is the same again. Image source:  https://pixels.com/featured/the-trapeze-acrobats-vintage-pix.html

The grapes around my waist make a belt of wine shaded in the summer by the vines Lo and behold come hold me child in the dust beaten by the sun until your mind rusts never your heart! Your heart is covered  highlighted swallowed by the halo your grace takes over and makes all graves full and never hollow Allow me to recognize this bounty this fruitful handful count me in to the harvest moon so full and hanging guiding the ships at night across the waters Did you ransom off your stolen daughters? Pawn the wallets of your sons? I had pride, once, a long time ago but the cowboys made me run. Indian. Sun. Photo by  demi huang  on  Unsplash

There is a glass of water there is water in a glass there is a river full of water there is water in a river one flows one stands still There is a cloud full of rain there is rain in a cloud There is a hose full of water there is water in a hose one is full of potential one is going going gone. How we choose to be  the glass or the stream. There is no right or wrong it's just knowing which is which so you can be strong flowing like the essence of joy lost and found only in  dreams. Photo by  Nicolas Ruiz  on  Unsplash

The sun rises in the East. My windows face West. In the morning at 8:05, the sun hits the windows  on the building across from me. The building which does face East, and windows which do face the sun. The reflection is so strong it's almost like I'm facing East. The sun is glaring at me. That's the power of a mirror, it can turn the whole world around.

Dew on the side of a can of Coca Cola Looking at the babies in the strollers holes in the jeans of the holy rollers on their knees from where they're praying petting sleeping dogs as they are laying just don't wake the dragon keep the drinkers on the wagon I've got my head in the middle  of a magazine reading about all the scenes the silver screens and hills of dreams paid in beans and what it means is that if life don't break you  then your mind will shooting fish in a barrel this time cock the gun and open the holy grail Huck Finn you win you got your pail I'm the blue gill Blurp Blurp Blurp. Might as well skin me get me on the grill and eat your fill the hook in my mouth won't make me shout I just have to rethink the whole problem of  worms and freewill. Image source:  https://gfp.sd.gov/bluegill/

When the coffee in the cup grows cold it sits on the counter at the diner in its porcelain vessel growing colder by the moment losing its "coffeeness" Then, the waitress comes by like a thief in the night and pours a sloppy yet deft layer to it And it doesn't happen like icing on a cake nor like sediment from the times of dinosaurs each one on the next all lined up in a colorful display in a canyon no, it's something more like a Venn Diagram what happens when the cold coffee  mixes with the hot and then it is  all warm. Image: Pinterest MangoStreet.com https://www.pinterest.com/mangostreetlab/

The potential spillage of cigarettes rolled with shaking fingers the ashes on the carpet are just messy, there's no Phoenix in site She is in the bottom of the canyon praying to different gods than the ones you know high from a peace pipe and lower than she's ever been What of the devil makes you shed your skin? Snake dance into the night let the river pound your bones with its rushing waters you are the canoe. I am your paddle. Let's get somewhere. Image source:  https://depositphotos.com/vector-images/phoenix-rising.html

The passion of the rat race ribbons Greased for gumshoe detectives riding high on metamorphosis slipping over the canyon into the abyss Was not the question in the coffee when the clouds of cream stirred your worried mind to think? Mondays are always stuck in the mud my tires spinning into infinity whipping the dirt  into frenzied backpacks of schooling which I never learned my lessons lined notebook paper holding me hostage with a sharpened pencil and the teacher's biting tongue sour apples the ballet dancer's career is not dance--  it's grace. Look into the mirror, it's so flat that you could place your hand on it. The world is round, ask a shipbuilder. No use staring at the mirror no use staring at your navel Tie up the ballet shoes and make a butterfly hang a wing in shame to your colors your being and your bang, bang, bang. What is at the door? Oh nothing, just a delusion of grandeur. Tip him and he'll bring the car around. Carry my luggage swirl this mess into...

The last time this happened I fell off the ledge dove into the waters and felt the coolness Now I have no place to go just a glass of water to drink.

The sun is rising from the center of my guitar the light is coming up there the strings cast shadows like tall trees in the forest stretching on the ground of my fingertips moving up my arms in vibrations of acrobatic readiness my fingertips are tight rope walkers

I think we have to believe what is possible. It's not impossible, it's possible. Time isn't something to manage, it's something to leverage, it has the ability to multiply and contract. We've all experience moments dragging on, and hours passing in a flash, what then, is time? When you are done pondering the fluidity of time, turn your gaze to hope. Let your heart burn with an ember of desire. Isn't hope and desire dependent on our sense of mastery? Isn't mastery just a leap of faith? Belief is the last frontier. Take a leap over time. Take a look in a moment. It's not day to day activities that take you where you are going but the moment to moment habits the access you give the boundaries you draw but most importantly the dreams you create. Image source: Avalanche Creative list of Infomercials

Soaking up the rain and whipping spit of the waves, as he stood next to the ocean of my memory, a fire hydrant in a red windbreaker, glaring in the midst of a water storm, how I wished it was summer again. Matching silver rings and glances over coffee, army jackets and annual cigarettes, looking at the stonework on the buildings forever, necks craning to see the falcons carved like gargoyles, high enough, on their third story ledges, to amaze us but not so close as to pose any real threat. Under the willow tree, I will always be, with his hands on my shoulders.

Bashing one's head against a wall is only useful if the dent is meant to be an accessory. Tip toeing around a topic is only good if the shoes are soft. Heavy headdresses made of lead are best when paired with a bag of burdens. Walking through mud can give your feet and legs a rather dashing shade of grey. Holding your head high is always recommended, you never know what you'll see. Stabbing your heart with a metaphorical blade, make sure its silver and not obsidian. Your eyelashes are your biggest curtain, drop them with great gravitas.

This is part of a new series of ten poems, where each one is going to be sparked by an exact quote from someone I know. The quote is something they wrote, said, shouted or whispered.  It then moves beyond the quote and I make up my own story or add my own thoughts. Similarities to people real or imagined are real or imagined. "I'm getting lost in the leaves today." I smirked, as if nature's paint brush was scrubbing my cheeks. I walked in a blue jacket, in the sun and took in the red and gold the yellow the brown the mint. "Oh!" There's a dead rat in the grass his eye is open, I don't know if he's breathing or not. I know someone will have to pick him up with a shovel. I walk on. I can't shed a tear now. I'm romanticizing the colors of life. Empathy is useless right now. It's pragmatic, and comforting, more like a towel to wrap around my head after a shower. I'm not here to judge, I am here to dance. Lost in the leaves smelling th...

Hunched over a typewriter fifty zebras swatting flies laughing at the sawdust wiping his eyes It's how I picture Charles Bukowski violins playing and each time the typewriter dings it's an epiphany  again and  again silent like a church bells ringing in his mind far away  from the gaze of critics and fools wading in a river of his own creation fish biting his toes splashing in the morning rain as the sun rises burning up the forest with each passing glance The muses running through the trees dressed in white flowing dresses as they scatter and hide behind  the letters spread across the page like grain and the idea is eaten. a new page goes in.

"Well...that was dramatic." I didn't know what he meant until I saw the ink spilled everywhere and the moths in her hair like barrettes as she sat in the corner unable to move Your journals they are all empty Your mind it is now full. Girl with Moths Print  Sabina Sinko Image source:  https://www.saatchiart.com/print/Painting-Girl-with-Moths/392678/2591166/view?sku=P210-U392678-A2781376-T2

This is part of a new series of ten poems, where each one is going to be sparked by an exact quote from someone I know. The quote is something they wrote, said, shouted or whispered.  It then moves beyond the quote and I make up my own story or add my own thoughts. Similarities to people real or imagined are real or imagined. "People will complain about anything," she said, and she's right. The current issue is potholes, on the city streets and alleys wreaking havoc on people getting to and from work resulting in car repairs and expenses unforeseen even though they tried to swerve. She talks about how she never wanted to be a Nordstrom woman and how despite herself she notices mauve and grey in her wardrobe and we laugh and I agree there's stereotypes out there and listen to the shrill reminder that there are unheard voices, unmet needs: it's time to start blowing the whistle. We discuss artists and grants. She encourages me to call my local Alderman or Alderwoman...

This is part of a new series of ten poems, where each one is going to be sparked by an exact quote from someone I know. The quote is something they wrote, said, shouted or whispered.  It then moves beyond the quote and I make up my own story or add my own thoughts. Similarities to people real or imagined are real or imagined. "It's just so fucking fake out there now. No souls on the row." His transparent onion skin was clear for now. His messages floated down the telephone wires like a letter wet in the grass, ink running Covered from head to toe in tinsel with dirty cowboy boots and a shiny gold record moving like moths to light toward Christmas lights and Miller Lite in the bar downtown, the Bluebird where all the songwriters go. The spark and fire of busking is now just enough to get from the couch to the stove in the kitchen I am him, he is me,  my Nashville connection he has no idea what that town has meant to me. The difference is he actually went, he actually ...

Every sunny part of the kaleidoscope is blinking and moving! Keep on keeping on, tomorrow is a bright day full of life and swimming. 

They say a man will blink thirty seconds after being decapitated. They say a snake will slither until sundown. At least I am not at risk of being beheaded, I think to myself on this sunny day. I am not royal enough for that,  when the peasants revolt I will be among them. I was reading a book about Mona Lisa and in the list of ancestors  sometimes it would just be written "decapitato" for cause of death. Dark stuff, from the time of "enlightenment."

Undoing the visuals from the eye ball the eye socket covered in rags what I couldn't see the onion peels and wet feet in the bathtub losing every layer of dry skin could not begin to unearth the shell the tortoise turning over