This is the last photograph post of September 2017, which was taken yesterday the 29th.
Month: September 2017
still life
fortification
vista
a tattered map on the dirt. segments
along the creases beginning to fray. yes,
it was not far going from here as the crow flies.
i, however, am on foot.
i envied the black-feathered wings
turning the world
into a lush and extravagant plat.
late september vines
liberation
on those days he could make it down
and up three flights with confidence
the old Marxist would visit us
at the coffeeshop by the sea
at the coffeeshop by the sea
we would be entengled in tales
of the struggle to liberate
the self from shackles of the self
****
Looking for some help. I’m pretty sure that this poem is a kind of specific form of poety: consistant number of syllables per line, but chosen by the author (in my case 8), two four-line stanzas with the fifth line repeating the fourth line. I have done numerous searches, but am unable to find such a poem. If there be not, then let it be known that I offer a new poem form. I was thinking I’d call it a bridge poem, as in the fourth and fifth lines act as a bridge between the two stanzas. Thank you
Update: Until further noted, I will refer to these kind of poems as bridging poems. Don’t want people to think they are poems about bridges (although they might be from time to time). If anyone else out there in range of my virtual voice decides to do a bridging poem, let me know. I would like to read it.
bird door
thin ice
it is not enough to point out
the heavy eyelids and slouched
posture in a transit bus
or even the visible rent-is-due scars
look at the feet planted
like the small fury creature
who has scurried out onto thin ice and hears
the cracking sounds
the surface holds for the moment
but the body is frozen
if not for any other reason but
in what direction to scamper
is not immediately obvious
he knows what waits on the shore
where snow-covered ground
meets snow-covered pond
so he figures with feet well impressed
on a littered floor
he might as well ride this ride home
spillway
coda of the violinist
the first chair
her rightful place
posture of a stone pine
tree
strict fingers bending to a flow
only she feels
until the sweep of bow
of concluding notes
circle in eddyies in every row
encompassing all who can open
themselves to
each cadence
the part and the whole
harmonic
without flaw
mingling good-bye and hello
in perfect balance
two windows and a branch
walbran valley (a shadorma)
When it rained it rained
and when the rain stopped
the trees rained in the wind
and when the trees stopped
it rained. So it went.~ Alan Dugan, from In the Forest
Nothing is waterproof in the Walbran
~ Anonymous
1.
a sun still
above Pacific
but for us
at trailhead
already it’s a night-dusk
in endless downpour
we’re heading
straight up the hillside
beneath a
canopy
like an old barn’s leaky roof
on an abandoned farm
breathing in
a dark misty air
as if we
are breathing
in a wind of glacier stream
amid the old growth
in the trudge
up a slender trail
turned into
a spillway
mud and mud puddles and mud
we slip laugh and slosh
batteries
die in the flashlights
we place hands
on shoulders
guided by one light ahead
we slip laugh and slosh
yet we still
realize we are
moving through
a downpour
that has always been falling
upon this valley
****
This is the first part of what i hope to be a part of a shadorma.
plumbing & hardware
down by the old trestle
small bluish and square
reading a poem you come upon a phrase
skidding like iceboats
a memory is triggered
from when memories were just beginning to
take a shape
one that has nothing to do with skidding
nor iceboats but rather
small bluish and square tiles
seemingly in the thousands decorating a building’s facade
and your parents don’t notice you
are no longer in tow but rather
reaching out to the tiles made of arctic ice
that were not cold like ice
nor melting like ice but
in summer heat cool to the touch
coming upon a phrase: skidding like iceboats
a small bluish and square memory
the shape of when you were first
mesmerized
