Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Carloluigi Colombo paints

Pregnant Woman on the Beach


James Diaz writes

Last Night, On Your Porch
I carry what you cannot 
over the hill 
and lay me down 
sweet morning 
I am not a weapon 
for you to do with  
as you please 
a lot can happen  
in an hour 
even in the wind 
something is bending 
there were days 
I went rogue 
and under dressed 
the place where 
they kept dangerous 
things tied to trees 
I said a prayer there 
even though my throat 
released only air 
and my body 
it seemed 
disowned me 
I dug for whatever 
might be left 
carried it in me 
as far and as long 
as I could.
 Image result for songbird cage paintings
They Were Flying Higher than the Rest of Us…So We Shot Them Down -- Lonac

Simon Leake writes

The treeless root of a life 
in functional blank spaces 
becomes an engine to be 
taken apart and remade 
by the alchemy of pharmacists 
and oracles of consultant seers. 
I’m the idiot among the natives 
observing magic performed 
by the shamans of a God 
beyond good and evil. 
I must not wait, despondent, 
but play my part in these 
accelerated narratives 
and move without question 
but every advance sprouts 
canopies of possibilities 
and I drown in the terabytes.

A songbird in a darkened cage 
will only sing more beautifully.
Image result for birdcage hiroko paintings

Birdcage --Hiroko Sakai

Dorin Popa writes

when your woman deserts you
wherever she might go

you think that you stay hidden
for good

among her belongings
my soul, straighten your knees,
stop the fall,
the decay
stop the sand,
the water

wherever she might go
you no longer matter
not a whit
wherever she might go
you’re not left
your birth was
an aberration
an imitation
a negation
wherever she might go,
there’s no place for you to go

 Image result for deserted paintings
The path that the soul takes -- Herbert Baglione

Jon Huer writes

Monday, May 22, 2017

ApBob Mitchell shoots

Vista House, Columbia River Gorge
 No automatic alt text available.

Soodabeh Saeidnia writes

Give Me a Pen, Give Me a Pencil

Give me a pen and I will break it into three pieces  
the way P possesses enough of pity, pain, patience 
and E earns enough of endorsement, equality, encouragement 
and N receives no, nor, none, nothing

It’s hard to tell the poor ending N that “being nothing”  
isn't equal to “being something” just like 
“dream of having security and insurance”  
isn’t the same as “having security and insurance”

I hope all the letters in an integrated pencil  
understand that they all need to participate  
in Carbon dialogue of the wood society which is  
so vulnerable to a brand new Faber-Castell sharpener

Give me a pencil and I will peel it, all its bright fancy skin 
and then plug in the sharpener for half an hour, 
sitting on a rocking chair, watching how easy 
the flakes are desquamating, rendering, exfoliating

There won’t be a single E to defend the wood 
or half a P to fight for the inner city  
but you may find a little n slowly slips into the trash bin,  
and rises from Cans-Only in a recycling company  
 Image result for pencil sharpener paintings
 Pencil Sharpener -- Rube Goldberg