Friday, July 19, 2013

reFocusing

Well. Poetry... I've not written much lately. Instead, I've used my creative desires and energies in other directions - photography being the main instigator, the German language being the other.

I have been writing, too, but certainly nothing ready for exposure.

Spending more time reading; last year read 42 books for well over 10,000 pages. So far this year I'm about half-way in both number of books and page count. A click on the lower right of this blog will bring you to my Goodreads.com page (what, you don't have a Goodreads account??). Work has been pretty busy as well, and an uptick in house projects grabs my attention too. And I've taken some pretty great trips with my wonderfully pretty wife - need those.

I have found, though, that I would like an outlet for some of my ideas and philosophies and I think this blog should be close enough in intention that I can use it. I'll add some poetry here, to be sure, but I'd like to blather as well. Blather seems like a good word for it - I won't pretend it is prose. There may be some proselytizing...

What goes around, comes around - please do.

Thank you,
Sal



Thursday, September 3, 2009

From The Top

http://www.gudmagazine.com/ GUD (pronounced “good”) is Greatest Uncommon Denominator, a print/pdf magazine with 200 pages of literary and genre fiction, poetry, and art. We feature fiction that ranges from 75 to 15,000 words.

I'm one of the the founding editors, so it does occupy some of my time - I wish more so. This is some of my poetry and my ramblings. I won't pretend it is GUD worthy - but it's a nice outlet for me, anyway.

The magazine is a true joy, btw, and you should grab a copy.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Dear March, Goodbye

You gave me hope, relief from
Winter’s frigid grip
your warming smile, if rare, a
welcome haven.

But rain, snow – then bright sunny sky;
Mother Nature’s hormones gone awry –
make up your God-Damned Mind.

Your thirty-one day flow left me
laughing, sweating
then poured a chill down my spine.

You were born from a torn alliance
between February and April; can't
commit to one without forsaking the other
and I, the edge of a that frozen blade –
you slipped off whenever it got confusing . . .
you’re unbalanced by nature, I know that now.

I lied to myself that I could use you,
a stepping stone,
a more gentle hardship between seasons;
the promise of glorious springs, fulfilled.

But I was the fool stepped on,
mud-soaked and cut by broken ice,
flooded by muck and gray misty days;
clouding my judgment – a penumbrous joy.

How could I have been so stupid, and you
so, so cold –
where are the flowers you promised me?

Monday, March 16, 2009

Knitting Circle

Wrinkled grey woman
Wanes even as she waxes, time
As balls of yarn, un-
Ravels as she
Spins.

Stories, multiple histories...
Crystal star-collared calico in
a patch of sun poised;
Ready to - Pounce – while one
Gold-rimmed eye languidly
Blinks.

The tail snaps;
Motion-blurred furplosion
paws and claws and -
The balls roll once again.

Somewhere a cat
Scratches in his böx -
and doesn't.

Possibly, a super-
Centenarian and her
Precious, have skeined
something revolving around
cosmology.

Thursday, November 27, 2008

Ceylon Memories

We, golden couple, coupled
Awash in smiles and sun-dappled green breezes
Warm, hot, wild and then
Sipping Ceylon white, nutty, mild and sweet
Tasted of spring and the start of all things – right.

Sigiriya Gardens, bird's-eye view;
You whispered, “Take me in your arms, I
Want to fly!”

Grappled me, and did
- we seemed not to Fall but, eyes
Locked blue to brown, the world
Rose to meet us.

Crushed our bones, severed my
Spine and split you from me.
Made mute; I could not cry.

But for all the tubes and pumps
The whir-click escapes of sterile air
The draught of those leaves
Never chills -
Never sours.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

The Beating of the Rain

Violet, fully empettled, far too
pretty for hard rains – cold
fistfuls slate grey barrage like
father’s insults - clumsy,
stupid girl.

My fault - must be more
careful, the drops don’t
know where, how hard, they fall only
that He Knows What's Good and
purple petals should be pretty
strong enough. Should be. Will.

All while water flows
washes and pushes a flower to
grow, if only the Sun would,
like a child’s awkward
toothy smile, shine - just
the littlest, tiniest bit longer.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

A Prayer for The Working Wounded

Carry us, oh Lord, through
these tired corridors of pre-death
waking, as if it were, to chlorinated baptisms,
our flesh still dripping with fashionable shrouds
as we leave our homes and pets and do
what none of us ever dreamt of doing.

We ride our caffeinated anti-dreams like religions –
fitful fistfuls of somnambulation
into walls as real as the hard fact
of imagination lost.

Sidesaddle;
eyes forward yet our hearts
else wise.

At best:
an off-center uncommitted canter - worse:
Ichabod Crane.

We ride into the setting sun alone -
Nightmares are another thing
all together.