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[GUEST POETRY]

>> Saturday, October 30, 2010

Quarto, with Crows
by Lita Sorensen



























For four days now, crows have woken me
against slate gray snow burgeoning tree limbs
I hear cries
as they pick old grape
seeds from the neighbors’ vines
and circle like ministers above tenements.
Today is bright with winter sun. The rest have kept
the sullenness of November blustering, weathered, tearful days.

Crows know how to bring on the morning
properly with chants and caws
but with laughter of hypocrites
behind earnest magisterial robes
and open eyes of gypsies.
Almost a week has passed in November,
great thief of time endgame of the year.

I have counted four crows ahead
In the tall elm tree
perched like dark sailors
up a ship’s mast preachers on a pulpit
resemblance in their stark cries
exhorting god of sky,
endless blue-white oceans.
This too, will pass (like winter)
an old lover once told me
not yet waking on my pillow,
predicting the phantasm of our love.

I look for crows every day now
in dictionaries of black symbols in webs of branches
quotation marks against sky after endless skies
in days ahead and behind me
in sighs and with sharp intakes of air.
There is something so familiar about the sound of their voices
speaking so plainly before breakfast.




"I am a writer living in Sedona, Arizona" 
-fr the author's profile page on her writing site 
"The Sutler"








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surreal

>> Tuesday, October 26, 2010


This was inspired by a dream. And as with all dreams, the details of which  have evaporated with the passing of time. It must have been intense though, that I'm quite certain, for I still can't shake it off from my subconscious. A niggling abstract thought.  And now I'm like recalling a scent only I can't tell where I smelled it, who wore it, or what exactly was it - old leather, bergamot, jasmine, tamarind?  It is so much like deja vu, you're certain when it happens and in a wink of an eye, you're not, never sure anymore. It's all very surreal. Like the impression invoked by the images and words - lines stolen from great poets and randomly strung together - below.





















AT midnight hour I went, not willingly,
When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
Cover mine eyes, O my Love! 





























My heart leaps up when I behold
Angels of the love affair
When June comes dancing o'er the death of May























Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
as the poems go into the thousands you
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day; 






























The name of the author is the first to go
immense, august, like some Titanic bloom,
when winter was half over
Let the rain kiss you

























Now close the windows and hush all the fields
The free bird leaps
And death shall have no dominion. 
























Never try to trick me with a kiss
I do not love you except because I love you;
I am in need of music that would flow
Desolate and lone 

























Once a dream did weave a shade
There will be rose and rhododendron
I walk down the garden-paths,
Go, sit upon the lofty hill





I SING the Body electric;
I dwelt alone
a total stranger one black day



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like a flower

>> Sunday, October 24, 2010


i unfurl in many colors
                 little by little when you are taken to the night
                 or suddenly when you are inclined to behold
as red as your heart in times of hate, choleric
as blue as your wintering soul, disconsolate
as white as your thoughts in prayer, chaste
purples greens passim, prismatic thru glass
 
i flood your air, headily
                 cautiously like autumnal leaves descending
                 or frantically like stormy weather unbound
with perfumes so potent Chloris weeps in envy
else feeble whiffs you mistake for afterthoughts
until to you I become no more a passing fancy

on my skin are etched
                paths to your awakening, rapturous, earthly
                across hellish high waters to placid shores
with me you are immortal, celestial, infinite
no dream has a prayer to make you forget
no memory, no silence, nothing is as distinct

love, i am love
let me in like a secret
your fall and redemption like a flower 


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[GUEST POETRY]

>> Monday, October 18, 2010

A yellow rose and a thousand red roses 
by Francia Clavecillas

 


























There used to be
just one yellow rose
defining the scars
of my geography;
Each scar was a terrain
unfamiliar to promenaders
holding hands
under kind stars.
Then I dreamed
of a thousand women
swallowing the teeth of their sorrow
Each of them was giving me
a red rose. 



 

"At present, aside from working with the marginalized, I do freelance writing, conduct training in community organizing, play the guitar and a local instrument called bandurria. I write poetry with an earned self-confidence."
- fr her home page on HubPages where she writes as franciaonline

The author is the creator of self-esteemandcommunityorganizing.com  



 ,..
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climbing trees

>> Thursday, October 7, 2010


Checkers of pale gold and soft white fluttering on my skin. Luminously more so when a warm breeze passes. They spill onto the ground, cascading. I stand on a chess board of light. A dazzling sight for anyone who cares to notice. I lay my hands on the cool, rough skin. As if sensing  a sign of the minute lives underneath, inside. In a beautifully chaotic procession. The furrows of my palms find respite on the wrinkles and crests of brown darkened by time while I was gone. And away.

I look up but do not squint and marvel at the filigree of green and limbs. Swaying. Waiting. I desired to be with them but my mind, despite the enchantment, pulls back. And wanders off again...

to that sight of a strange fruit, a crowned seductress, a guava. It was so high up. And to a child of six, it was amongst the clouds. It was probably the distance that separated that made the child I was once more resolute to quell the quiet but unignorable stirring inside. In my throat. In my gut. The rotund, yellow green orb of flesh was the first object of my desire. I can still feel the warmth that spread on the insides of my cheeks to this very day. I flung stones, sticks and anything my hands can throw at the fruit but it remained untroubled. What was I to do? Ah, a conundrum of the highest order!  But brilliance to a young mind also comes. And to me, it came in the form of the sinewy length of the giant plant.  Without a hint of hesitation nor any form of thought, my feet lifted off the ground...I climbed the tree.

My feet curled over each groove they could find. My hands grasped  at the limber branches that  hoisted me higher. Higher and higher I went. But I was not alone in my journey. Ants marched before my eyes, little feet on a mission.  I did not get in their way for I knew even then what they can do. My mother's potted plants were home to them too.

The higher I went, the more natural things felt. The leaves became familiar. Playful in the heavier wind, arching with the boughs and twigs. Their webbed faces caressed mine and, as if eager to please, they perfumed the paths I was traveling  - scent so heady and fresh I could have spent the rest of my days up the tree with my eyes closed. Or probably with my eyes wide open for how could I miss that wondrous sight...the jewel that lured me skyward?

And there it was at last, the freckled, rotund drupe. The sheen on its skin bespoke of the succulent flesh that challenged me to devour. But curiously, I felt the craving to possess and consume starting to ebb. Little by little. Like an echo drowning in space until not even a memory of its sound is left. For a moment I was mystified...what was I doing there?

And the answer came to me when I looked around. With the ground far far below, I was free, I was majestic.  Like the tree that embraced me. In retrospect, it was my first lesson in metaphors.

My mind wanders back and here I am again. Looking up but not squinting and marveling at the filigree of green and limbs. And with a new metaphor. A metaphor I learned while I was gone. And away. A metaphor about

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