On Leaving

Mark Rothko -  en.wikipedia.org

Mark Rothko –

always leaving
Always emigrating
saying good`bye to walls
where other pictures hung
before we hung up ours
and others will hang
when we finish

coming going
a log`book of hours
without much annotation
beyond the name of a client
a time of an appointment
and a phone`number
out of service
here now

children gone
out into the world
by way of some university
The phone call on a birthday
a job offer in a far off city
Home for a holiday
and then again

the last leaving
Spirit bidding adieu
to the body it called home
for so many forgotten years
We are sojourners at last
migrants living loving
leaving for places

                                  ” . . . then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.” ~ John Keats

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Indelible Ink

Adolfo Farsari en.wikipedia.org

Adolfo Farsari   en.wikipedia.org

Getting older
we are growing
more comfortable
within our own skin
Where once we tried
to hide our heritage
as refugees born
of the chaos of
some conflict

we now dance
un`melted in the
melting`pot where
we’d wanted to meld
longed to be the other
but never found a fit
searched for home
among the tribes
of the homeless

Bare now I bear
the mark of Cain
upon this old body
birth`mark of a tribe
both famous infamous
image of glory shame
of all my forebears
I can never escape
from who I am

“We are all tattooed in our cradles with the beliefs of our tribe;
the record may seem superficial, but it is indelible.” ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

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Rainbow of Prodigality

Cartsten Wieland brushparkwatercolors.wordpress.com

Cartsten Wieland       brushparkwatercolors.wordpress.com

My words
like fallen petals
of a summer garden
litter the tableau of my life
words unspoken out
of sheer neglect
of your love

The remnants
of the many things
I felt the need to say
tho you’d no need to hear
You wanted my voice
at night I gave you
but my words

See here lies
the poor rainbow
of all my prodigality
fading in the failing light
If I could I’d sing you
a song of even all
I have wasted

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Shipwrecked Gardens


Carsten Wieland brushparkwatercolors.wordpress.com

We have lived long
We have seen much
Little is what it was
Less is what it is now 
Much we do not know
More we do not guess
Lots we don’t believe
Some we won’t deny
We have lived long

Have we lived well
Have we seen much
A little bit of sorrow
A little bite of hunger
A tiny glimpse of hope
A tiny spark of grace
A whisper of prayer
A sacrifice of peace
Have we lived well

“There are still fields where you may come across
a shipwrecked garden . . .”
 ~ Deborah Digges

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Doing Peace

Carsten Wieland brushparkwatercolors.wordpress.com

Carsten Wieland brushparkwatercolors.wordpress.com

She prays for Peace
in her morning prayers
Quiet from her brawling brothers
gathered at her Sunday supper table
Harmony with her sullen husband
brawling within himself
inside his own brain

‘Why must we be so …’
she always seems to begin
and with that pulls off the old scab
causing domestic tranquility to bleed
the sweet cream on the pie to sour
bitterness to be the aperitif
to Sabbath communion

Not bombs but words
stoke the fires of conflict
and such innocent words they seem
to us who speak them intending grace
while scrubbing salt into the wound
which begs for a poultice
borne of pure patience

“O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some Good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to Peace hereafter. And when Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
He comes to brood and sit.” ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

The artwork & poetry in this post is a work of collaboration
between two WordPress bloggers both committed to peace . . .

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Mark Rothko punditfromanotherplanet.com

We gather
in little circles
each with its own
alpha holding forth
on a passion of the day
sipping on cocktails
pondering a way
to slip outside
watch stars

She’s saying
the high school
really must build
separate rest`rooms
for trans`gendered kids
though she has never
known one heard
one complain
It’s justice!

He’s saying
how government
needs The Donald
to fire the bureaucrats
sucking at the public tits
the mention of which
generates a silence
in other alphas

the stars shift
slightly in the sky
Unseen the meteor
skips across the night
a flat stone thrown
by some old poet
to a new moon

“Without language there is no poetry, without poetry there’s just talk.
Talk is cheap and proves nothing. Poetry is dear and difficult to come by.
But it poles us across the river and puts music in our ears.”
~ Charles Wright


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The Trappist

Eusebio Sempere  kimmanfredi.com

Eusebio Sempere      kimmanfredi.com

The Trappist
fasts from words
plumbing in silence
the width & breadth
the height & depth
of words’ texture
left unspoken

but in prayers
the heart to heart
dialogues with One
who like the Trappist
speaks nary a word
lest giving it voice
it finds being

We speak best
by leaving unsaid
what’s best pondered
even as we see clearest
what is beyond focus
the stars in the sky
by midday light

“Blindness made me take up the writing of poetry again.” ~ Jorge Luis Borges

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Three Haiku



one cannot be gone
before she has departed
or return un`gone

the summer salmon
follows the scent of the stones
she has never seen

the sad mourning dove
now alone at the feeder
forgets how to coo

“This autumn-
why am I growing old?
bird disappearing among clouds.” ~ Matsuo Bashō

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The Poet’s Flagon


giorgio morandi         pinterest.com

the poet carries
his flagon of water
up the hill to his house
so that in the heat of the day
he’ll have water to drink
and as he’s walking
words like stones

in his dry mouth
The water flagon has
a weak cap so that some
water spills out along the way
not enough to miss but
a splash on lupine
growing beside
the path

so wildly blue
he catches his breath
making some of the words
rattling like stones in his mouth
to spill out quite by accident
A beggar`boy hears it
and runs home

“Poetry is a very powerful tool
because poetry is the conscience of a society.” Ellen Hinsey

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Creating Worlds

Joan Mitchell methodtwomadness.wordpress.com

Joan Mitchell

Take me somewhere
with your words spun
like spiders’ webs over`
night in places I might pass
Catch me if you can by
surprise with images
woven in your heart

Tell me of something
makes your heart stop
for sheer breathlessness
a passion to shiver my bones
for its beauty or its fright
that I might feel loved
that I too might fear

Tell me of something
makes your heart race
out of sheer anticipation
the arrival of a train bearing
a sweet`heart from a war
alive perhaps or dead
Mine would race too

Take me somewhere
for words have power
to move me beyond self
to feel more than what I feel
in my small windowless
world of my nowhere
gasping for a breath

“You should write because you love the shape of stories
and sentences and the creation of different worlds on a page.” ~ Annie Proulx

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On Power


Mehrdad Shoghi islamicartsmagazine.com

I thought I had it
Instead it had me
The ability to move
others in the direction
of the awakening light
away from the night`
mare of their grief
Hope is but a gift

A gift not my own
a gift from the One
who is grace’s source
We’re but transmission`
lines connecting Power
to the powerlessness
of a breaking world
in need of mercy

Outlets in a wall
ready to recharge
the batteries of any
whose cells have died
and need a call home
as they lost the way
forgot the address
of One who loves

“Power is not a thing acquired by purpose.
Power is a crow on one leg hopping.
Power is not taken from others or given.
Power is wind arranging worlds into worlds.” ~ Gary Lemons, Fresh Horses

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Alberto Burri pinterest.com

Alberto Burri   pinterest.com

I was just remembering
     your ’53 Chevy coupe
How on hot summer nights
we’d drive out into the fields
     until we found a canal
     with irrigation water
How we’d strip to our shorts
and swim until we were tired
     then lie on the hard bank
     smoking the Marlboros
we bought from the machine
at the bowling alley for 25¢
     Even then we called them
     ‘coffin nails’ and laughed
little worried we’d get hooked
That’s the way bad habits are
     It was the summer some
     kids we knew tied a rope
to the trailer hitch and pulled
each other on some water`skiis
     down a canal behind their truck
     without headlights at midnight
Neither driver nor skier saw
the bridge for the darkness
     And how that was the end
     of summer nights in canals
and even driving through fields
in your old ’53 Chevy coupe
     Funny the things we remember
     Funnier still the things we don’t

“To remember is to open
                      one door
      after another
all along
         the white corridor
to say Yes when asked,
                       Are you anything?” ~ Robin Ekiss, from The Bones of August

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