P O E T I C --- P A I N T I N G S

"Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen" -- da Vinci

To write poetry, you must read and, read some more -- Me

Oct 15, 2009

Selecting a Reader by Ted Kooser

First, I would have her be beautiful,
and walking carefully up on my poetry
at the loneliest moment of an afternoon,
her hair still damp at the neck
from washing it. She should be wearing
a raincoat, an old one, dirty
from not having money enough for the cleaners.

She will take out her glasses, and there
in the bookstore, she will thumb
over my poems, then put the book back
up on its shelf.

She will say to herself,
"For that kind of money, I can get
my raincoat cleaned." And she will.
-- Ted Kooser

[Ted Kooser is the 13th U.S. Poet Laureate. This poem is included in "Poetry I 80  -- A Turning Back To Poetry" an Anthology complied by Billy Collins. There are many wonderful contemporary poets within this book. Billy did a stand up job in compiling such wonderful poetry and prose.]

Picnic, Lightning by Billy Collins

It is possible to be struck by a
meteor or a single-engine plane while
reading in a chair at home. Pedestrians
are flattened by safes falling from
rooftops mostly within the panels of the comics,

but still, we know it is
possible, as well as the flash of
summer lightning, the thermos toppling
over, spilling out on the grass.

And we know the message can be delivered from within.
The heart, no valentine, decides
to quit after lunch, the power shut off like a switch,
or a tiny dark ship is unmoored into the flow of the body's
rivers, the brain a monastery,
defenseless on the shore.

This is what I think about when I shovel compost
into a wheelbarrow, and when I fill
the long flower boxes, then press
into rows the limp roots of red
impatiens -- the instant hand of Death
always ready to burst forth from the
sleeve of his voluminous cloak. Then

the soil is full of marvels, bits of leaf
like flakes off a fresco, red-brown
pine needles, a beetle quick
to burrow back under the loam. Then
the wheelbarrow is a wilder blue, the clouds
a brighter white, and all I hear

is the rasp of the steel edge against
a round stone, the small plants
singing with lifted faces, and the click
of the sundial as one hour
sweeps into the next.

[I've said this before and I will reiterate -- I ADORE Billy Collins. His poetry is so fresh and alive. Vivid images pop, pop, pop like hot footed kettle corn in front of my eyes -- when reading his poetry. This poem is from his book "Picnic Lightning" If you don't have it go out and buy a copy. It truly is a wonderful addition to any library.]  

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Oct 10, 2009

Promises by DjWhite

What I saw
in your eyes

was the lilt
of a wordless

psalm,a silent


I rocked


to rhythms,

of your whisper

and sultry promises
wafting along the heady
scent of old spice

and pipe-smoked
swirl of cherry civet.

Purring, I arced 
for the moment

the moment.

 **I usually don't write love poems but this was one time I did** --Dee