Wednesday, April 28, 2010

poem in your pocket day

The Academy of American Poets:

Thursday, April 29 as Poem In Your Pocket Day

"The idea is simple: select a poem you love during National Poetry Month then carry it with you to share with co-workers, family, and friends on April 29, 2010."

My Pocket Poems:

(share and enjoy!)


I rode far upon a mare of the night
she of high fame and noble descent
snorting displeasure at my feeble attempt
to guide by the stars her unfettered flight.
We ventured to caverns lit by bright vermin.
We enjoyed the charm of enchanting seers.
I held the heart of folk I held dear in a dream
carried lightly in my pocket, far yet too near,
for the fear came upon me
again and again that I might fail, might fall,
might show a crack of desperation
and who could love me now?
Who could find me bare and broken,
hear the words I could not speak,
recite the words that I must hear
to retrace, to find my place,
on back of the sacred mare,
back on my sacrificial journey?
Love becomes too great a luxury.
I must be free to name my price.
I travel the vast reaches of space for you.
I delve into my deepest pain to hold out
painted posies, dripping in consecrated wine.
Where would I not rush in if I could blast the barriers
to bring your treasure, wrapped in shining glory?
Alas, Alack, these treasures I demand in your honor
are not those of your own demand.
Again I face you bent and bowed with empty hand.
I can not face that anymore.
We ride, I astride my plucky equine avatar.
She is, as it has turned, my only friend.
Our adventures become legion, become legend.
I'll not be bringing home that story.

(c) March 31, 2007 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

This Is the Way I Communicate

Like light flickering over a piano in a sultry cabaret, like a round blue balloon fitfully drifting out into the storm-laden sky, like anyone you know or I know trying yet again to remember just what it was we were doing with our lives: that's what its all been like. The cat cries, and I respond filled with the illusion of concern. The world cries, and my besotten brain bleeds into tears of angry, chain-rattling despair. It's all about language. It's all about the symbols we choose. A new day dawns cloudy and forbidding.
We are entering San Francisco in the morning fog, early, early, the world still dreaming. Or maybe it was Cambridge, Mass., lost in the fog, unsure of time or space. Sometimes there is singing: something about a "Yellow Submarine" or "Strawberry Fields" or sometimes haunting melodies without words. But it's all about the words, even those implied by the music.
Wine can help. By the gods, wine is sometimes all that can help (tho sometimes even wine betrays me).
The stinking debris of mornings after the night before, or just morning by the coast with the stink of rotting fish, the cries of gulls or sirens, the emptiness without tears, the cold of morning -- I remember that too. That no more mornings could touch me, that I could hide contented in the night dreaming flying dreams so none could touch me. Fragments. Taking life in fragments. Folding each shiny fragment into tender velvet pockets sequined to reflect the light, let them be all right, feel cared for. Let the nights protect us from the days. Like a wandering hermit with a self-igniting lantern . . . .

2005 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Agrarian Age

In Spring we speak of seeds
bundled possibilities
foreseeing market days hale and fair
succulent fruit, trilling herbs,
vitalizing veggies
and all the spicey chatter of conviviality

First there was the seed
plowed under to taste Earth,
swell with water,
burst into fecund brew building
cells of chlorophyll to catch the fire,
symbiotically breathe, exchanging
death for life

Sacred seed
clothed in mystic ceremonies
deeply deified in chthonic memory
We carry the seed of our fathers,
the tears of our mothers,
the hopes and fears of our priests and lords,
over rocky terrain, in hidden caves through
ice and flood and slavering predation,
never doubting nobility of destiny
On appointed days, carefully watching solar/lunar
our assigned labor commences. Busy as any
bird or bee, we commit seed to chosen ground
with all the love we can command
Then, off to bacchanalia, reveling in a grand scheme
promising sustenance, renewed strength, plans,
romances, unnumbered chances for pride
and glory

Thus goes the story we retell in lullaby,
in schoolyard intimacies and scholarly lies,
puffing up our little share of knowledge, magical
protection from overwhelming vastness
of mystery, shades of colors without name

Unclear on the protocol of shame, unwilling to admit
to ignorance that might unsettle carefully laid
hierarchies, unloose gates inviting chaos or worse,
we gather of our fruit for sacrifice to gods of greed and vice,
gleefully watch the rending of they who are not me

"I, too wise for such ill use, repeatedly proven
in my abuse of these ill-named foes I refuse to admit
as kin -- sinners, Lord. Surely I'll not be taken in,
not take them in. Not share the bounty of your seed,
given to the chosen."

Even in these days of polluted soil, of toil
demoted to laughable commodity,
idly watching waste stream into muddy rivers,
enjoying occasional feasts of vicarious blood,
throwing the unsanctified into the raging flood,
desperately trying to stem an unquenchable tide,
while hiding any glimpse of remorse lest shadow
presage disaster
Eating both fruit and seed, rather than part with
familiar fantasy

April 2010

Tuesday, April 20, 2010

420 Fledglings Escape Pie and Fly

420 fledglings escape pie and fly

Silent night, pensive night
carefully managing intrepid flight
serial soaring heightened insight
self-sabotage may be a right
so is a paradigm shift, an excitement of
quantum array
a quick turn through reality's rift
into a fountain of play
Happy day, glorious day
why would we have it some other way?
Change decorations -- more brilliant, more gay!
Chatterers weaving beyond yay or nay
Reveling in destiny's space/time/what may


Thursday, April 1, 2010

Emerging Visions #17 ~ hOLy CHaoS has emerged

Never mock at Eris
Lest Eris mock with you
Hers is a brave dispassion
You haven't got a clue

hoLY cHaOS

share and enjoy

Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine #17 ~ HOly ChAoS


remember, you can still enjoy the earlier issues in the archives