Thursday, June 26, 2014

Earth time...

Dadaism was born of the brutality of World War I.  Disillusioned artists of all disciplines, affected by the degradation of social structures, repressive cultural values and unquestioning acceptance of such a war, rebelled against the status quo. A loosely affiliated network of artists and poets, originally clustered around Zurich, adopted a subversive and revolutionary approach to visual art, performance art and poetry. They sought to destroy the hoaxes of reason. The focus of their work was not so much on beauty or appearance as on the ideas the work conveyed. The Dadaist movement laid the groundwork for abstract art and sound poetry. 

___by Victoria Slotto at      

I've cut up the first poem and chose words randomly to make it a true dada poem....mia culpa for not doing it right the first time;)   Please read what others have written over at the pub for some.  I'll have to cut it up and  good entertainment!  It really is not dadaist..


We track the minutes between labor pains,
almost always can guess the time or hour
Eons have gone by, dark and ice ages
"Time, time, time is on your side" -
"la de da da dee"
Some people have enough time in their lives 
to read lots of books, 
yet keep up their multiple blogs and zines 
Time is a gift
Exactly how much time does it really take 
to write profound melodies -
how long is a laugh, a sigh,
how do you measure "chance"?
Carl Sagan spoke of billions and billions 
of light years and stars going by 
My alarm is set 5 minutes fast
On the 7th day 
the Lord took his rest-
                                                             and J Lo wears tight pants                                                                                                                                                                ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Guess what time it is - eons gone by,
  profound gifts -  the Lord's blogs and zines,
Laugh a melody,  between the Dark ages,
 stars going by, 
Write a billion chances ahead of  
billions of sighs  
Carl Sagan's alarm is set 5 minutes ahead
 The ice age is on your side,  
multiple light years,  
 enough time to 
read the hours between people and books 
- and J Lo's wears tight pants 
                                                  to take to the 7th day                                                
always enough , measure of rest
Light years in minutes
 labor pains, 
exactly keep track
La de da da dee


Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Writers' fourth Wednesday..the texture and traits of circles/roundness

Victoria Slotto, via The Bardo Group  has us writing about texture today;  my first time for her prompt via Poet by Day. Had written a poem about repetition earlier this week, but had no time to finish or post or leave comments, so thought I'd enhance, adapt as much as I could, and use it here.

Pretty pinwheels spin 
summer's days,
small arms stretch grabbing 
big beach balls;
clean damp laundry hangs
heavily from the line
pulled from a round 
woven basket in tall grass 
Wind blows at 10 mph..
ravens alert first slits of sun
Lacy bird nests brim 
with young life
Circles, common tools 
in design

I'm speaking to the yin and yang
of things, 
the nonstop calliope 
merry go round;
Labyrinth, if you will,
of our histories -
measured by 
the circumference
of our existence, 
the cold planets,
 their many moons, 
diameters of mud puddles, 
pools of blood,
or a slice of your favorite 
pie in the sky
Round bales of harvest's 
fresh barley wait in the fields,
checkered crops of plowed soil, 
organic farms
Vendors on baked sidewalks
 sell pickles, homemade lemonade
 fresh rhubarb pies

From the shape of eyes
to the plates we eat from
I'm fonder of "round"
than square, triangle or diamond;
though I like ovals and sickles -
Sutures in her chest mark the spot
where the cancer was, a circle,
not to mention the radius
of her forbearing feeble womb
At night she walked deep blue
 pile carpet of stars, 
and by the day
wove crowns of 
tangled columbine 

'round goes the bee in a bonnet,
or lies the pearl in a smooth, 
sandy clam shell;
roundness of clocks 
moves me to know life is full 
of sublime, complex mystique,
mathematical equations 
we have not learned
Oft I've wondered the why or how
of the brown mole 
on my left cheek -
something I acquired in Nepal
to go with my widow's peak?

Books covers lure us
to go within - so whose theology 
rings most true..
is it "Looking for Godot", Jung?
or Theroaux?  
Perhaps theSeinfeld show -
full of and about nothing at all
Arrays of hoops, universal orbs, 
human wreaths of love,
bracelets of the Zodiac, 
 revolutions of the globe
To say the least, physical earth 
is comprised of a myriad
of textures, colors, 
and shapes, 
Don't get me started on it's
philosophical origin or state
Are we flushed from 
another place, 
a multi-dimensional hole we travel,
with unimaginable sights?
And when we eventually 
turn around to look back,
will we see God's face?

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

What shatters...

For  Marina Sofia asks us to write about despair, which often leads us to poetry, trying to express the unsayable, trying to make sense of the random and painful, and then how one can rebuild or rise up again.  It's a gorgeous day and I'm sitting on my porch, the sun spilling through the trees..

                                                                 by klr

Shards of my heart,
strewn upon life's path-
accidents happened,
battles occurred-
Flesh wounds many;
ruddy-blue scars
reveal the deepest wounds
Like splinters of wood in a finger,
some had to be coaxed out;
damaged ventricles required
necessary surgery

It's easy to replace
a smashed window pane
hit by a fly ball;
but it takes years
to mend a human heart,
not made of steel after all
Even invisible shavings of glass
can penetrate, inflame,
causing insurmountable
suffering and pain-
why this now, again?

Oh for the balm of youth,
to play in the moment-
balloon in hand;
to skate on solid ice
bundled up to our red noses
Before we knew reality
Oh, for the salve
of a circle of friends and family,
for laughing,
and other carrying on

To those innocent days
when we played all day
with turtles, trucks and dolls
looked to the moon and stars
each night-
tales of whiffletrees
and  enchanting wizards;
Riding bikes with arms free,
being in love,
looking forward to wed

Loan me strength of giants,
whatever it takes,
in spite of it all -
to wipe the slate clean,
undaunted by negatives
No wonder aging cannot
be arrested for more than
a little while -
consider the heavy artillery
that comes our way

Let us lift the shells,
load our cannons with confetti,
adorn them with streamers
and fire them back
with surety
Each time we turn a sharp corner,
when we feel fear
or vulnerability,
when we are broken,
we nevertheless
gain sagacity

There will be smiles
for the progress made;
a new level
of understanding
We can be glad we are not
in some others' shoes,
that we are not deadwood,
without any use
We will live, love and flourish,
do our best
keep going -  test after test.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

A stream runs through it...

Today's prompt at is to write about a place we wish to go if we could, that we've never been to before...I took a different tack.  Going to a graduation this evening, so will be on the trail later tonight.
          Painting by Robert Cassilla 

There is a road I long to take 

that divides two meadows sap green;
it's warm horizon beckons me
on a honeysuckle summer breeze
A stream runs through it, clearly sings,
and at the end of that fine ride,
arms catch me and take me inside 

From the time I was just a babe

Naivete led me through hills
and valleys I wearily trekked
At previous forks in the road
choices were made - thrust onto me;
kept me otherwise occupied,
a surreal grayness of existence 

My new bed will be petal soft

gone the hard, leather saddlebags;
no more walking o'er hot embers 
I'll stoke the fire with oil of life, 
burning bridges at that shoreline
where pain leaves and weakness is gone

For warriors hearts to rest easy

there needs to be a place somewhere 
that soothes the draining wounds at last,
where love is unconditional;
where people's smiles are authentic
where we are pampered in the light

There is a place I long to see

where children grow to know less fear,
sicknesses of the mind are cured
Where hearts unburdened ride upon
the wings of eagles flying high
Where doubting succumbs to reveal
munificent ways the world can heal

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Connecting the unconnectable ...go a bit berserk!

We are having fun today writing for Claudia's  cool prompt, connecting the non connectable or being young and wild and free for a bit, mixing metaphors or what have you:

Off the cuff,
A little bit absurd//
a lot silly - it all makes sense to me
     "No it does not!"
No peace for the peacemakers;
    "death to the executioners"
Needles, not in a haystack,
or a bed of nails -
rather in a bubble bath
to cure what ails
 Correct the leaning tower's tilt;
   tilt the Eiffel tower//
     build dams for ocelots,
      let beavers swim the seas
      Add 7Up to the bread mix,
    stir vanilla into beans//
 Make jam from rose hips
to put on havarti and peas;
     Or go crazy with Saxifrage cream pie!
     Opposites attract - no they don't; 
don't lie-
Reminds me of the friendly Heffalumps
  and upside down green eggs,
   pineapple and ham -
"or was it blue eggs turned over 
  with sweetbreads and spam?"
Let horses surf the wild waves;
invite homeless turtles home
as guests for dinner...
Tarzan was mellow man;
 Alice loved the Mad Hatter!
It's nonsense// right!?
or horse-sense...or,
I know, it's "Duck Soup"!
   //or none of the above?
I think I'll take a nap now,
for my brain is 'waterlogged'
or dehydrated,
depending on where you stand
Note,  I did not say 'washed',  'tortured',
or 'water boarded' - 
because it could be vacant
 or burnt to a crisp, as in digitized, 
desensitized, nullified
// emptied of all I 'learnt'..
or hung from a eucalyptus tree trunk,
 in knots tied
Mind you, I'm getting along just fine
- took my meds today on time;
(true), including vitamins X, Y, and Z
 the orange, the little pink ones,
the oblong blue ones, and the green
and white capsules - they all
went down the gauntlet of
my esophagus nicely, 
with a bottle of hardy mushroom wine...
a bottle of Perrier?  forgot now.. 
or was it guzzling a barrel of gramp's
 ol' moonshine?

Tuesday, June 10, 2014



Grace at  has us writing about ancestors in our family today; I had
 a desire to write about my mother and aunt, sisters from the 20's through the 90's ..

They grew up on 14th Street
5 blocks from bustling downtown/
Portland's park blocks, rose gardens,
president's on horseback in
statuary bronze
Through my childhood eyes I saw
homeless on benches, pigeons,
kicked leaves and ate ice cream cones 
Much as my mother and aunt did,
a generation ago

Margaret, my mother, 
had an inquiring mind; 
My  Aunt Jean, was the
brave mother of 3 boys
Sisters for 20 years 
before I came along
Their history together 
meant shared dreams/secrets, 
a strange elderly neighbor 
like one Miss Havisham 
I slept in their old room 
with tall windows, 
decorated with blue/violet 
hydrangea drapes and wallpaper; 
we played with Margaret and Jean's
dolls and wind up music boxes, 
the vintage brush and mirror

There was a step stool to reach 
the bathroom sink; a soft rug
to step on by the claw foot tub
The old house with high ceilings
echoed their voices,
piano practice/ laughter 
and screams
They listened to baseball on
the radio,
read and studied hard 
I remember a copper toned
 spaniel with long ears, sad eyes
 - Kim was her name
The kitchen was a good size;
 Grandma packed sack lunches,
roast beef sandwiches, soup
She added fruit and cookies,
a thermos of hot chocolate,
Grandpa took the bus to
the pharmaceutical company,
newspaper under his arm

I remember backyard sprinklers, 
lilacs tall, roller skates with a key/
simmering oatmeal on the gas stove,
I imagine the same scenes 
while they were growing  up,
 buggies and streetcars in the street
old model T's -
The brown turkey baking,
scent of freshly mowed grass
(we watched the blades turn 'round)
We helped pull clothes through the wringer
of the old washing machine, 
hung them out to dry on
 the taut clothesline
As youngsters we stayed many times
in that house where they grew up -
where nothing much had changed
(except the addition of
 a box called TV)
Next door were the gas 
and fire stations/
sirens in the night

Attractive and well mannered,
both held jobs, went to college,
They could have gone far 
with their talents -
They could have worked as waitress,
but were fortunate and
 married well;
 they stayed home, raised families
Careers then for women were rare..
they were lucky gals
Heaven knows they guided us well, 
taught us values and how to 
be strong, standing firm, 
as nurse, scout leader, 
friend in times of need,
 cheerleader of little league

Never again will I see such a pair,
Wholesome gals, honest and true
They had nice legs to boot,
 so wore swimming suits well -
relished life with confidence
Sources of unconditional love, 
ready to laugh or sacrifice 
Their voices sounded much alike,
perfect teeth when they smiled
Similar in appearances, 
they cared for one another,
yet their demeanor distinct 
They learned from their grandmothers, 
 pioneers who crossed the prairie,
propensities for art and sewing
Born in the 20's, 
they lived through depression/ war, 
valued the dollar,
cried for FDR

I was the eldest of 4,
my cousins were 3..
now many more in the family tree
In 1975, we lost one sister;
Jean cried for my Mom
In a Columbus Day storm, 
wind took the roof off my aunts family home
Margaret had empathy for Jean
Soon after becoming grandmothers,
their lives cut shorter than most//
started smoking in college,
which was common;
they stopped too late, of course
 Now, their great grandchildren bear 
their traits, grins, and eyes -
immortality in one sense 
But forever they will be
together in our hearts as sisters //
God's testament to giving and grace,
important keys in our lives....

Sunday, June 8, 2014

What's goin' on?...

My contribution to the Sunday Swirl, today June 8, 2014:


Muffled sound of a Marvin Gaye song,
Gun pops as one's existence ends
We hear whispers, the language of love
But the power shifted back again
Whether stomping on the asphalt yard,
or beating the streets in Washington,
the fight for civil rights 
 - still not won
Summer sidewalks sizzled 
in the heat of the day;
black power rose
 to the pulpit at night
Large numbers of demonstrators
marched in place
Said "Hello, world, look at us! -
we are all together one single human race"

Friday, June 6, 2014

Broken bells..

Today  at    Brian asks us what we think and feel about words and language.  For me there were two ways to go with this.  One was foreign languages but I chose the following.

Without words,

 we do not know -
that she feels she is part
of the last snow,
driven to obscurity;
her wick melted 
in a duo of pewter holders
In her night clothes,
she sinks into evening
as it folds it's shutters                                                                                                      
Nothing else to do but fade
into the dark night
Without words, 
she cannot tell of 
diamonds glinting
wickedly, temptingly,
from the earths walls,
or of words appearing as
yellow amber stones,
 fallen from mountaintops
 to her feet, timelessly 
Without words connected to
the last supper of hope,
some have perished in their search..
.some as a result of those found words.
This annoys her and makes her sad;
for somewhere, lost in the rubble, 
fear appears;
books shed their bindings,
all meaning is lost
Newly written words ache to replace 
those tattered and torn,
written in and of others' tales,
and stubborn untruths
Some could not have cared less
about a rainbow waiting,
a dream spun
Why write 
for something unattainable,
that never really existed
no point
Without words
freedom of speech is in danger
or already forgotten and put away;
why stick around to gather
sticky residue
 or for something to decay?
She knew that, 
without words,
there are no small smiles,
 no surprises,
or lumps in the throat;
 only numbness of body and tongue, 
fatigue, exist
One wants to know where
 the mirth went,                                 wasn't it here just yesterday?

Without words,
especially the best chosen,
life winds down and
fulfillment is an impossibility
"Who is the old woman
 in the mirror,"
she writes, "she wasn't here before?"
Questions needed to be asked,
letters needed to be written -
 long before her house
had been given away
 to strangers
"Who's coming to dinner....
 how many in attendance?"
The mountain climbed,
and mined,
she had swum up the river
and back again- she
does not want to depend,                              
 or pretend or hope too much

With right words found,

 one is free;
words written, spoken
 and played with
now become enough,
the prized achievement
of a lifetime -
to satisfy anyone with authority
or to those who lead her astray,
 to an empty well,
 She knew there was insufficient time
as she stepped through the debris,
crunching twigs
Tears drained the silt 
from her memory,
leaving clarity
Without words, there is no story
or no meaning -
 as if  colorless flowers
line a garden path,
 or like a pinwheel, 
 empty of wind from the north;
like the bells she had collected,
sitting still and broken
 beside her -
Words mean everything


Tuesday, June 3, 2014


of polished rocks-  
cool rain on my ruddy face -
Cold shoulders once given me,
now warmed by
kindled friendships
Sitting comfortably in my window,
blue. pink, and violet
Bachelor Buttons,
 in a Ball jar
New light breathed inside
trickles into my deepest recesses;
 pockets overflow with
miracles minuscule
I'm not heavy,
meandering trails before me,
 of multiple tantalizing forks;
Red winged black birds
warble from the watchtower-
harbingers of gladness to come that 
guard my keep
 seeds I sowed years ago
madly craved all of me,
now I salute them
in their glory,
in spite of chains
that kept me;
and I ask them
to please forgive