Sunday, November 27, 2011

MAGPIE/ Prompt #93

Photo/ Christine Donnier-Valentin

THIS PHOTO is presented to us by Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales, for Prompt #93....Let's see what we can make of it!


Looking for the new,
perhaps I could acquaint myself
with a blue sun,
a different law of karma,

isolate myself from the path,
float above the road,
lead a minimalist life.

There is a futility to wandering.
I blink at the impermanence
of an unmarked room,
the couch holding a lonely ghost
from the night before.

I dream of the silkiness
of an easy awakening,
no longer running from the cold,
going back to Alpha,
waiting for the morning breeze.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011


Monday, November 21, 2011

MAGPIE/ Prompt #92

                     Photo of Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward/ Courtesy Tess Kincaid

LOOKS LIKE FUN TO ME...A good idea from Tess at Magpie Tales !


Just in time for Xmas giving...Do what glamorous Paul and Joanne do!!  Start with a kiss under the mistletoe, flirty fun to sweep you away! 
( Make sure the kiddies are snuggled in bed!!)

Then put your right hip here, slide your left hip where you lay that knee!

Pucker up your luscious lips, place your hands behind your back, and turn yourself around...

That's how you do the Kama Sutra Twist!!

Early orders receive life-like mistletoe to get the game started!!  Instructions included!

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Sunday, November 20, 2011


PHOTOGRAPH OF FLORENCE THOMPSON with three of her children by Dorthea Lange, 1936.  Reproduced from The Commons on Flickr with use restricted to personal, educational or research purposes.  Linked to Poetry Jam.


We'll picnic on the barren ground.
I have some bread, but
no sweet tonic
for your parched throat.

Angel at my side,
put the empty basket down,
here's the babe,

set her within.
Hello God,
here's another sacrifice.

Clouds of sand,
a sting to the eyes.

Let's find a tree
to guard us
from the regal sun.

The air dry as a bone,
twigs to play with,
nibbled clean by crunching ants.

Destiny runs its course,
surely means to bring fairness,
goodness to this day.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Saturday, November 19, 2011

A Child of Winter

                                        Jamie Pierre

                               MATTHEW JAMISON PIERRE

                               February 22, 1973-  November 13, 2011

BEYOND BRAVE, beyond daring, Jamie Pierre was a professional free-skier.  In 2006 he skied off a 255 foot cliff at Grand Targhee, Wyo. , plummeted head first, without a helmet, into the deep powder.   He skied away with a cut lip from being struck by a shovel as his partners dug him out of the 12 foot hole.

On Sunday, November 13, 2011, on a more routine trip to Snowbird in Utah, an avalanche carried him over 800 feet over rocky terrain.  He was partly buried and died of trauma.  Jamie Pierre was 38 years old.

                        Chris Figenshau

Go to YouTube to view the World Record Ski Jump.  He also made appearances in Warren Miller films: Playground, and Children of Winter.  Also, on the Ski Channel, "The Story of Jamie Pierre".

He had many concussions over the years but refused to wear a helmet.  "If somethings so dangerous it requires a helmet", he said, "then maybe I shouldn't be doing it".

Fearless one....RIP.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Thursday, November 17, 2011


                                                  Falling Woman/ Picasso

WHAT A LUCKY MORNING, to have found Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads.  This is Kerry's Wednesday Challenge/ Prose Poetry.   Looking forward to jumping in!!  Will try to link up later...fingers crossed!!


          Take your hands away, don't grasp me, grasp my meaning, not my flesh.
          Was warm beneath the covers till you pushed the tale away.  You scuttled through a slit in time, squaring the black hole, bouncing and giggling, with echoes that run back to my heart.

          I become visible, again I see a lush garden.  Not again, not again.  The ground trembles with your rushing strides.  To me?  Away?

          Again attracted by the way I weave, you are always the tear.  I'm the thread.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Monday, November 14, 2011

MAGPIE/ Prompt #91

A MYSTERIOUS PHOTO points me in the direction of a Pantoum...thanks to Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales.

Follow me,
take any chair you wish,
you're the first to arrive.
But why so early?

Take any chair you wish,
I can feel your bated breath,
but why so early?
Your heart's beating a tattoo.

I can feel your bated breath,
a damp anticipation.
Your heart's beating a tattoo.

A damp anticipation,
here's what you came for.
Crowd's already rushing.

Here's what you came for,
footsteps in the sand,
crowd's already rushing,
darting here and there.

Footsteps in the sand,
you're the first to arrive,
darting here and there.
Follow me.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Friday, November 11, 2011

11 / 11 / 11


No war here,
no blood here,
but tears shed yesterday,
spilled for warriors,
over there.

I remember a song
that they marched to,
up the steps, just cargo,
to sail the waves
to go to war.

Not here,
but there,
no blood in the street here,

bread instead
sliced to order.
Where is the war,
is it here?
It's over there.

The body in torn shreds,
under the lid,
arrives here, home,
no open coffin.

Whose boy is this,
maybe mine,
maybe not.
Bones look like
the last war,

not here,
over there.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Wednesday, November 9, 2011



Winter comes pushing
up against the glass,
ice sliding like a guillotine,
ready to slice into a scream.

I wipe my breath
from the windowpane.
I could be rain.

No matter,
dying is blind and deaf,
exhausts my eye for beauty.

My soul begins to glow,
a bastion against what's dead.
My voice draws a new breath,
tells the tale anew.

copyright/ all rights reserved/ 2011

Sunday, November 6, 2011

MAGPIE/ Prompt #90

                                                        Photo/ Tess Kincaid

FOR THIS WEEK'S Magpie Tales, Tess has presented us with this image...


I sleep a lot
in this limbo,
rise in ectoplasmic splendor,
at this place
of crowded gravestones.

I restrain myself
from frightening
a grieving mourner,
who weeps over
newly turned soil.

But mischief pulls me
to drape myself as smoke
across a granite memorial,
to form a cloudy
question mark.

With memory and yearning gone,
other wraiths, by habit,
rise with the moon,
to float on winter's air.

I stir, as if from a dream,
to wonder
what I'm doing here.

copyright/all rights reserved/ 2011


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