Whiteout Wednesdays #8
This bald frozen cold day
winging over the imperfect
a red flag flapping the wind
hurts her eyes.
This curtain so bright is true sight.
The face that looks of
a torn-bread awkwardness
through moments into the dream –
– the association –
a center but never any certainty.
Nothing is more malleable than a moment –
breathing in over and over
only waiting –
to be something –
original piece: February Elegy by Mary Jo Bang
I’ve been following Frank for quite some time now – and he writes on a range of subjects and topics – some with a light and easy touch, others far more troubling. And each poem he offers and shares is handled with care and great skill. This is a recent poem on his site – and I think it is well worth a few minutes of your time. Stop by Frank’s place and give him a nod or word of your time and thoughts – I’m sure you’ll be delighted by the wealth of treasures you find waiting for you. Cheers Frank 🙂
Poem #16 from The Book of Evenings
he could tell when he touched the door
there had been no signs
no clues or expectations
but the moment the hand that held the key
came in contact with the door
perhaps an absence of vibration
or a hollowness
seeping from around the edges of the door-frame
who knows how the senses intuit or infer
with the key halfway into the lock
and wondered if he should retrace his steps
get back into the car
return to work for an hour
then start out for home again
but that wouldn’t change anything
when a voice speaks into silence
it can jar sound over-loud
but in a moment
the emptiness will assert itself
and reply with a touch
on the shoulder
a shiver along the…
View original post 184 more words
To take pictures had become a necessity and I did not want to forgo it for anything.
Welcome to WOW! #8
Thanks to everyone who is playing along – the “regulars” and the new faces 🙂
I thought we slip into some more poetry. Hope you enjoy this week’s piece.
If you’re new here, please read the WOW! Prompt Info. page for particulars.
You have a week to create and can play as many times as you’d like. And if the spirit inspires and moves you to create something entirely new, feel free to share it too. Remember, you take as much or as little as you wish – and if it really comes down to it, you can always add in a few bits and pieces here and there. The point is to be inspired by reading and recreating in a new way. 🙂
And I’m feeling a bit “under” at the moment, so I’m skipping the “official” linking set up – so ping back and/or direct live link so that others can see who’s playing too, and maybe stop by to be as equally inspired as I am.
And now: here’s this week’s piece:
February Elegy by Mary Jo Bang
© Mary Jo Bang
This bald year, frozen now in February.
This cold day winging over the ugly
Imperfect horizon line,
So often a teeth line of ten buildings.
A red flag flapping
In the wind. An orange curtain is noon.
It all hurts her eyes. This curtain is so bright.
Here is what is noticeably true: sight.
The face that looks back from the side
Of the butter knife.
A torn-bread awkwardness.
The mind makes its daily pilgrimage
Through riff-raff moments. Then,
Back into the caprice case to dream
In a circle, a pony goes round.
The circle’s association: There’s a center
To almost everything but never
Any certainty. Nothing is
More malleable than a moment. We were
Only yesterday breathing in a sea.
Some summer sun
Asked us over and over we went. The sand was hot.
We were only yesterday tender hearted
Waiting. To be something.
A spring. And then someone says, Sit down,
We have a heart for you to forget. A mind to suffer
With. So, experience. So, the circus tent.
You, over there, you be the girl
In red sequins on the front of a card selling love.
You, over there, you, in black satin.
You be the Maiden’s Mister Death.
Robert Okaji’s poems always offer something stirring – and today is no exception.
Please be sure to stop by his site and say hello or just linger in the wealth of word wonder.
Every wind loses itself,
no matter where
it starts. I want
a little piece of you.
I want your atmosphere
bundled in a small rice paper packet
and labeled with strings of new rain
and stepping stones.
the grace of silence
blowing in through the cracked
window, disturbing only
Everywhere I go, bits of me linger,
searching for you.
Grief ages one thread at a time,
lurking like an odor
among the lost
or your breath,
still out there,