Dance of the Selves

A poetry of motion today...

From The Canvas Backdrop

Birth of the Self

From The Canvas Backdrop

Contemplating the Muse

From The Canvas Backdrop

Saboteur of the Self

From The Canvas Backdrop

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Photos from an earlier version of the video I'm working on - still 5 hours to render on the current version, before saving as a movie file or uploading to a temporary place for possible feedback before I finish it.

                                          

No poetry tonight!

It is the poet's duty to keep the poem from spinning off into speculation.



"Three guys came, drunk, and the drunkest said he couldn't find his mother's gravestone, and they started a fight."

"Ed went out and they threatened to beat him up because they said we got rid of her grave."

"Did you find it?"

"Yeah, it took awhile to get the proper name, and, of course, they were in the wrong graveyard."

                                          

On the Street at Night

slow through yellow roses

that haven’t bloomed yet

or budded

slow, the flank, the nostril

I follow you while I guide you

as you amble close to a ground

soil, edible, marks, scents,

a brambly riot of last year’s

dried pods, grasses

I cannot know

stained,

with passings by,

tendril of fur
soft,

your eyes, milky
with age.

                                          

A Day, any day

A poetryless day where the
morning smolders with cold
mist. White shadow glides
around trees, cars, buildings;
figures emerge and disappear
as they walk to moments
of meeting.

The sun roves white
as the moon, then
becomes a thin rind
of lemon.

In the afternoon, lit by
its brilliance through
windows we eat
cheesecake and fresh
blueberry sauce
with crisp
sweet tea.

_

(NaPoWriMo #7)