Apropos our recent heat wave and waiting for that first whiff of smoke, hoping the summer with no summer kept the chaparral full of moisture and by doing so slid by our burning time, this by Virginia Hamilton Adair, from her book of collected poems, "Ants on the Melon."
Firewind
In September
the Sant'Ana
makes dogs tremble
arsonists go mad
lovers bite in bed
at all hours
sirens howling
into the foothills
along the ridges
rows of hideous suns
at midnight
trees burst
insane deer
run with the horses.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
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6 comments:
Sparse, a drawn out Haiku
It didn’t singe my eyeballs, as I peered over the ridgeline
It captured what it needed to
It really was a contrast on Thursday.
This little thing was the only bright side on Tuesday
County page
Oh, what will they do?
What will they do when the Sewer comes.
Not the THEY they; the they.
The others, the needers, the schemers, the weavers.
The garden was trampled, the warnings not headed
Bent rose stems in sand hollows, the future not seeded.
Best pull out the rosary, feel beads not yet rounded.
Expunge a conviction, a certainty unfounded
Mumbly build up to; “Oh most certainly;”
Then humbly proclaim; “it was all about me”.
Sings ashes to ashes, silk to rough sack
the mantra, the mantra, the phrases to stack
Perhaps she will get her stockholmed blog back.
Word verification; cyting
exsisentit?
I absolutely LOVE Virginia Hamilton Adair's poems.
Is it too hard for Alon to enjoy the poetry you post? Geeze.
A friend in needy is a friend in deedy
And so it descended like a locust in a singular swarm
professing to care and intending to harm
a friend in foul weather, or a bird of bent feather
A broken arrow, a hollowed marrow,
a vented spleen, a conscience unclean,
would a friend fondly find your Freudian slip
or, a friend light a shore fire to direct your ship
to keel over rock outcrop, to then rat-scuttle it.
To miscreant misfit to hazard a fit.
A beacon of darkness, a heart of mindlessness
A seller in every port, a joker in every court
Nobodies friend, here we go again.
SLOTowner sez:"Is it too hard for Alon to enjoy the poetry you post? Geeze."
Besides being sadly immature, I find his constant attempts to "top this,"(he doesn't) disrespectful of the poems posted here.
"Sadly immature..."
"Disrespectful..."
These are words we use when we live in a small town and can't say what we really feel...
If you do, they will email you and call you, corner you at Farmer's Market or at the store... wheedle and wear you down, tear you down, until you take it back. But you will live to regret it.
Intimidated, threatened, bullied, cursed... one has to be careful not to speak up or speak out for fear of violence from the psychos who think every meeting is open mike night to preen and blather their gibberish and the socios who clog the blogways with their paid dreams of a Carmel on the Bay without us. (Sometimes one and the same.)
One sad thing about it is, it's too bad we can't just disagree with people or tell them what we think of them without risk getting stabbed or shot. Not that they would ever listen or pay heed.
Yet, by not being able to be honest with them, they become the Beasts of Baywood, the Monsters of the Microphone, the Bipolar Bears of Los Osos -- good for nothing but paving them over with the biggest sewer Los Osos' money can buy.
If I'm County, a Garfinkel,a Tornatsky or Kelly, that's real inspiration! And who can blame them on that count? No one wants Perlman!
Sometimes you just have to call a jackass a jackass (it's probably congenital), screen your calls, bar the doors and seal the windows:
Mental illness is contagious.
TOE sez:"These are words we use when we live in a small town and can't say what we really feel..."
And then sez:"Sometimes you just have to call a jackass a jackass"
Oh, you mean, like that? See, you did it. Congraulations.
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