Monday, October 27, 2008


Caught on fire ~ sizzle with desire
Cause havoc when I prance cross city streets
Barely escape slaughter as I
suddenly appear out of nowhere,
the sun gleaming in my hair
You barely miss me as I spin past your fender
You smile and wave goodbye
And are glad for I
Suspend the silver gloom around you
Momentarily the
Sunshine of my heart beats
Scarlet on top purple beneath
My true colors
For you I throw in some sunset red
I tattoo myself on you
Winged fairy of time
Imprinted on your soul & memory
I raise your energy
The twitter stops
Nervous laughter
I speak my first line
Only fool falls asunder
Lightening strikes twice
And Jill came tumbling after
Jack fell down
It's beyond the fruits of my labor
She probably meant to save him
Either that or she wanted his crown
I surrender…
I learn to connect to unconnected to survive to live
In ways I couldn’t see how to before this

Saturday, October 25, 2008


I’m in the rainy season of my life
Each day storm clouds gather
threateningly in the dark sky above

Rainfall in light misting then heavy sheets fall,
Big snowflakes appear midair and disappear on the wet pavement
This is the beginning of my winter of content, I’m not sure yet

The sky simmers red in between imminent storms
then mingles with purple after sundown
Upheaval seems the norm today

Tomorrow brings warm southern winds
leaving again a shimmering steel gray sky
bringing calm in its wake as I begin the winter of my content

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Double Helix & Ira Lightman's public art works

Ira Lightman made an initial text art for a sheet of glass, then Dan Civico remade it as a wave of glass, and oak to get the 3D of it all. Dan took Ira's acetate printout, literally cut that up with scissors and made a much LESS symmetrical shape that Ira had then to rework the text into...

Turns out water in a river makes just this double-helix motion. Uncanny.

Photos by Eddie Galvin

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Lost Landscape by Nabina Das

Bamboo flutes
That my father had played once
The leather-jacketed book
That had always been a prop on my table
The Borgeets from the Namghar
In sticky caramel noons
My teacher’s voice across the blackboard
That death silenced and
My mother’s rosebushes of hope.
What remains when blue hills weep
Or the red river goes into hiding?
Even the goddess watches from the hilltop
Squirming at slow blood oozing from
Deep coves of deathliness that
Neelachal never for once has known.
What dies when new words are born?
Not the wounds, not the burning shame.
I wonder if I still should paint
Those paddy fields, peacocks and skies
With my brush of golden taint.

I don't usually post other people's stuff but for some reason felt like deviating from that pattern, so I did.
Dunno just did? Click on title will lead to more of Nabina Das' work.

Autumn Breezes

My eyes need to rest on soft colors of nature
Soothed by blues & purple flowers with green leaves
I need to see maple trees turning red,
Queen Anne’s Lace runs rampant round here

I’ve born enough fruit to stay violet for the rest of my life
My eyes need to rest on soft colors of nature
Larkspur, Baby Blue Eyes, Forget-Me-Nots & Borage
Orange Bird of Paradise flanks the entrance to the nearby park

Exhorts me to see
Flowers before the winter breeze steals them away
From my window all I see is the steel gray hardness
A light silver sky glinting so brightly it makes my eyes squint

The farmer from Iowa tells me the cornfields all brown now
Yet inside my head
I long for chartreuse & kelly green Iowa cornfields
Swaying in the breeze
I examine velvet blue bells in the grass as I tread them beneath my feet

I feel a poem coming on like an urge to eat something sweet
A craving to see something beyond these city streets
Simultaneously the sun breaks through the harsh steel gray sky
Beckoning me outside to greet New York City streets
So many flowers spring to life in fall

Fuchsia Shooting Stars along with Saint John’s Wort & Violets
Ah, finally my eyes rest as I fest them upon a flowering dogwood tree
Scarlet tipped leaves & white blossoms
A final hurrah before the white blossoms scatter the ground
Autumns’ last blooms before fall’s first freeze

all photos courtesy of Joy Leftow unless otherwise noted

Friday, October 17, 2008


Full moon, suspended
Dangling, florescent,
golden ball, I worship thee,
viewed in your entirety
You're like my loves
while they last.

Wanting a love to endure
not wax and wane like moons
by desires
for love to burn eternal.

My love and I bathing in
the golden glow of moonbeam
cast upon us like a floodlight
Lie in her circle of luminesque
our bodies still and in repose
naked, arms and legs intertwined.

Motionless bodies captured
in a circle of stagelight
like a fawn caught in flight and
suddenly stilled at twilight

one leg lifted,
ears cocked
lithe body poised
like a still life.

Floodlight reflection

photo courtesy of DubbleX

Wednesday, October 15, 2008


JoAnne is one tough broad,
Italian Irish descent
from the Northeast Bronx
Through sacrifice and dedication
JoAnne is now a nurse at
Presbyterian Medical Center

This is her story
bout a methadone baby
born addicted
on JoAnne’s ward
This boy had tupelo
honey colored skin,
and hazel brown,
almond eyes
Birth mama’s blond and curly haired
A blue eyed Nuyorican
Daddy is a dark skinned African

Mama named the baby Shonequon
The nurses called him “Sweet”
Sweet’s a boarder baby who
lived on the ward
for 2 and a half months
BCW tryin to decide
what to do with that tiny
methadone addicted baby

Now me amiga esta sin ninos
she has no children
e quiere uno mucho
she wants one very badly
so she fell in love with Sweet
talked about him constantly

JoAnne said,
Sweet is cryin all the time
He holds his body rigid
his cryin is so fitful
Kindled by the pain
cause Sweet’s addicted to meth
and this is how he sounds

Sweet’s tiny fists
are always clenched
his spindly arms crossing
his scrawny chest
This baby can’t relax!
He’s got a monkey on his back
Sweet’s addicted to meth

The Doctor confides
he wishes he could
keep Sweet tranquilized
cause he’s screamin so fretfully

JoAnne loves to nurture Sweet
She embraces him reverently
comforts him with
the rhythm of her heart
she whispers soothing sounds

her voice falls like soft waves
caresses tender hollows
of his frail anatomy
her soft warm breath
glides down his velvet neck
Sweet responds with purring sounds

JoAnne’s gentle devotions
linger on
like a mango blossom’s scent
fragrant on a breeze
Sweet watches her giddily
clinging with his
tightly gripped fists

Yesterday Sweet smiled for the
very first time
JoAnne bragged
as though he were her own
Sweet, my boarder baby
is delayed in his response
and yesterday was the
first time
God graced me with his smile

Her eyes rimmed with blurring droplets
Dewdrops silhouette
I love him, she said
I want him to be mine
Even though he’s HIV
and surely won’t survive
I want him to be mine

Child Welfare lets his Mama visit
she hardly came at all
Daddy was there
mostly every day
but he was always drunk

Today they let her come and
take my Sweet away
Honey, JoAnne said,
This baby’s in a lot of pain
he suffers from anxiety

You don’t have to hold him
24 and 7,
but you need to let him
see your face
smiling, talking
into his

Sweet’s Mama answered
I know mucho more than you do
let me tell you somethin’
You don’t know what I been through
All my kids are born on meth
and that’s the way it’s always been

The baby started fussin’ then
his spindly arms
clenched across
his scrawny chest

Sweet opened up his eyes
and focused on JoAnne
reaching out his scrawny arms

But Mama reached the baby first
and took him from his crib
Esta te quieto, nino
she said as she rocked him
to her methadone beat
Esta te quieto, nino

It’s gonna be okay Mama said
Grandma said she’s gonna help,
She’s carin’ for my other five
My oldest girl’s gonna be there too
And like I told ya,
All my kids are born on meth
And that’s the way it’s always been,
but we know how to get by.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Bits & Pieces

Poetry is like life in that it develops its own processes & changes form over time recreating itself over & over again, like we do in our lives. I return to older works and either recycle or recreate using pieces, thus I create a new poem from old work.

I don’t know if it’s the physical mental or emotional anguish that’s worse. I’ve had all 3. Do you know which is worse? Does it matter if I have a preference or choice? Do I get to choose this time?

Ira Lightman's public works

Ira Lightman had a call out (on his facebook page) for people to read his 2 columned poetry. Ira is a surrealist dada-ist artist, his work encompassing these forms & more. He takes on a great many artistic & intellectual projects that become well known in UK & sometimes are spotlighted on the BBC news. You can turn off my auto player at the very bottom of this blog :~) & turn on his player here in this post to hear our voices.

Wednesday, October 08, 2008


I observe U creating the drama of your life
Playing people as though they were instruments
Instinctively knowing the keys to their rhythms
Examining each key hypnotically
Studying how each key responds to your touch
Philosophically reporting your observations & thoughts
I get caught up in watching myself watching the I & I
U stroke each note lyrically, responsively
Using that special touch while making me keeper of your rhythms
Your memories and words become stories
Tales to be told about the before and after we became I & I
Like a poem waiting to be written challenging the one already read
I watch U play the blues leaving the U I know behind
I wonder where Ur going and who U will be
You’re playing the game of living
Tuning the world to the rhythms of your life
Each chess move counters another chess move
Am I a pawn in Ur life or someone else’s
I don’t have time to analyze this
U fine-tune the guitar chords exhorting beats from my heart
Ecstasy runs thru my veins with each melody your hands produce
I watch the world thru your eyes
Isn’t that what poets philosophers & all artists do
Translate words images and ideas into thunder
Mimic & play with our world gone asunder
Turn ideas into screenplays, turn words into books
Turn words into hypotheses in our attempts to produce & create
A safer more productive world for humanity

Sunday, October 05, 2008

A rose by any other name...

What does a Siamese cat have to do with poetry & a book give away? Read on to find out!
Leave a comment in the blog to be put in a draw for 3 giveaways of my book, A Spot Of Bleach & Other Poems and Prose.
Folks I am not a traditional writer. Strangely enough DubbleX & I had the following conversation this morning.
DubbleX said about Cleo, my cat, "She's an unusual Siamese."
"She is," I agreed. "She's officially called an exotic oriental short hair."
"I don't understand," DubbleX said.
"The reason for that," I explained, "is because The Cat Fanciers' Association hasn't decided that flame point Siamese ought to be included in the designation Siamese. This in spite of the fact that the flame point has all the same points as every other Siamese cat. She has bright blue eyes with a pointy face and flame color shading on her back deepening as she matures. My cat is an outcast among her own kind. Born to a tortoise point Siamese mother bred to a exotic oriental flame point male. Thus flame point Cleo is not called a Siamese. "
"That's funny," DubbleX said.
"Funny how?" I asked.
"The way you tell the story," he says "plus it reminds me of your poetry."
"Explain," I say.
"Well," he says, "You said there are poets out there who criticize your narrative style & the way you write and they don't consider your work poetry."
"That's true," I said. "Because my poetry tells a story, and is not all about the metaphor."
"I like the way you write," DubbleX said. "Your words have an impact, they make me feel & experience things. They make me think too plus I understand them. I don't have to work hard to interpret what you're saying. I like the way each poem tells a story."
"Yes, the impact is what counts. Sometimes though the impact makes people so angry that they hate my work. You don't know how many times people have told me I'm not a poet."
"They're wrong," said DubbleX, "You are a poet. You have your own style with your own rhythm and energy. Not everyone can see. Your poetry combined with your energy reminds me of sitting, listening to the blues."
I thought about this conversation more as the day wore on. I thought about how this related to my entire life, I'm an outcast Jew, an outcast poet, and now I have a cat named Cleo who is an outcast Siamese flame point cat who is called an exotic oriental cat.

Blog Give Away

I woke DubbleX this morning with a Cinnabun paper bag in my outstretched hand. "Pick one," I directed, "it's for our blog give away". DubbleX picked Mr. Bernard Alain's name on a folded sticky note out of the bag.
Mr. Alain is the winner of last weeks blog give away. I will be contacting him directly!
Thanks to all who participated.

Thursday, October 02, 2008

Tattoo me

Thought some of you might enjoy seeing my alter ego tattooed on my upper right shoulder. There are many symbols included in this tat. Take some time to examine the symbols. Myke Maldonado (friend & artist) from & I combined our efforts to design this. It took 4 trips & approximately 12 hours to complete. Click on the photo for a larger pic.