Evening on the summer prairie (A late rewrite while facing winter).

Summers eve upon the plain
a languid silky shadowed sky,
lazy dusky sunshine warm
a prairie day declining lightly
wistful breezes weaving grasses
shadow clouds of summer storms
like birds upon a zephyr
fluttering ever
endlessly never
grasping soothing wafting fingers
slide like waving grasses
among this breathless touching
softly woven desire
floats on drifting air……..

Music at Joe’s

Writing is albums of the heart,
we sigh – try to fly to birth this life
to share perhaps, our dreams.

Places find you in your wonder,
the air is ripe, plucking ears
like a blues harp in a smoky joint

singing in a many flowered voice.
waking the artist between refrains,
warm this strummin’ heart and sing
the sun and moon into our world

Her fiddle bowed parts
untamed sounds and shapes
the voice of air

quiet arrays, supporting chords
backups smile the music sweetly.

thumping, drumming, pounding sounds
pump our blood outright
bouncing counterpoint beats in style

lyrics find flirting hearts,
Spirits dancing air
prancing under sweet
cool lacquered strokes
from a breathless alto angel.

find, contribute, and experience Combat Paper

From uniform to pulp
Battlefield to workshop
Warrior to artist

Combat Paper Project
combatpaper.org

Twitter poems

On twitter you might want to read @Longshiren, where I am posting very short images that seem pretty and poetic. Another experiment.

small thoughts on language

One of the reasons for creating this blog is to show some of the things we go through to take an idea from basic words to a finished poem.

Usually, the rough drafts, as shown below, are filled with the language as it originally expressed the idea. Sometimes this language really overflows and fills everything up, and covers or drowns the original thought.

Sometimes, we just cannot get past the beautiful words, phrases, images, little songlike patterns, and lovely laughing clauses. When we get so caught up in this the poem gets lost but the language is lovely, and that often makes for poor poetry, but really nice sounding daydreams.

We have found that the best way to pare the lines down to the core is to have the family dragon burn all the fluff away. We can then rebuild from that to make a clearer, if somewhat more astringent creation, dedicating the rebuilt phrases to the spare but now well defined poem.

If you don’t have a family dragon, well, you must find some other metaphor, then.

Short work

WELL, WE’RE AT WAR AGAIN

Sand and bombs and ugly little
desert spiders and a rancid smell

death on the street or fear in the locals?

Sitting in the waiting room at the VA hospital
spinning the new wheelchair smells like a new car

no spiders here no locals and maybe no bombs

but we still watch with the good eye
Talking to the new wounded and comparing

wheels like high school kids.

Another rough post, and some possibilities

Well, this is rough, but we are editing and writing more daily. The problem is that we write a million words, and then we excise 999,990 to make it say everything in perfection and simplicity, forgetting that we remember every word, but the readers never saw them. Forgive my audacity, and bear with me. This next few posts should include work on some of the original posts, and perhaps the city poem for Manila. Enjoy, and feedback, please.

A Horse

A horse is a thing to love,
to touch for the hope of feeling the coat
gather as the muscles quiver in the lightning
emotion of being close.

Love is found in a horse’s eyes,
deeper than pools of endless ink
soft with the light of trust and affection
she demands your direction —

for survival, but gives, without counting
All her breath and warmth of sighs for you

— rolling her shoulders smoothing your saddle
waving the mane for healing your soul
carrying the heat, the playful touches
a weathered caress and more

you must give your share and find
love for your friend as sweet
as a mares own toss of her mane
at the yearling — and you.

Another thought on Peace, and War that spawns the need…

It’s time for new Metaphors

The world is lately filled with conflict,
Wars where terrorists are Muslim,
Christian, Arab, Jew, perhaps Knights
Freedom Fighters, Defenders of faith.

And, everyone’s god is on their side.

staring at the deep blue sky of history
searching for patterns without killing
mercy without bleeding children,
neighbors without anger, hatred……….

Watching the Bowerbirds find roses
daily, daily, finding roses, colored flowers
endlessly engineering togetherness
for their endless loving nests.

Carry a rose to your beloved.

Carry Peace.

Long Shiren

Another City Poem

The Women In the Hotel in X’ian (first draft)

Gluttony and lust equal BEST SINS EVER!
——Jenna.

One night at the hotel in Xi’an
are 12 Americans all men
And no one else in the city
hails from foreign hells
And at least a thousand prostitutes
line the hallways and they stand
outside the doors……..

they will not let them in, they vow,
……..refrains like Sam-I-am fill hotel hall
……..Oh,………I should not toss her joss at all.
……..I will not have my wang in Yang,
……..I cannot slip my dong in Wong,
……..I dare not do her there or here
…………….My wife will learn, I know I fear,
…………………….I can‘t get sucked in my own room
Alas, And also Aids is in the Air, Oh Doom!!

But the evening slows, and in the setting sun,
……..the rush is on to the ATM………

A Blues For Molly

Here is a poem which is posted elsewhere, but never seems to attract attention, so here it is.

A Blues for Molly

Oh, sing this to Molly, she deserved her sadness today,
her grades were a wreck and her Irish dog ran away.

Her scores were so low, she called her mama and cried,
Oh, Molly’s so blue for she’s lost her dog and her pride.

refrain
She dreamed of kisses at midnight and dances before dawn,
her studies forgotten, and now her schoolin’ is gone.
Cry blues to yo’r mama, but baby your schoolin’ is gone.
Cry blues to yo’r mama, but baby your schoolin’ is gone.

Molly studied too little, and played her way after sundown,
She ran too late, as she raved and painted the town.

Slept in on Sundays, and Mondays and Saturdays, too.
A young girl, a fun girl, caught cryin’ in daylight so blue.

refrain
She dreamed of kisses at midnight and dances before dawn,
Her studies forgotten, and now her schoolin’ is gone.
Cry blues to yo’r mama, but baby your schoolin’ is gone.
Cry blues to yo’r mama, but baby your schoolin’ is gone.

Oh sing this to Molly, she done bad in her test to her shame.
She must find some work cause she hasn’t a dime to her name.

Oh Molly’s a beauty, her kisses are hot like a sinner in hell,
But this time she’s for it, she’s ringing her very own bell.

refrain
She dreamed of kisses at midnight and dances before dawn,
Her studies forgotten, and now her schoolin’ is gone.
Cry blues to yo’r mama, but baby your schoolin’ is gone.
Cry blues to yo’r mama, but baby your schoolin’ is gone.

A short one for Jenna, who loves the arthropods…

A Blue-Tailed Dragon

Arthropods, Oh My!

Damselflys and blue-tailed dragons lift
on lacy currents, drift passed
sweet flowers, summer colors
where hope behind the lens evokes
Jenna’s breathy joy!

For my friend the writer, and for everyone else who needs a little encouragement on the dark days.

ON HER BLOG WHEN SHE ASKED PLEASE TELL ME THE THINGS I AM DOING RIGHT I NEED TO HEAR THAT DESPERATELY SO I SAID:

hmmm, suppose,
that the true heroes of this world are not
the flashy super-gender types, or the bravest warriors,
or even the punchiest starlets.
Perhaps, the real heroes of this world
(the one we all agree is real),
the ones we admire, and remember,
the ones we think on in the bad times
these heroes are the people who …

awake every day and feed their children …
climb out of their dreams and trudge off to duty …
stand in the rain and sunshine and boring busstops
everyday to earn the treasure that will school the nextgen,
will house the progeny of those few sweet moments …

And you are doing that, and inspiring, too,
the watchers of your life
Are you desperate to hear
you are the hero of your babies stories…
Breathing in is not enough,
today everyone wishes to gift and stroke
and gratify your egolife?

Oh, Darlin, without your kind this would be
a drab and uncreative world.
Keep breathin’ in girl,
your life could get to be weighty and grey someday again,
but right now we’re cheerin’ hard
to read your lovely thoughts tomorrow.