Thank you for letting me grind
my days into strange, fragmented
shapes who really wish to be fractals.
Maybe they are. Maybe all of them
are as we merge back into our lives
from this space, this Rainbow Road,
this sweet allusion warming us
like the smell of a memory: a voice,
a moment of connection, a synchronized
miracle of understanding, a dumped-out hamper.
I thank you all for having me.
We are why we aren’t alone.
The long promised generation,
waiting in the wings,
with their glassback roofline
and map pocket, is shimmering
a rainbow metallic,
such an unusual palette.
A mere thimbleful, never.
Their fascia embedded with grief,
or loneliness, joy or startle,
enthusiasm or convex sauciness
cannot silence the guns, or the
voices of the unheard, for they are
THE POETS OF THE WORLD!
(C) Edelweiss Meadows-Millstone
Dear Poets, One and All,
Thank you for an extraordinary experience of poetry, words, phrases, ideas, community and growth. I was blessed to be here with you. I wish this could be a bi-annual practice, at the very least. This was so fun and enlightening! Thank you to all of you! Have a great holiday, and rest of the year!
Poetry Feeds,
Edelweiss
As we write to each other,
I feel the needle dig even further.
Getting clean of you,
is impossible,
im an addict for your name-
what it represents:
ecstasy, freedom, desire-
my fix.
I whisper it into the night
I look at the stars and loll it around on my tongue-
saying your name,
knowing this is not how to be sober.
I start counting the stars,
trying to forget your name
and the way you look at me
with a side smile-
or is it smirk?
I lose count-
only to flick the next vein.
I let the poetry climb
the heavy metal ladder,
sit at the top and watch her feet dangle.
She looks to the tops of trees,
the hazy blue gray sky and the clouds
then lowers her eyes to the earth, the sand
pit at the bottom, the brown sered grass,
the barely babbling, almost dry creek
below the field of dead soy beans
on the neighbor’s farm. She loosens her grip
on the railing, extends and stretches her chubby
arthritic fingers as flabby arms reach
for her sight’s ceiling. All of a sudden a-rat-a-tap-tap
on the tin sounding steel dances
out from under her pedal extremeties
and she lets words jump, like my little brown
and white dog when she chases thunder,
before my hazel eyes. The faster words fly
from her to my brain to my fingers to keys to the page
on the computer the more united we become.
We inch forward, closer, closer, closer, get ready,
WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE,
escapes from our wide open mouth
as we plummet down the slippery slide
to the bottom where our Bertha butt
hits the soft landing pad of LexPoMo’s
final few glory hours for 2017.
tha-tha-that’s all folks
Good night all. Everyone poems have been great, the conversations excellent, the open mic and free books a so sad you missed or great to be among peers event. Thank you Rabbit Catastrophe Press, Workhorse, Katerina Stoyklova, Bronson O’Quinn, Robin LeMer Rahija, Christopher McCurry and everyone who has a hand in keeping poetry alive and thriving in Lexington, KY.
Until next time be well and prosper.
I like voice texting,
but it isn’t flawless.
I said fewer pictures
It heard if you were pictures
I said to search poems by category
It relayed to search homes by category
But maybe that is right.
How many poems have sheltered me?
In how many lines have I hidden
my cold frame? How many
have welcomed me—a seeker
on unknown relentless roads—to their hearth?
Maybe poetry is my real
estate, inviting and move-in ready.
He sat at the end of the maple kitchen table
younger brother’s spot,
extra leaf yanked out and sprung up for more space
now that we had company.
Fork in left hand, knife in right,
talking, eating eggs and country ham,
—the North Carolina of him—
biscuits and butter and strawberry preserves.
He smelled like tobacco smoke
and pomade, hair smoothed straight back.
I waited, smelling him in, listening.
Tidewater Os and disappeared Rs.
It took a minute of chewing for the dime-sized circle
on his right cheek, and no other skin,
to start sweating. My yearly thrill.
Because I knew, I knew. I knew it would.
for irene & stephen
they were ghost
made of silk.
Dust and words
Words and dust
Swirling
We are no longer in a
Civilised world.
One suffers
And says nothing.
Semen spit
It out; who didn’t
Stand for anything.
Heathen claiming sainthood –
God is breathing hot
Anger molten
Deterioration.
We drank farewell
To civilsation
With an air of finality
While performing
On an upright
Piano.
Because that’s what you do.
You don’t ask forgiveness
Or change tack.
You just
Have a good time
Before you die.
We all became
Confidential
And almost emotional.
Almost
Says nothing.
