the lighthouse

There are days when I feel like a bird

wheeling along jagged edges of  ancient

cliffs  above the icy  cold waves of a rough

Dover sea.

 

My feathers sparkle in the beam of

the lighthouse  and swells pulse  my

tender bones that in a blue dream you held

gently in your palm  like a rare shell.

 

You’ve abandoned the cottage that waits at

the tide hewn shore,

The moon and I have stopped searching.

Still each time we pass I tip my wing.

 

 

 

Art by R. Simon

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Run Baby

It all rains down on me, a test of will. These words weight me, they bruise and lay me bare. I want to burn them at the pyre like decomposition,  watch them disappear  with  stinging eyes still bleeding with the breaking of   dawn.  I release these words and let them sail away from the harbor of soul,  revoking my vow to feed you my flesh, quench your thirst from my veins.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boogapony Holly

Dear Resa, I’m blown away! You have brought Boogapony Holly to life . The glamour has gone to my head but I’ll still drive the bus! You are a gifted jewel!

Graffiti Lux and Murals

I found this in an alley, & it made me think of Holly from House Of Heart

I sent a pic to Holly and asked, “Does this look like you?” She answered positively yes, then mentioned something about ducking lightening.

Then I muttered I should be doing graffiti tours in Toronto. Holly said she’d drive the bus. Well, one thing lead to another, and we formed the Boogapony Dancers.

Of course we would need the perfect outfit to dance in front of graffiti, street art and murals. We came up with the outfit you see here.

UNPLUGGED for acoustic music

PLUGGED for electric music

Alley Art pics taken by Resa –  December 27, 2017

Toronto Canada

Pics of sketches taken January 15 & 16, 2018

 

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about a girl

Redux

House of Heart

It was my birthday. She did not come to the table. I brought cake to her on a paper plate.  Accustomed to the dark, heavy  tapestry hung at her window.   I didn’t sit with her anymore,  her suffering frightened me. Today I wore a new dress, I adored it’s lacy bodice and satin sash. He had picked it out himself.  Later my grown up eyes dissolved in the pain on his etched face. A photo with an empty space dying in a dark room

That woman who spit me red faced into the world,   fed and failed me, flung me from the hem of her skirt into the fractured world stares back at me from my mirror.    I wear her hands like gloves and honor the rolling river where her ashes sunk among the gravel,  worship the giant boulders that harbor her.

I am a lone chrysalis twisting in…

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Blind Eye – Poem #3- toritto

If our government continues to engage in massive deportations, our agricultural system will collapse according to the (AFBF) American Farm Bureau Federation.

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toritto

Young Mexican picker man
rises from a mattress on the floor
of a dilapidated trailer
shared with nine other mattresses

buys a chicken bag lunch
from the local seller of chicken bag lunches
climbs on board the contractor bus
with contractor boss man.

Young Mexican picker man
plucks tomatoes to fill his basket
under the blazing Florida sun
his sweat anointing our Florida earth.

Piece work at forty five cents a bucket
thirty two pounds of tomatoes
less than penny and a half a pound;
it is cheaper to rent slaves than to own them.

Picker man wants a tiny house
para su familia
and so he toils with his woman and son
in plain sight yet sight unseen
for all of us the blind eye turn.

Behind the gates of Mar-a-Lago
in the county of the picker man
amid the laughter
a black tie ball.

Christ in the Eucharist

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Poetry and Tea Roses

I will always disappoint you.  My words  are no where near doves,  ink stained and caked with clay though I have scrubbed them bloody.  My lines hold an unexpected rainstorm   that I inflate into a tsunami, a swell that you can’t hold back  with your most tender sighs.  Still I expect you to save me, lift me from obscurity.  I tell lies lovingly,  each verse a sacred resting place or  a buzzed  serendipity.  I will fall in love with the sleeved heart of every poet. Give me a purpose ,  a  wilting tea rose or the embryo of a pearl in a shell washed ashore.

 

 

Kristiana Reed/Learning to Braid

#MeToo Writing Contest First Place

Beautiful! Comments closed at HoH

Blood Into Ink

Learning to Braid Kristiana image

Years of painstaking practice had taught her fingers to interweave three strands of hair, into one cohesive thread. Just like how she’d pencilled birthdays into her mind. Just like how she’d learnt the knowing smile she needed to give your mother, an unspoken indictment of your forgetfulness when it came to saving a date. Just like how she knew every name you felt she needed to know, ready to say with lips pulled over the teeth you said she needed to show.

It took time to marry the strands; her hair was thin like silk and would often slip through her fingers. Or her arms grew tired, suspended behind her ears, biting her bottom lip trying to create perfection without a mirror. Just like how she patiently etched each facial expression of yours into her mind, only to read you wrong and pay in silence. Just like how she attempted…

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the pale window

The sun is still low in the sky,
it’s rays have barely begun
to pierce the chill of our pale window.
Don’t go,  we are scarcely out of dreaming.
Caress my breast with the lifeline of your palm
while my head rest in the crook of your shoulder.
With these  fingertips you kiss one by one
I will ease the furrow of your brow and
soothe your body with the twining of my own.
Let the hours pass  through us tenderly
like a shallow river of fledgling reeds.

 

 

Steve hanks art

 

 

unobserved

Poetry by Dennis Cardiff.
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Dennis Cardiff

unobserved
i gaze upon you
lost in the world of a book.
i wonder which poet,
which author
holds your wrapt attention
to the exclusion
of all else.

Is it Burroughs?
Aristophanes?
or is it lighter reading,
a novel perhaps?
erotic historical romance?
i could ask you
but hesitate
to break their spell.

 

 

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