A Poem & A Picture (Day 5)

18 Apr

Woot- woot. We made it !!
In honor of this accomplishment all attendees will receive a freeze-dried ham. Moi.


This House

This house creaks, it rattles and squeaks
It rumbles and grumbles and sometimes it shrieks
But through it all it never speaks
… Or maybe we’re just not listening

There’s blood on the walls, tears in the halls
Bruises on carpet from too many falls
You cannot see it with naked eyeballs
… Or maybe we’re just not looking


Janna Hill Pose Prose & Poems(My Thoughts Exactly) 1998




A Poem & A Picture (Day 4)

17 Apr

I happened up on this gem at TLS. If you have a moment to read their gentle dissection you’ll be glad you did. You’ll also be glad I spared you the [colorful] picture that inspired Once Upon A Dead Gull. ;)

The Seagull

By Stanley Moss

When I was a child, before I knew the word
for a snowstorm, before I remember
a tree or a field,
I saw an endless grey slate afternoon coming,
I knew a bird singing in the sun
was the same as a dog barking in the dark.
A pigeon in a blizzard fluttered
against a kitchen window,
– my first clear memory of terror,
I kept secret, my intimations
I kept secret.
This winter I hung a grey and white stuffed
felt seagull from the cord of my window shade,
a reminder of good times by the sea,
of Chekhov and impossible love.
I took comfort from the gull, the graceful shape
sometimes lifted a wing in the drafty room.
Once when I looked at the gull I saw
through the window a living seagull glide
toward me then disappear, – what a rush of life!
I remember its hereness,
while inside the room
the senseless symbol
little more than a bedroom slipper
dangled on a string.
Beyond argument, my oldest emotion
hangs like a gull in the distant sky.
Eyes behind bars of mud and salt
see some dark thing below,
– my roof under the sea.
Only the sky is taken for granted.

A Poem & A Picture (Day 3)

16 Apr


By Brod Bagert

They came like dewdrops overnight
Eating every plant in sight,
Those nasty worms with legs that crawl
So creepy up the garden wall,
Green prickly fuzz to hurt and sting
Each unsuspecting living thing.
How I hate them! Oh, you know
I’d love to squish them with my toe.
But then I see past their disguise,
Someday they’ll all be butterflies.


Okay I know this caterpillar will turn into a  moth. A Polyphemus moth to be exact but shhh she thinks she’s a butterfly.

A Poem & A Picture (Day 2)

15 Apr


Black Balloon

Baby’s black balloon makes her fly
I almost fell into that hole in your life
And you’re not thinking about tomorrow
’cause you were the same as me
But on your knees

A thousand other boys could never reach you
How could I have been the one
I saw the world spin beneath you
And scatter like ice from the spoon
That was your womb

Comin’ down the world turned over
And angels fall without you there
And I go on as you get colder
Or are you someone’s prayer

You know the lies they always told you
And the love you never knew
What’s the things they never showed you
That swallowed the light from the sun
Inside your room

Comin’ down the world turned over
And angels fall without you there
And I go on as you get colder
Or are you someone’s prayer

And there’s no time left for losin’
When you stand they fall

Comin’ down the world turned over
And angels fall without you there
And I go on as you get colder

All because I’m
Comin’ down the years turn over
And angels fall without you there
And I’ll go and lead you home and
All because I’m
All because I’m
And I’ll become
What you became to me.


How many of you knew those were actually the lyrics to Black Balloon by the Goo Goo Dolls? I found it on poemhunter but you can Goo Goo Google it if you want. ;)

Why did I choose ‘lyrics’ for National Poetry Month (other than they coincide with my random photo collection)? Because I believe “a lyric that can stand alone is poetry.”

Watch the video on youtube.


A Poem & A Picture (Day 1)

14 Apr

Hold your horses you little whipper-snappers. We’re not done yet.

It is still National Poetry Month and we are going to see this thing through!  I know some of you don’t really love poetry and there are others who think it’s too far over their head. That’s cool.  It may be wrong but it can still be cool. Then (you see me shaking my finger at you because you know who you are) there are a few of you who just want to play hooky and hang out in smoke filled bars until the end of April.  Well if that’s your attitude you can just order me a pomegranate martini by gosh!

This week we’re gonna mix it up a little. Not the drinks silly. For the next five days [if the good lord's willing and the creek don't rise] I’m going to pick a photo I’ve taken and find a poem to go with it. Oh this is going to be sooo fun!


I wonder if words can breathe life into a photograph? If so does it make the picture worth more than a thousand words? Let’s see.


by David St. John
There is a train inside this iris:
You think I’m crazy, & like to say boyish
& outrageous things. No, there is
A train inside this iris.
It’s a child’s finger bearded in black banners.
A single window like a child’s nail,
A darkened porthole lit by the white, angular face
Of an old woman, or perhaps the boy beside her in the stuffy,
Hot compartment. Her hair is silver, & sweeps
Back off her forehead, onto her cold and bruised shoulders.
The prairies fail along Chicago. Past the five
Lakes. Into the black woods of her New York; & as I bend
Close above the iris, I see the train
Drive deep into the damp heart of its stem, & the gravel
Of the garden path
Cracks under my feet as I walk this long corridor
Of elms, arched
Like the ceiling of a French railway pier where a boy
With pale curls holding
A fresh iris is waving goodbye to a grandmother, gazing
A long time
Into the flower, as if he were looking some great

Distance, or down an empty garden path & he believes a man
Is walking toward him, working
Dull shears in one hand; & now believe me: The train
Is gone. The old woman is dead, & the boy. The iris curls,
On its stalk, in the shade
Of those elms: Where something like the icy & bitter fragrance
In the wake of a woman who’s just swept past you on her way
& you remain.

Sunday Shots

13 Apr

Just sharing some Sunday shots before the storm blows me away.

Oh dear, I hope I’m kidding.

M-O-O-N (That Spells Dun)

11 Apr

Well this wraps up my week of future poets.

Yep, M-O-O-N that spells dun.

I’ve probably read close to 100 poems trying to find just the right one to end my Not Yet Notorious week of poetry.

I wanted something (I liked) to reflect the unsung working class by a humble individual who wasn’t tooting their own horn.

Don’t get me wrong, we must all toot every now and again. Oops, I just did. Excuse me.

I crammed in so many units and stanzas it all started running together like Scary Movie 3 so I took a break and looked at photographs like the one that I stole you see here.

Sue's Swans

Sue’s Swans

In case you didn’t know photography is a hobby that helps me to ‘not think’. There are a lot of attention-seeking characters living in my head. No, really! Sometimes I show them a pretty picture so they’ll shut up.

Photography is my yang to the yin of self-help.

So… I was scrolling along and low and behold it was one of those I never knew that or maybe I did and just forgot moments. That happens. Anyway there it was. Monday Morning Hike right there under my nose.
Did you know the anatomical position of the eyes prevents us from being able to see those things that are right under our nose? That’s my excuse. That’s also why I try to inform every self-confident male that he has a partially dried glob of mucus dangling from his moustache. I can’t believe they fall for it – even the clean shaven ones.

Alas to conclude (dear lord let me shut up) I’d like to share this poem by a fellow blogger and photo hobbyist. It has nothing to do with toots, noses or boogers so clear your mind.
Take a deep breath. Hummmmm….

Monday Morning Hike

by Sued51

When I park my car
the music stops.
I shuffle to the front door
of my brick purgatory
a little late,
head down,
watching my feet
go through the motions.
At the front steps
a pack is
put on my back–
every soldier’s companion;
gravity pulls
my shoulders earthward;
a groan slips out
as I yank open
cumbrous glass doors.
With every step
down the stale hall,
my pack gets heavier.
I imagine the silent
figures I pass
loading me up
behind my back,
as I struggle along,
bound for my trench.
By the time I reach
that terminus
my canteen is empty;
any weekend peace
it held drained away.
Another deadend
week has begun.



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