Béatrice Machet # 19 (for the after ... series)

Hi everybody and everyone ... again back from a poetry trip, sorry for my lack of comments on your poems which I just discover now, let me settle and calm down a little bit and I'll be back soon....


Here is a picture of my screen ... I found no other way to show you the layout of this new poem ...

 #  19     After … Series                    inspired by G.Stein’s History or Messages from History      

                                       

and here is the text

                                               I must write this so as to see it to believe it

His

tory

the way he

spelled as if gues-

sing an ethos far beyond

his genealogy god king coun-

try heritage though itage was not

his mother’s chosen Czech vocabulary

Hi story! how do you do! Once upon

and for all times dis-

connect fate

from fame

so that I

can

be

                    
                                     Have it all his and tory and greetings and story

Jeff Skewes # 12 Circle

There's only one end to a circle

though you may think that's incorrect

because this everyday phenomenon appears complete

in its own geometry of side-less perpetual momentum

roundly just going about constantly shaping

the business of being fully formed and whole

the circle seems independently free

no need to join the squares over there

at no point in the circle is a straight line to be seen

every atom every molecule stacked and fitted repeatedly

curving at every dot no two ever go the same direction

making clean this constantly turning structure

without corners beginnings and seemingly no end

history becomes an unwavering process

unlike rain that comes and goes

this thing just goes on and on like a roll

yet if considered well its reflection

tells another story a way to see this cycle

is to draw it out and when you stop

its end's uncovered

image: Unending - ink on paper jskewes

Kit Kelen - ekphrastic - Juan José Gárate Claveros' 'Banquete Interrupido'

Juan José Gárate Claveros' 'Banquete Interrupido'

is it a good day

for the bull

who interrupts the banquet?

dark figure

tail up

all horns out of sunlight

scatters a trestle for fruit

a still life

under the table

or leapt on top

what stockings, lace!

cinnabar velveteen

so little disarrayed

this haberdasher's catalogue

ears covered

so there's just the image

wigs and hats and furniture

calories burnt off with stress

every hand expressive

to show how hands are drawn

evil eye over the doorway

Madonna for calm

in her dark niche above

stone impassive

as the bull is ancient

what pleasure in this stillness!

in the moment

we

none of us

know what we do 

         in the Museo Carmen Thyssen in Malaga

Riparian Zones #1: Leave No Trace

New section (eco-poetics)

Leave No Trace

The road was empty that evening
the last one
split infinities

all I could see were his eyes
like a white tiger's
penetrating blue
wildness held in check

when they arrived at the zoo
it was armageddon

shouts from the shore
the band played loudly
we thought, for a New York minute
that it was a celebration
all going to be okay

but it was just a diversion
two paths diverging
each leading nowhere
winding as DNA, a double helix 
twist back to the start

there’s a whisper in the forest
that outdoes the endless trumpets
whip-poor-wills
nightjars, singing in the softest 
most mournful whistle
invisible as their bodies
hidden in foliage 
it’s still there if you focus

a corruption of politicians
in diminishing returns

the indelible burn of footsteps
on soft plants
riparian zones, fragile soil

I say this not to hurt
only to remind you of what
you mustn’t forget.

Kit Kelen - signature - for godsbother

signature

I fell into child’s writing

traveled that way

backwards

clumsy loop for loop

back to the teeth

to the tongue

and before

shore scribing

of the sea

I followed

the sandpiper’s course

and insects

under bark

something the wind wrote

some sign among stars

I can’t remember now

Penny Xia Fang # 2 Childhood

Childhood

his mom holds his hands as they pass

through the wood - cold, mysterious and dark,

like a blob of ink is melting

the shadow lingers over the shade of canopy

and despite their bright clothing

the oak spreads its wriggling branches and twigs

its roots grab firmly into the earth, her collarbone

crossing the path, he is eager to reach the other side

his school-friends, his father’s workplace,

and an open air market

he firmly grasps his mom’s hand

they walk like two lonely ballerinas

sunlight exposed at one end of arch of trees

until he becomes a lone walker