LIKE A STONE

                I am invisible
            like a stone on the beach
            it is only when you pause
            when you are bent deep
            yourself
            on days like these
            that you will see me
            if you have patience enough
            to gather waste that has littered 
            my shore
            you will eventually find me

            I am not like the others


            Hold me
            on moonlit nights
            that you may feel my texture
            my warmth
            and when it is time to return me there
            you will have found
            my space has shifted
            shallowed with time
            so there is nothing left
            but to carry my weight
            my solid weight
            in your mind 

             poem by annie
    

           

               

               

WOMAN TO WOMAN

 

           This artist Tamara de Lempicka born in Poland 1898
had quite a wild and exciting life for a lady of her time. Her art is collected by Madonna, Jack Nicholson and others.  Madonna has lent her art pieces and they can even be glimpsed in some of her videos. The artist claimed to be bi-sexual.  The painting above titled 'Spring' is one of my favorites and inspired the poem I share here.  You can read more about this artist here

                                     WOMAN TO WOMAN

                You come to me across the room 

                Not out of passion but something stronger 

                like the old tom cat at four a.m

                who crawls on my chest for comfort

                and from that howl and unable to breath

                I open one eye to meet his cat eye

                round like a saucer

                fling him at the moon

                to crash that old wicker chair you salvaged

                from Gables Market 

                instantly sorry

                see him sulk through the corners to darkness  

                Now here you are

                whimpering urgent hard against my hip

                as a lovers erection

                worse

                you like some shadow of childhood

                shiver through your thin cotton gown

                I teeter on the edge of sleep wondering

                what

                what is it about the night that makes us too

                loose our claws

                and being proud

                of never making the same mistake twice

                I curl in behind you mouth to your hair

                caress your back woman to woman

                whisper that tomorrow being Sunday                

                I'll help you plant your roses

                       poem by annie

            

              

 

DIVISION

               I think most of us at some time during our early years have had a teacher that has inspired us.  That special person embedded  in our memory bank that stood out as encouraging and real. Someone who went that one step further to make us want to learn.
               A friend told me the story of such a person.  A brilliant math teacher who later developed Alzheimer's and was known to 'wander away' from home and get into some odd predicaments.  She later had to be placed in a care home.  This poem that is influenced from my friends memory can't help but be tinged with sadness.  Or is it?  

                              DIVISION 

        Miss Betsy Love spends all her time 

        in the lower pasture

        she squats to pee by the sun drenched stump 

        of a rotting oak

        mice tickle her toes

        scamper under her skirt and chuckle

        she dips ripe berries in the crested brook

        sucks fresh fallen fruit

        smiles that rusted smile of happiness

        Miss Betsy Love no longer trusts the numbers

        old chalk dust memories

        circle her mornings like spiders

        so she measures her days and the pressure of

        water

        at Gorman falls

        the slant of the sun in late August

        she lies herself down in the afternoon rain

        to study the bellies of sheep

        and the earth

        like the bottom of and old wooden bucket

        Miss Betsy Love can't do the math

        if you take one life and divide it up

        she comes up with a number hard to believe

        as she claws through the brush and speaks to
        the wind

        the blood on her skin becomes crusted and dry 

        and she knows that somewhere

        people are counting

        counting her days 

 poem by annie

               

WHEN I AM AN OLD HORSEWOMAN

Jake and I love this little poem by Patty Barnhart.  What an appropriate last name she has...


             

When I Am An Old Horsewoman

I shall wear turquoise and diamonds,
And a straw hat that doesn’t suit me
And I shall spend my social security on
white wine and carrots,
And sit in my alleyway of my barn
... And listen to my horses breathe.

I will sneak out in the middle of a summer night
And ride the old bay gelding,
Across the moonstruck meadow
If my old bones will allow
And when people come to call, I will smile and nod
As I walk past the gardens to the barn
and show instead the flowers growing
inside stalls fresh-lined with straw.

I will shovel and sweat and wear hay in my hair
as if it were a jewel
And I will be an embarrassment to ALL
Who will not yet have found the peace in being free
to have a horse as a best friend
A friend who waits at midnight hour
With muzzle and nicker and patient eyes
For the kind of woman I will be
When I am old.

-Author Patty Barnhart

CONVERSATION WITH A PONY

JAKE

CONVERSATION WITH A PONY

 It's true what people say

that you can talk to the animals

but the thing is

you must listen first

for that faintest whisper

subtle, precarious

like tendon sliding over bone  

Today he tells me that he will trust

this one encounter

shift his weight toward me

offer something up

beneath his eye a muscle shivers

It is not with words 

but the space between them

where animals speak

if you listen carefully

it will be a song

like the prayer of horses

in their own tongue 
poem by Annie and Jake the pony 

THE RED WHEELBARROW

                                                      



                                                               

                               

                                                                                              

                               

                                                     

So much depends

upon 

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain 

water

beside the white

chickens

      William Carlos Williams 

                   I have always loved that little poem.  I have heard that it has been analysed to death for all it's possible subtle meanings but because I like color and art I appreciate it for it's simple visual image.

                   I happen to own a red wheelbarrow and some white chickens and I know exactly what the man was talking about.

                   I tend to like narrative poems.  Something that portrays an image or a moment in time.  Something I can identify with.  Not too long ago I came upon another little poem about a red wheelbarrow by an author named Gabriel Gadfly. (Yes, I guess that's his real name)

                   At the time I stumbled upon it (literally) I had a broken right leg in an awkward leaden cast and was unable to do my usual tripping through the woods and gardening that I very much enjoy.  Because of my venerable state I thought  that was why I was so open to the sentiment he stirred up in this poem.  I thought that was why a little tear stained my eye as I read it.

                  However, long after my leg had healed I read it again and felt that same little pang of connection.  Was it because it was now ingrained in me and my experience, or is it simply just a damn good little poem... a love poem.  Whatever,  I'll share it with you

                    

I Have Put The Red Wheelbarrow To Use

Since your leg is broken
and you cannot easily go out,
I have brought the garden
into your bedroom.
I have emptied your
chest of drawers of your
underwear and your shirts
and filled it with clean
black soil, with explosions
of yellow red chrysanthemums,
clustered bellflower,
stalks of bright snapdragon.
There are sunflowers
standing in the closet
where you hung your
summer dresses
(it was the only place
the sunflowers would fit.)
It has taken me hours
to cover the floor with
dark sweet earth and
fill the carpet with
fresh shoots of grass
(yes, I even brought
the green beetle,
the wriggler earthworm,
the polka-dot ladybug,
because I know
how you love them.)
Be careful with the
wisteria hanging over
the bed. It is tacked up
only precariously,
but it was a necessary
final touch.

This poem © Gabriel Gadfly. Published Aug 12, 2011

See more of Gabriels poetry  Here

CURIOUS

 This is a much slimmer and younger version of my dog Murphy.  Like a lot of us he's presently trying to loose some weight and be healthy.  He is however, still curious

I am curious

about the origin of grass and rain

and even fleas

whose sting

inflicted by their quest

disturbs my sleep

of the slithering aspect of snakes

who slyly coil

and make

no sound

as content they dose in midday heat

I am curious

about the secrets in the wood

birth and death

not understood

form that musty smell

of earths decay

and the flirting romp of butterflies

who graceful pause

then shy

they flit

and ignore my eager need to play

poem by annie  

and murphy the golden retriever

THE CLOCK TICKS (POETRY)

                   Last weekend I did that dog sledding thing and although I enjoyed it very much I thought this weekend I would do something where I wasn't bruised and frightened.  So I went to a poetry reading.  

              That's pretty safe huh? 

              Well at least until someone starts reciting Leonard Cohen.

              I read a couple of poems I had written but also added this tidbit from the 1970s.  Probably the first thing I ever wrote.

              Funny.  It still seems relevent today. 

THE CLOCK TICKS

 There's still time to

 loose ten pounds

 buy a fancy car

 sip Chautreuse in a Paris bar

 But what of this? 

 The other day I opened a book

 to see my poem written word for word

 the exact same way

 it was in my head
 and strolling a gallery out of the rain

I saw a canvas I'd planned to paint

since April

On the bus home I fell in love

with a man who sighed  "I regret
 If only a while back we had met " 

 At the next stop he offered a hug 

 and went home to his wife

                   
Perhaps
 I am one second too late

 You have written my poems  

 and painted my scenes
 and loved my men

 Of what use is it to be thin? 


.....Chuckle