Our Circus

Chagall courtesy Magpie Tales

laughing and falling from grace

we clown through life

doing trapeze acts

juggling our emotions 

walking a tightrope

riding bareback

subduing the lions

getting a cheap laugh

we pray to the ringmaster

hope for good audiences

and 

a chance to do it all again.

Love is

love is like
making cupcakes late at night for your son's class
rubbing medication on the guinea pig's mange
stepping into the scary bar to rescue a lost friend
wiping up after the rescued cat
watching your daughter drive away in your only new car
letting your loved one not see your sadness
sending flowers to a parent who never loved you best
ignoring the hateful politics of your friend's husband
planting gardens in places you know you will leave

love is like letting you just be
a rainbow

I, I, I

Photo by Joan Tucker

I will meditate
I will follow zen
I will retreat
I will pray
I will follow my bliss
I will be my inner child
I will go with the river

an awful lot of I's
on the journey to nirvana

Alone

photo by Joan Tucker

she was cranky and mean
she was drunk and secretive
she was victim and tyrant
she had no past or future
she had a daughter
she had no family
she just died

alone

Threads

history and folklore beckon
trying to explain things
to sort out the mysteries
find the cultural meanings
what where they singing
how to cook those
why the festival
no one explained
languages were theirs
we were to mind read
now saddened
by so much loss
need to hear it all again
with new ears
with new urgency
what about those rivers

Dnieper and Vistula

Paul G in Seattle

Paul Gauguin via Magpie Tales

currently paul is hanging out

in Seattle with the totems

and asian lions

people crowd around 

don't seem to get it

these bright paintings

seems like long ago

girls were either covered up

or butt naked

who was this dude

maybe he should have 

stayed in France

clubs and oars 

from the Marchesas

garner closer attention

they say that painting 

is worth one million

I like that one

Not there

someplace so mysterious
I was not there
my blue pants suit was there
with its red stitching
but I was not there

I stood right next to a gondola
and a striped pole
the crowds were there
clicking and feeding pigeons
but I was not there

my husband and friend
were smiling in the photo
but I was not there
in a city so grand and chic
I was not there

I ponder the memories
review the photos
touch the old pantsuit
process that time and place
and yes I was not there

Seventy

seventy suns
seventy miracles
seventy mysteries
seven-ty
strangest sensation
 70

wow you don't look seventy
you just look what?
inside does not match outside
inside wants to dance fly
cavort do somersaults

outside tries to behave
appropriately sort of
don't embarrass yourself

yet the laughter is still there
and the twinkle and the storytelling

and yes that damn mini cooper

Journey to Joy

scent of grapefruit
breeze ruffling palm
warm water floatation
shadows on white walls
decadent bliss descends
dreaming of morocco
places where sun reigns

washington winter forgotten

Tucson

tucson desert canoa ranch santa catalina

sabino canyon sunrise pink creeping in

stories of apache raids and ancient tribes

st xavier entombed in the white mission

sky all navy blue adorned with twinkling lights

air so clean you shut off the air cleaners

bones stop aching in a land of old bones

hawks and hummingbirds thrill and a grand barn owl

tubac galleries filled with red and turquoise and orange

gemstones dinosaurs quartz agates sunstones

pearls rubies cacti nomads venders seekers

the earth's bounty all packed in tents in the desert

the silk road the guilds the artists ancient memories

all together in one short moment one dream

I buy a turquoise ring to remember

Ode to Leonard

leonard's voice
crawls down my spine
like a deep growl
joyful despairing
paradox
poetry like gravel
on an old dirt road
or a city alley
suzanne
by the river

hallelujah

Cold breaths

cold icy breaths

truth serum

sand shifting

moody words

no calming breezes

to ebb the flow of

feelings unfettered

raw ingredients remain

Elasticity of time

elasticity of time

photos in courtyards

in europe with a tiny waist

three little happy bird faces

can smell the sea in one

can hear the bells in another

can let go of the sad undertones

celebrate the pureness of memories

feel them again and again

Happy New Year 2011

http://www.burningtheclocks.co.uk/about-clocks

from Magpie Tales

grateful for the bread
eases the gnawing
in my gut

hungry for food
hungry for assurances
hungry for salvation

don't care if this is
worse  or better than '29
it is bad enough for me

Gratitude

flickering memories
of not having
of being in pain

old photos
of younger years
of absent family

cherished ornaments
of kindergarten dough
of ancient travels

stained recipes
for gingerbread
for wassail

ringing bells
to remember
to be grateful

Occupy

occupy the minds of the politicians
occupy the imaginations of the ceo's
occupy the fingers of the wheeler dealers
occupy the speech of the brokers
occupy the hearts of the bankers
occupy the heads of the deal makers
occupy the souls of the oppressors
occupy the stomachs of the rich
occupy the eyes of the mean
occupy the character of the police

and then occupy their spirit and make the change happen

Light a Lantern

light a lantern
for the lost
for the wanderer
for the seeker
for the submerged

light a lantern
for your soul
for your kin
for your spirit
for your muse

light a lantern
for remembrance
for strength
for courage
for hope

light a lantern

to see...

Deep roots are patient, they wait for our ripening; they lay hidden and strong unaffected by our daliance and lack of interest. As we float amongst the leaves -all playfully bright and fluttering songs to us, the deep roots sing with a nurturing love knowingly their time will come.

We dance, play and revel in the upper realms living our story and playing out our destiny and the deep roots all knowing and grounded in their quiet patch of earth simply sigh knowing that after the spring of green has passed and the glory of autumn has ended, we will come back to them as all things do to the dark and deep and forever roots.

Door

halloween is in the air
rusty door
that goes nowhere
sometimes life
sets out to prove
that it is scary
just to move

Seeking

smoke
smoke and mirrors
distortion
elusive

reaching out into the haze
looking for truth and soul
only touching granite
hard and unyielding

sky
navy and vast
clarity
accessible

sending wishes to the stars
looking for answers
open to answers
soft and receptive

The Attic

If I had an attic I would put a mattress on one side with a large flashlight and a blanket for a hiding place. I would collect old stamp books from everyone's childhoods and pile them up on an old chest of drawers. I would hang old evening gowns from the rafters and dangle long scarves from them. I would tuck lavender into envelopes and hide them in the attic's darkest recesses. I would put a whole set of vintage Nancy Drew on an old table and arrange various decks of tarot cards nearby. I would pile sheet music from the 40's and 50's on a piano bench. I would put a teddy bear in an old child's rocker. I would fill a trunk with  maps of every kind.and lastly I would lock a stack of love letters in a wooden box and hide the key.

Joan Tucker

http://awildpatience.blogspot.com

Serious?

selling bikes with boobs
the french did it with class
the ad men not so much
still making money
from some woman's beauty

Verona 2011

tangled in white linen sheets
with sunlight drawing slats
on the golden walls
what dreams does she conjure
what places does she visit
this young woman
adventurous and valiant

no modern day Juliet

Like a circle in a spiral....

from Magpie Tales

like a whirling dervish
life spins
like a fast running stream
time passes
like a carousel
joy circles
like a blink of an eye
moments are lost
like lightning
love strikes
like denim
images fade
like chalk on a sidewalk
life passes
only we can choose to remember

Briny Metaphors

photo from Magpie Tales

spun out of the sea
it reminds us
of summer
of treasures
of youth
of cycles
of time


hard and soft
delicate and sturdy
endless briny metaphors

Optical Hardware

photo from Magpie Tales

sitting all alone staring up at the cosmos

without a point of view

hardly encourages deep thoughts

without my socket I am lost

left to stare and stare

optically competent  

yet needing insight and direction 

without my twin and the muse

I am only hardware

Anything but This

from Magpie Tales

she longed to flee
from the silly lute player
the pompous men
her limitations
she dreamed of muddy legs
grand vistas and the sea


running wild and naked
in dark endless forests
filled with beasts


anything but this

Back from Italy

returned from Italy, no poems today
my heart is full of love and beauty
reflections on ancient surfaces
hustle and bustle, rows of Vespas
gelato piled high, leather shops
ancient walls, old vineyards
narrow alleys, many rooms with a view
beach promenade,
terrace views forever
Michelangelo, Juliet, Galileo,
giants of imagination and love
strung together through the ages

Oh those lips

Magpie Tales Prompt

a whole lot of whoop de do

over a little bit of zippity zip

or zippity lip?

Dancing Particles

it is easy to find fault in other humans, harder to find their core;
easy to criticize and be clever, harder to have compassion;
easy to be smart and hip, harder to be real;
easy to dismiss the object of our fear, harder to understand differences;
mockery is easier, love is harder.
but love trumps hate every time.


we are all just dancing particles.

On the Road Again 2011

road trip down the coast
worries blown away
long before Gold Beach
hopes and dreams
launched in Marin County
youth restored in Pismo Beach
dreamy nirvana in Palm Springs
back to the earth in Tonopah
ancient merchant in Tucson


Willie Nelson eat your heart out..

The Piano

Magpie Tales

front foyer
always closed off
colored leaded window
piano stacked with books, canning jars
newspapers, seed catalogs
and sheet music
a five year old sitting there
propped on stool all straight and professional
hammering on those keys
studying the marks on the yellowed page


dreams are made of this

Connecticut River Valley

resiny scent of tobacco
onions drying in piles on silty soil
sweat mixed with spilled lemonade
drunk from a jug
flowing with the Connecticut
voices, english, polish, ukrainian
scratches from the long wooden slats
up and down the rows
up and down the rows
everybody worked
men, women, old , young
even
relatives from New York City

Ms Marple

squishing clay and listening to Ms Marple

wishing I were more malleable
is it necessary to always be prepared
could one simply be squishy
being a girl scout is such a drag
wondering about spontaneity
making little porcelain bells
Poirot is next

Florence

magpie tales

they carry the memories
the scent of Florence
arthritic fingers
ease into elegance
youth is restored
dreaming of via guicciardini

Burning the Clocks for Solstice

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UTb7JoLlJRM&feature=related

The Cathedral

Magpie Tales-Tess Kincaid

cold, stone cold

doors large enough

for horses and carriages  

pray in your coach option 
for the aristocracy

the scent of beeswax

smoldering prayers

woolen coats, mittens

for the common folk
sore knees, frozen noses

organ sounds and crystal voices

piercing the nave
images in glass
reminding the sinners
of the possibilities

Hell Racers

from Magpie Tales

cows had carved out the paths

in summer we picked violets there

in winter it was glazed with ice

treacherous on the curves

too close to the partially frozen pond

the sledding course was dangerous

passing for little girls

bundled in our pastel snowsuits

we were hell racers

screaming as we flew

trudging back up again and again 

until near dark

mom's call to dinner

ruined it

Thanks to Rima Staines from the hermitage blog for this link..

Ms Eleven

Magpie Tales

she was an eleven
in every way
idealistic and visionary

better than ten
the light bearer
and peacemaker

the master number
why then
was she so lost


she longed to be a three
or a five or even a seven
longing for conflict
and imperfection.

The Snoop

Magpie Tales

not from Penny's or the 5 and dime

this was foreign stuff

auntie left in on the bed

glamorous as heck

draped from my neck

some strange guy on the pendant

auntie has been around my father says

she wears capes and has a passport

now to look in her suitcases

Chickens in Paradise

awake in the tropics
local rooster singing
plumeria and ginger
swaddle the cottage
a swag of bananas
decorates the doorway
geckos scurry at morning light
wild herd of chickens
dash through the garden
hundreds of  translucent bugs
stuck to the ceiling

another view of paradise.

Village Halloween

country halloween
bundled head to toe
cider and maple leaf air
crunchy paths
long unlit country roads
sparse farm houses
candy in paper sack
no fears of  poison
parading around
village common- then
home to counting the loot

Becoming

Magpie Tales

hand sliding down hip

slow recognition of shape

sneaking glances in mirror

what was this

these curves

the flat places had filled out

there were little gullies 

round tussocks

what did a girl do 

with all of this?

Hiding

for Magpie Tales

in the dark
it's  easy to dream
easy to roll into a ball
and spin gossamer blindfolds
across your eyes

nothing can get you in here
you nestle with closed suitcases
and old cigar boxes
a decaying uniform
serves as blanket

thumps and creaks interrupt
the sensation of safety
old tunes weave in and out
like background music
remembering

yet the light beckons
bringing messages of possibilities
new trails, new monsters
maybe a new song or two
you ever so slowly  venture out

Truth Drug

trying to find some honesty
searching for a truth drug
poking into hidden corners
uncovering some secrets
opening boxes of moldy letters
reading between the lines
peering at the photos

all the secrets, lies and mysteries
are mine.

The Sax Player

in childhood, I remember
golden sax between his knees
round glasses perched on his nose
he wailed me a tune
all deep and mysterious
now he's gone
no trace of the saxophone
no trace of him
only a letter

will the music conjure him up?

Abundance

more orange than one can bear
reflections sharp and clear
crisp sounds that lure you
and the smell- toasty and dry
sometimes a pinky green
that only god could paint
the views stop you cold
breathing stops
in valleys and hilltops
white churches punctuate
the color lights the senses
more beauty than can be imagined

proof of abundance