Rhymed and unrhymed, form or free, this is where the poetry lives.
Goodbye Arizona,
I liked you from the start
but now a fine grain of your sand
has settled my heart.
Gathering my memories
like layers upon a pearl
to make a jewel to guide the way
next time I return.
So, so long Arizona,
cause goodbye’s hard to say.
I know I’ll feel your sunrise dawn
on me again some day.
#191
Snippets of satin ribbon unravelling,
tangled on twiglets, tiny drips
of crimson in a winter desert,
blossoms of blood on fingertips.
#190
Is it the lucky number, the colour
of the jersey, or the odds?
Are there tenuous lineage hints? (who’s your daddy?)
Do you even know what ‘conformation’ means?
Herring gutted? Spring stepped? Sweated up?
What clairvoyant clues collude to make you choose
one over another?
Ah, but when they all come together – it’s an epiphany.
Thanks for the last race, last chance win,
Northern Poptart.
#189
Open eyes can see the day.
Closed eyes can see at night.
The blurred place between the two
breeds dreams and faint twilight
where alternate realities
whisper whys into my ear
The only question is if I
will heed the truth in what I hear.
Is my heart brave enough to chance
unknown seas, without a chart?
Open eyes can see the day.
Closed eye see in the dark.
#187
I am drawn to the strings.
They reach out like musical staffs of cob web strands.
It’s a living thing;
this obsession with plucked notes and the sleight of hand
that makes them sing.
hundreds of years, thousands of songs lost to time.
Hear the ring
of the rhythm and the reason to the rhyme.
I am drawn to the strings
at the MIM.
#186
MIM stands for Musical Instrument Museum, which is located in Phoenix, Arizona. I strongly recommend a visit if you’re ever in the area. (I got to play a theremon!)
Superstition sunrise bleeds
between the jagged rocks,
the road rolls on into the desert.
Walking the hilltop, cactus and thorns adorn
wooden crosses and markers,
‘Killed by indians’, ‘gunshot’,
‘unknown’, ‘hung
by mistake.’
Into the town and along the main street,
wind whips the sand, blasting
tired paint, leather faces, and faded signs.
Dusters billow and flap, revealing
weathered holsters, well oiled six-guns.
A shot rings out.
Buy a postcard of the town too tough to die.
#185
Doves croon in the courtyard.
Desert blue pales to the horizon.
Palms, all smooth and shaggy;
all graceful and gawky,
sentinel the sky in silhouette.
Cacti bristle from sand and gravel.
Paddle and rod and barrel.
Green and red and yellow.
Quill and needle and barb.
Plump paddles, prickly pear pile-up.
Firestick tumble – fire crackers suspended in mid explosion.
Massive, ruinous saguaro – viejo – venerable one.
Arizona.
#184
Red velvet cupcakes,
heated pool, and happy hour.
Poetry in life.
#183
Sunshine in my eyes
winter just a memory
a lifetime away.
#181
stoic saguaro
barrels crowned with gold and rust
hazy azaleas
#180
Linda Studley 