Saturday involved so much... giving my friend a special pin from Japan; thinking about a photography exhibit; and Sunday I will have had some time to think of the powerful voices at a poetry reading before a great play called "Superior Donuts"... This link, triggered a different poem.
29 yr. old “open air poet” http://www.npr.org/2012/04/17/150722541/the-poem-store-open-for-business?ft=3&f=111787346&sc=nl&cc=es-20120422
and http://www.npr.org/2012/04/13/150581238/poetry-match-game
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=27HnzOI4NWk
from the prompt: "spring break; road trip; and Olympia" Houston starts typing away immediately. In roughly 60 seconds, he pulls out the small, asymmetrical piece of white paper from the typewriter and reads it aloud:
"Where the Greek gods live with history and trees
protecting patience of rainforest
where it doesn't rain
simmers, fog, moisture
worship her, mother nature, newly wed
every year to visit a season
is called spring
forever returning to its source"
So I try that:
-- Ghosts of Auschwitz-Birkenau
-- Zen monk’s beard whiskers into a fan, waterfalls his silence
-- cat, curled into a sweep of a tail with one black-ink brushstroke
Poem Typed into Being from 3 images
It is Spring-chill cold today,
outside, fields fresh-plowed,
apple blossom snowing down.
Inside, a book of photographs
of a grey-stoned village
And the white smoke of ghosts—
naked, huddled into a collective blur
onto the streets leading to the arch
lettered Arbeit Macht Frei .
This is cold that makes you gasp,
lose your breath as if someone has just
cut off three fingers of your very best friend.
It is the type of day a monk in a drafty temple
would wind his brown blanket around him
like a brush-stroked sweep of a cat’s tail.
His sparse whiskers waterfall
into his silence as he allows his mind to empty.
He understands the cold does not need
to penetrate further than his skin.
his breath warms him,
his heart-drum steady.
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