“What on earth are you writing about?”Abuelo Ignazio said.
“Everything. Politics, change, the way things could be.” “What for? For? Why write it down? Writing is essential. Hmmph. You can’t eat a poem.”* My response? Yes, you can! You can eat it with your eyes and your mind and your heart!
(* Invisible Mountain, Carolina de Robertis, p. 231)
Men Are Allowed
Wrinkles distinguish them in age. A female, fresh-cheeked, slim, coy: just what the old boy ordered. She ain’t allowed to wrinkle. It’d spoil her image.
How could she snare a man? Neanderthal noggins Progress? Negligible. Here and there the globe is gracious There and here it’s niggardly. Wrapped in its own shawl, Unaware of the damage it’s doing, More akin to sealed shut The honey locked in the comb. Candling the wax The sweet potential Is freed For the world to taste.
Rocking out on Rocks:
Valley of Fire
They say that yonder rock once flitted Under a wide and glassy sea One hundred grains between the toes Thumped flat by a brontosaurus
Usurped when the comet crashed Vacuuming every drop of water From thin sands, pink layered with coral Topped by carmine and vermillion
The unimaginable force of fire Far beneath the surface Slipped the rainbow slices sideways Tilted them until
Their shoulders humped up and up Now twisted, eroded they reign Without endeavor, the great rocks in the desert Stand and battle with the waves and wind for ever.
A Wilderness Canvas
A poem is when you hear the heart beat of a tree
A poem is when your soul loosens up
A poem is yeast rising in baking bread
A poem is a stone that floats noiselessly
A poem is a song let out of the cage
A poem is the lungs of the world heaving a sigh
The congregations Have been swept under couches Forgotten as dust.
#2 It rains and rains The drops cascade down my cheeks It rains when death reigns.
#3 Rivers are swollen They swallow, digest and spit Disgorging deltas.
#4 Arrayed like a queen powdered and prepped for the prom Her heart is trembling. Finally Five:
#5 My world collapsed To a shard of poetry An ink-blotted word.
So That I Might Become Spring
So here, late afternoon I sit letting a distant train hhhhrrrrrrrr blend in with a double cheep of a chickadee small as a minute sitting on the peak of the roof
but sounding with the volume of a bird the size of a
raven. A row of irises freckle the green
mingling brights and pastels.
Water heavy with color,ferns spread above silver lamb’s ear.
The garden glistens with spring And I too glisten inside with the feel of its musky yet delicate scents. Yesterday’s leaf thumbs on the trees are now floppy hands
weaving in the air that moves silently until it caresses them. Responding, the leaves shiver against one another and whisper the secrets of their power, the most prolific form of life on earth.
And here I sit. wishing my skin permeable So that the hues and sounds Scents and tastes Slip inside That I might become Spring
What is a Poem?
Where minds can roam free Unencumbered devoid of urban superfluous necessities. But sometimes inhabited in disgusting hordes of mosquitoes
Or worse: Tiny black flies that bite with a vengeance all out of proportion To their inconsequential size.
Or worse: Masses of tent caterpillars denuding trees Mindlessly swarming up pants legs, into the hair.
Or worse: Bloodsucking ticks attaching to your body Making your blood boil, your teeth clench.
Or better: The clouds unclench losing a deluge
Followed by the radiance of renewal
Or better yet: A silken lake reflects the fullest silhouettes Of frothy greens ribboned with loon ripples
One better: Sounds liquefy into soundless music The canvas is painted only by the full breath of Imagination – J. Campbell, 2018
Memories and Dreams
The room crowds with memories and dreams As the sun reaches through the curtains A whisper of a curl And the day shines under my eyelids.
A poem shoots out It sprays visible breath onto an ivory page Impatient to receive the hovering words The unsaid etches on the ivory.
The poem gives lies teeth And truth bites straight through Severing the hate envy greed Truth has its own venom
The day shines into my eyes A curling whisper As the honest sun reaches out Crowding the room with memories and dreams.
Pregnant, the moonrise Appears a bubble of light Splitting the darkness
Riffles, ragged edges The eye ceaselessly wanders Trumped by emotion
The Heartery Newsletter
Become an email subscriber to the free Heartery newsletter. Find out when new photos, blogs are added, see new installations, hear about discounts on prints or books, learn about photography workshops, and other news.