Rendez-vous in San Nicolas

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I will not meet you there directly, no
we will meet at Mirador San Nicolas
on the outskirts of Granada and there
we will dine and catch up on so many things
as it has been several incarnations, since last
we were face to face – and it is from there that
we journey together, thou and I, to hear nightingales
beneath a cloudfree sky of robin’s egg blue
and we will listen to a little concert of the Goyescas
of Granados and you will laugh because the encore
will be called a la cubana and I will laugh too
and later when we have reached it
we will hear de Falla’s Noches en los Jardines de España –
En el Generalife the jasmine-scented gardens
around the palace of the king’s harem at Calat el-hamra
La Alhambra – the red – because of the sunsets
on the ancient ancient walls
how long have I longed to go there with you –
a thousand years of conquest and reconquest
and Berber kings of Al-Andalus and the Nasrid dynasty
moorish palaces with their long reflecting pools
that at night are filled with dancing stars
and we will get drunk on the scent of roses, and you
will spin me tales as we wander through the orange groves
and not only horror stories of pillage in Latin America and
we will forgive the tyrants and the jesuits – the imperialists
the Incas, the Mayans, the Catholics – everyone
we will forgive them all and listen only to the fountains

Timea Deinhardt
https://timeadeinhardt.wordpress.com

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The Gift

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Her voice drew me across the riverbank,
up the creek canyon, through the trees,
past devil’s club and foggy nettles,
seeking the source of the pure water.

I longed for distant sunrise break-thought,
the spotted owl revealed herself in song,
demanding quick ascent as light
within light became a seed of thought
enfleshed within my dawning mind.

On western heights I turned to face the valley
as Sun’s break pierced earth’s volcanic spine
my breath took in the moment’s magic pulse.
I had never been more grounded
in Terra’s soft enfoldment,
my forest-bound birds of thought
pulled wide the cosmic snare.

I soared to distant stellar sectors
freed from matter’s broken shell.
Time stood still in gravity’s storm,
I bowed down to her, the One,
she stood behind the doorway’s buzz.

I slowly returned, incarnated again
in the outer-dimensional world.
I felt the silky solar warmth
begin to penetrate my wintered face.
I picked up Athena’s shield
fallen from the sky beside me.

With a briefcase, jacket, and tie
I found my way downtown again
to the unkind judges, the courts of lies
gifted with a child’s hope and strength
for yet another day’s battle

Robert J. Foss
http://allpoetry-classic.com/Betoangel

Tea Party In Wonderland

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Alice presides:
agrees to be mother,
although she’s as mad
as a snake on crack,
she clatters the cups,
cups her breasts
offering sugar;

slaps down the paws
that clamour for more,
Strings of her pinafore
stretched to breaking.
Wishes she hadn’t accepted
the invitation that led
to the hood where trouble
resided;

where even the ones that were fed
are still wanting.
Read us our fortunes,
they beg.

Alice, who never learned
to say no
empties the pot
and pours over the leaves.
The March wind sweeps in.

Maggie Z Brown
https://allpoetry.com/Margrit

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did you bleach your britches bridgette or have they always been moonlight grey?

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she wears them when she has to clean the muck

scrub the cowshed
herd goats
mend a fence

sometimes the fields flood
and she hitches them high

but the cuffs always manage
to soak in the mud

now that the baby’s older
and she’s got her waist back
she uses a rope
to hold them in place

it’s not a great look but
hey who’s gonna say

the cows don’t care about
that sort of thing

the goats
even less

they chew
as she rubs their behinds with hay

as she pours water into
their drinking pans

later she’ll shower
and wear a pretty dress

play with the baby

as the cat sleeps

and the soup simmers

in an old glazed pot of
white clay

Seema Chopra

 

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Love song with polarity

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Different as fingers are,
they work to form the fist
that holds the hammer
of how we began,
two shapes probably never
meant to fit, impossible
now to separate, to imagine
otherwise than joined
by whatever force,
the sun pushing against
a cloud, poetry without
meter or form, electricity
and the matter of music.
The awkward steps,
the running starts,
there is no sense
to make of it, how even
falling apart we land
in this upward instant
of a bird taking to air.

Charles Carr
http://allpoetry-classic.com/selfrisinmojo

 

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