Revision of the partner exercise/poem: Donovan Acuna

A child asks, what is the grass?
Thinking to myself, I ask "what is it,"
although I know I should know.
"Food perhaps," or maybe it was more.
Maybe it's a sign of life in the ground
or hair for the floor. "What is it,"
I asked myself, and so did the girl,
as she pet the small green slivers
in her hand with a look of bewilderment.
"Is it a present?" She asked angelically,
staring at my facade of confusion which
was facing what I had known a just
a softer pavement. "Maybe," I started
then finished explaining "If your yard is patchy,"
something the neighbors often hated.
Similar to how I hate the neighbor boy.
He's quite mean.
He pushed me down once, in this very grass.
And as I run my palms over any cow feed
it takes me down, flat on my ass to the day
I feel so hard and nearly broke my coccyx,
A word I just learned yesterday,
when I said I had a tail.
Like those of dog, the ones that wag
a lot more as they approach the grassy park.
Perhaps it's a toy of sorts, one I forgot how to use.
I could take piles and handful and make a cap
to throw as high as I could like the day
I graduated in my lush football field.
Maybe grass means freedom, a comfortable illusion to hold.
But I must stop this daydreaming, my tailbone hurts.
"So I thought about what it is more," I let the child know.
"It was lava at your age,
pavement as I grew,
now it's something familiar
like me to you.
The grass is a home, or a meal
for some the grass is an arena of sorts
but really it's whatever you choose,
whatever you need it to be."

Second ekphrastic: Donovan Acuna

This painting reminds me of a movie or
something sentimental like that.
The strokes are a medley of colors and
technique that breathe soft, warm lines
and curves everywhere on the canvas.
There is depth everywhere, including
what cannot be seen. Like to the left,
maybe there is a huge pasture -- something green.
I get a story, a feel that the couple is
just strolling in the rain or what's left of
the cold transparent drops that land so close
to our exposed hand, while the other
intertwines with one another's.
The puddles aren't quite nasty not quite
yet. They haven't been jumped in by little
rambunctious creatures who make a game
out of whatever they can. These children
are in their homes now, waiting to be
tucked inside their covers where we hope
to be soon after we take in the  sights this
stroll on the night let us take in.
The trees fade into the lights like the
reflecting water does the sidewalk.
The umbrella makes a temporary home
away from home so dry is what you'll be.
The reds of the leaves on trees could make
me go on for days. I could rant and rave
about how those colors fade, from a
bright crimson red to a dull sultry maroon.
I love the gold the lights expose on these
wooden giants, and the barrenness up
top shows the seasons' change approach.
The best thing about this artwork is the
painting in the ground. The reflections
of the setting these two are walking
around in. The lights season the paved,
gray rocks under them with a luminous
yellow that compliments the red of the
trees.

imitation #10: Donovan Acuna

Poem of the Day: Trees

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

Source: Poetry (August 1913).

Joyce Kilmer

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Trees

I know I could never see something so

lovely or lively as a magnificent tree.

A tree whose hunger is always met.

Against the earth’s rich bellowing core.

A tree that Looks at God all day and stays

strong and true. Never burning from the sight

of Him, lifting her leafy arms to pray.

A tree has no transgressions.

A tree is a sign of what God made new.

A sign that what He made is true and if

you lived as a tree you would prosper as

a disciple of the Lord, like the sinless

creature that is a tree. Nature’s home

and man’s too. Except we mend them to us

instead of adapting to them. A tree

a fort, a jungle, an imaginary

place that all children once conceived

as a playground or an obstacle to

make their days go by with ease,

is the beacon of life forged by the

hands of God and sometimes sustained by man.

By men of a humbled stature who knows

a tree isn’t just something physically

bigger than him. But bigger in all ways.

A tree is a totem of growing life,

built from strongly woven roots of timber.

Imitations #9: Donovan Acuna

Yesterday I wanted to

speak of it, that sense above

the others to me

important because all

that I know derives

from what it teaches me.

Today, what is it that

is finally so helpless,

different, despairs of its own

statement, wants to

turn away, endlessly

to turn away.

If the moon did not ...

no, if you did not

I wouldn’t either, but

what would I not

do, what prevention, what

thing so quickly stopped.

That is love yesterday

or tomorrow, not

now. Can I eat

what you give me. I

have not earned it. Must

I think of everything

as earned. Now love also

becomes a reward so

remote from me I have

only made it with my mind.

Here is tedium,

despair, a painful

sense of isolation and

whimsical if pompous

self-regard. But that image

is only of the mind’s

vague structure, vague to me

because it is my own.

Love, what do I think

to say. I cannot say it.

What have you become to ask,

what have I made you into,

companion, good company,

crossed legs with skirt, or

soft body under

the bones of the bed.

Nothing says anything

but that which it wishes

would come true, fears

what else might happen in

some other place, some

other time not this one.

A voice in my place, an

echo of that only in yours.

Let me stumble into

not the confession but

the obsession I begin with

now. For you

also (also)

some time beyond place, or

place beyond time, no

mind left to

say anything at all,

that face gone, now.

Into the company of love

it all returns.

Robert Creeley

__________________________________________________________________

                       For silence

Yesterday I wanted to lie down for

-ever. I never wanted to speak

to you or the others, who are helpless.

I find it important though, to speak to

those who can’t. I mean there is no reply

to whatever I said. Or debate on it.

We speak to others for certainty but

that is something I don’t need.

Nor is it something I want to hear.

There are few things that seem to remain

certain. But I can tell you that all the

things that do, are age old facts about me

and you. Like if you touch fire you’ll

burn up like dead, dry wood. Or you’ll

manage to walk away with a brief feel

of reverence for those fickle flames.

Or, how no matter what you do death is

lurking on you. Teeming with life and love

won’t tarnish its luminescent craving

to make you one with the lush soil beneath

our very feet. “Death waits for no man,” says

those who rely on the cliché. I don’t.

Death waits for whoever wants it.

You don’t die unless you’re willing.

You don’t live unless that’s the case too.

Prevention for either one might be possible,

but not for too long. Only ‘til you’re dead.

Whether that is physically or in

your heart, where it hurts the most.

Where death can come at an instant form the           

hands of those who can speak.

Ekphrastic poem 1 liz snader

The Journey by Elizabeth Snader

As Merlin watched the Lady of the Lake

Slowly raise Excalibur into the air,

He knew what needed to be done.

His journey would be long and dangerous,

And, although he was tired, he carefully took the sword

From her and swore to protect it.

As Merlin began to think of how

He was going to begin his journey,

A majestic white unicorn appeared between

Two oddly twisted trees.

Merlin knew his companion on this journey

Would be that unicorn.

In light of this, he knew he would be safe from most harm—

However, Merlin feared that he would not

Fulfill his journey in time to save the once and future king.

As his heart grew weary in that moment,

His mind grew far too active, only able to think

Of what could happen if he didn’t succeed.

The images rushed into his mind,

Pushing his strength farther down than he needed now.

Merlin then remembered what the dragon had told him-

“When things begin to look hopeless in times of trial,

Look to the sky and all shall be fine.”

Those words resonated within his being,

Giving him the strength to look for that sign in the sky—

That thing telling him that his journey would end in success.

As he began to ready his things for his journey,

He stopped and watched the sun set—

Its gold and red hues flushing over the ground that

Sat more near to the water than one could conceive.

He turned to the unicorn and it joined him

In the start of their journey.

Balsam and Pine by Joey Ng

Balsam and Pine by Joey Ng

A man once exclaimed to the universe:
“Sir I exist!”, his voice traveling through
The thick haze of balsam and pine needles.
Whatever entitlement was lost the
Moment the first sparks were derived from black
Flint and cold steel , an amalgam of true
Desires and scurried indifference,
Feigned in the face of his peers, never to
Truly reach its point of satisfaction.

The smooth smoke caresses each jagged edge,
Slowing them one by one into svelte forms.
Cast into a cloud of viscous laughter
They flow through each pore, relaxing and numb.

As I become one with glass and water
My senses are acute, every feeling
with thousands of tendrils unfurling,
Steeped not in expectation, but youthful
Giddiness and ephemeral musings.

I decant the liquor into my cup,
A pale orange brown with notes of earth and
Rock salt, smooth like calfskin on the palate

And I imbibe, draining my chalice with
Reverence and humility, counting
Each blessing, the flower buds of the tree,
Each with their own distinct consolations.

But left alone with much time on its hands,
The mind will crowd, a dime a dozen thoughts
Pervade past ambitions or lack thereof.
“Can I be blessed through the balsam and pine?”
Pressed for time, I shan’t spoil the secret.

Poem of the Day: A Man Said to the Universe

BY STEPHEN CRANE

A man said to the universe:

“Sir, I exist!"

“However,” replied the universe,

“The fact has not created in me

“A sense of obligation.”

wk1 imitation1 liz snader

Have a Weird One (In the Product) by Elizabeth Snader

In the product

                        Talking of non-fighting

                        With him. A blue moon

                        (look at that!) pours

                        Through clouds. Starting

                        Something new and the shedding

                        Of its pious morals

                        Its inappropriate

                        Impersonal response.

                        The sting. The scream. The

                        Strange full acknowledgement

                        Owning nothing

                        At all important.

                        In the time, remembering you

                        Will provide the spark

                        In three months to buy

                        More camera parts, and spend more money

                        To round out

                        My camera kit

                        Of lenses and filters

                        To get my photos perfect.

                        In the air

                        Running after us.

                          

                       

Have A Good One [In the error]

BY ANSELM BERRIGAN

In the error

                             thinking of non-intervention

                                 with you. A red sun

                                     (don’t look) pokes

                                through. Staging

                             development and the cutting

                        loose of its facile integrity

                             its disproportionate

                                      personal non-response.

                                  The wince. The shrug. The

                                      belated semi-acknowledgment

                                           of owning just

                                                enough to take part.

                                  In the era, thinking of you

                                      will quit my job

                                               in one year to get

                                         more done, work harder

                                                to insert myself into

                                            the fragile extension

                                      of space between us

                                             to get something done.

                                                 In the ear

                                                     thinking after you.