SILVER (WALTER DE LA MARE)

Another Kind Of Grass

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Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Walter de la Mare

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The Search for Lost Lives – James Tate

Another Kind Of Grass

I was chasing this blue butterfly down
the road when a car came by and clipped me.   
It was nothing serious, but it angered me and
I turned around and cursed the driver who didn’t
even slow down to see if I was hurt.  Then I
returned my attention to the butterfly which   
was nowhere to be seen.  One of the Doubleday   
girls came running up the street with her toy
poodle toward me.  I stopped her and asked,
“Have you seen a blue butterfly around here?”
“It’s down near that birch tree near Grandpa’s,”
she said. “Thanks,” I said, and walked briskly
toward the tree.  It was fluttering from flower
to flower in Mr.  Doubleday’s extensive garden,   
a celestial blueness to soothe the weary heart.   
I didn’t know what I was doing there. I certain-
ly didn’t want to capture it.  It was like
something I had known in…

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A Stream Flowing

Another Kind Of Grass

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Now I saw a stream flowing;
Now neither bank nor bridge was seen.
Now I saw a bush in bloom;
Now neither rose nor thorn was seen.

Lalla

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a language to learn

Leonard Durso

she said
I get lost
in love
and I said
I get found
a difference
in expectations
and definitions
in a language
we both
are trying
to learn

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HIS HEART WAS DARKER THAN THE STARLESS NIGHT – EMILY DICKINSON

Another Kind Of Grass

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His Heart was darker than the starless night
For that there is a morn
But in this black Receptacle
Can be no Bode of Dawn

EMILY DICKINSON

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The Search for Lost Lives – James Tate

I was chasing this blue butterfly down
the road when a car came by and clipped me.   
It was nothing serious, but it angered me and
I turned around and cursed the driver who didn’t
even slow down to see if I was hurt.  Then I
returned my attention to the butterfly which   
was nowhere to be seen.  One of the Doubleday   
girls came running up the street with her toy
poodle toward me.  I stopped her and asked,
“Have you seen a blue butterfly around here?”
“It’s down near that birch tree near Grandpa’s,”
she said. “Thanks,” I said, and walked briskly
toward the tree.  It was fluttering from flower
to flower in Mr.  Doubleday’s extensive garden,   
a celestial blueness to soothe the weary heart.   
I didn’t know what I was doing there. I certain-
ly didn’t want to capture it.  It was like
something I had known in another life, even if
it was only in a dream, I wanted to confirm it.   
I was a blind beggar on the streets of Cordoba
when I first saw it, and now, again it was here.
The Search For Lost LivesJames Tate
Cinemagraph: Butteryplanet

THE LAST BARMAN POET

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I am the world’s last barman poet.
I see America drinking the fabulous cocktails I make.
Americans getting stinking on something I stir or shake.
The Sex on the Beach,
The Schnapps made from peach,
The Velvet Hammer,
The Alabama Slammer.

I make things with juice and froth.
The Pink Squirrel,
The 3-Toed Sloth.

I make drinks so sweat and snazzy.
The Iced Tea,
The Kamikaze,
The Orgasm,
The Death Spasm,
The Singapore Sling,
The Ding-a-ling.

America you’re just devoted to every flavor I got.
But if you want to get loaded,
Why don’t you just order a shot?
Bar is OPEN!!!

 

Gif: Buttery Planet

 

this wind

Leonard Durso

this wind that howls
outside my windows
spraying rain at times
on the terraces the balconies
this wind that moans
beyond my windows
is the only music
I listen to
and for reasons unexplained
comforts me
more than Sibelius
or Ralph Vaughan Williams
could today

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no. 23

(re)imagining the mundane

sunday music

the people downstairs are singing

their piano thrums through my floor

maybe it is a rehearsal for they are far from perfect

still, it is endearing, the hint of harmony

the love that resonates in their vocals

the pianist slowly sheds performance anxiety

for authoritativeness as the holder of the

rhythm, tempo and dynamics

i listen, i imagine myself there with them

from my upstairs chair

i open my mouth and harmonize with

ooohs and aahs even though i know the words

but then, their music peters out:

i wonder did they hear me and take offense

next time i will just listen, an imaginary audience,

and wrap myself in the music of their lazy sunday afternoon.

(written 28 january 2018)

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