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

 

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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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THE ART OF DROWNING – BILLY COLLINS

I wonder how it all got started, this business
about seeing your life flash before your eyes
while you drown, as if panic, or the act of submergence,
could startle time into such compression, crushing
decades in the vice of your desperate, final seconds.

After falling off a steamship or being swept away
in a rush of floodwaters, wouldn’t you hope
for a more leisurely review, an invisible hand
turning the pages of an album of photographs-
you up on a pony or blowing out candles in a conic hat.

How about a short animated film, a slide presentation?
Your life expressed in an essay, or in one model photograph?
Wouldn’t any form be better than this sudden flash?
Your whole existence going off in your face
in an eyebrow-singeing explosion of biography-
nothing like the three large volumes you envisioned.

Survivors would have us believe in a brilliance
here, some bolt of truth forking across the water,
an ultimate Light before all the lights go out,
dawning on you with all its megalithic tonnage.
But if something does flash before your eyes
as you go under, it will probably be a fish,

a quick blur of curved silver darting away,
having nothing to do with your life or your death.
The tide will take you, or the lake will accept it all
as you sink toward the weedy disarray of the bottom,
leaving behind what you have already forgotten,
the surface, now overrun with the high travel of clouds.

Billy Collins

Image

Rumi

Alice Mason Artist

18449481_1491623440858797_1528995332076621803_oIf anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This…

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THE SLOW MAN (ALLAN AHLBERG)

Pixabay

The phone rings
But never long enough
For the slow man.

By the time
The set’s switched on
His favourite programme’s over.

His tea grows cold
From cup to lip.
His soup evaporates.

He laughs, eventually,
At jokes long since
Gone out of fashion.

Sell by dates
And limited special offers
Defeat him.

He comes home
With yesterday’s paper
And reads it… tomorrow.

 

(The Slow Man by Allan Ahlberg)

The End

the PLETHORA of CHIMERAS

The savour of fruits
still remains
in my mouth,
but the bitterness of words
demolishes the clouds
and wrings the snow
counting the pebbles.
But you never told me
why you deceived me,
why with pain
and injustice did you desire
to say that the end
always in tears
is cast to flames.

~ Dimitris P. Kraniotis

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And After That The Rain by Yehuda Amichai

Leonard Durso

And after all that–the rain.
When we learned to read the book of lingering
And the book of parting,
When our hair learned all the winds
And our sweet free hours
Are trained to run all around
In the ring of time.

After all that–the rain.
A big salty sea
Comes to us, stammering
Sweet and heavy drops.

And after all that–the rain.
See, we too
Pour down
To the one who receives us and doesn’t remember,
the spring earth.

translated by Benjamin & Barbara Harshav

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Our Story….Mia Hollow