GAIL ENTREKIN : Figure-Ground Exercise
RICHARD ZOLA : another time she found a dead thing
STEVE CROSS : Generations
POETRYREPAIRS v12.08:091
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Figure-Ground Exercise another time she found a dead thing Generations  
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GAIL ENTREKIN
Figure-Ground Exercise
Some days we dream and weep cancer, talk and write it, carry it with us to the grocery store, propped up in the back seat like a gaunt old man. We put cancer in a high chair and feed it scraps from the table, nominate cancer for president because it is even handed and blind. We find cancer all over our hands when we wake in the morning and we cannot scrub it away; we kiss it goodnight when we turn to each other, put out the light. We see cancer in the center of the drawing, a curving vase, the rest of our lives twin shadows on either side. Better days we cannot remember the word from our dreams and once we get busy, it disappears. There are pink roses outside the front window, geese honking on their way to Puerta Vallarta where they plan to gamble and drink green liqueur, our cold toes poke each other playfully under the covers, grandchildren stagger about on newly vertical legs, and the rain plashes softly around the cradle of our sleep. In the drawing we see two matching silhouettes facing each other with abiding interest, the shape between them nothing but shadow dark air.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.08:091
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I have many things to write unto you but   I will not write with pen and ink
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Figure-Ground Exercise another time she found a dead thing Generations  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

RICHARD ZOLA
another time she found a dead thing
she found a feather made a quill wrote bird wrote BIRD bird bird bird BIRD beak she wrote BEAK beak beak beak BEAK she wanted to understand trees
POETRYREPAIRS 12.08: 091
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





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Figure-Ground Exercise another time she found a dead thing Generations  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? klik here

STEVE CROSS
Generations
My daughter looks at me to see years cloud my eyes like tears. I must be blind to her, unable to see through workweeks and bills piled high into her cruel boys, discarded toys, cutting edge of lies that friends thrust like spears into her side. Broken heart Broken spirit Long days spilling into sleepless nights, but I am not blinded, only dumb out of words.
POETRYREPAIRS 12.08: 091
GAIL ENTREKIN : Figure-Ground Exercise
RICHARD ZOLA : another time she found a dead thing
STEVE CROSS : Generations
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