Keep writing….

http://dash30dash.ning.com/profiles/blogs/day-8-napowrimo-with-a-special

Enjoying your poetry. Look forward to more.

Take care.

Keep writing.

http://dash30dash.ning.com/profiles/blogs/day-7-napowrimo-and-im-not

and on my Facebook page.

I hope to start providing daily prompts starting tonight after 9 p.m. to challenge and encourage you to keep writing, and have fun creating….

you can do it !!!!

Chris J.

Muse, you must listen to your own voice,
for those other ladies lean to the call
of fallen men. When you yourself fell
out of the ninegrace fold — by choice –
after waiting too long in the hall
as Beauty’s faery, your spell
reduced the Uninvited’s curse;
now you learn the loneliness of verse
sung to a century of sleepers.
The castle snores under thorny creepers.
Little cause for you, Muse, to rejoice,
save Beauty’s salvation — that is all.

3- SUMMER & SCIENCE

Twilight in Orient, L.I. Lacy land dresses for night
in navy flannel light. Fluorescence in streetlamps
rises with twin tides of Sound and Ocean. Smoothness
of summer sheets and the moment. Today, cobblestone
streets were paved over. It is altogether right
to cover roughness, though the sycamores stamp
their ancient feet. Listen to this land; live boughs moan
and sway at twilight. Hear the cobblestones discourse
beneath on death; they glow like the rough cells that light
cancer lamps in the human body, crying, “Fight!”
like ruthless Greeks within the fateful horse.
Revolution, though, is not altogether ruthless.

2- TRANQUILLITY RECOLLECTED

Walk between the yellow daffodils
and the wheelbarrow, red and rainglazed.
Strait is the gate, narrow is the wall of ills
Paul carted to Damascus. The world’s been crazed
by a monk’s immobilities. Walk beside my wide river
that runs south to the sea. Desert sands
lie in the Near East far away; on your hands
turn cartwheels in this wet western earth. Savor
our narcissus and hyacinth. See our Mahican giant
whose brow faces down in the Hudson. Now pliant
winds the band that once held his eagle’s feather.
His arm, the river. Never at rest, the giant striver.

1- THE DREAM

In the last days of the sun, follow
the faceless man in the fisherman sweater,
walking through the dry river bed
through the red dust of wrongly cursed
western hills. The sun sets in the west always;
he knows where he is walking. Better
not to see the look on his face. Days
will come when the halting voices will grow hollow
as tunnels the wind hones through rock towers,
and when the dusty walk the way he’d led
will become all sound, all sight, all showers
slaking an eternity of thirst — cloudburst!