I watched a rerun on public tv last night of the 1981 Simon and Garfunkel Concert In Central Park. Mayor Ed Koch introduced them. It brought on a huge wave of nostalgia. They looked so young and still seemingly in awe of their audience, time and place in history.

~

racing to the moon
wildflowers along the way

~

as time speeds up
a gentle nod to
Mr. Einstein

~

time = distance
on the way to a star
and on line for a pizza

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The Poetry of Laundromats

Bookmarks

 

My longterm memory is non-existent. Therefore I need other people’s memories, photos and collectibles from happy or special times and places to jog this brain of mine. Bookmarks are one of my favorite of those aforementioned collectables, and I love to pair the book I’m reading (usually three to five at any given time) with a kindred bookmark. Poetry press bookmarks with poetry journals, old bookstore bookmarks with historical novels, recipe books with large glossy easy-to-wipe-off editions etc.

As I was perusing my stock of bookmarks at year’s end during a typical Mercury retrograde look-back-nostalgia, I happened upon some oddball but dear favorites that I will put into my “eclectic bookmark” category:

A wine-hued Caffe-Tasse – Cafe Noir wrapper from a small bar of chocolate picked up in Bruges Belgium in 1997.

A Cirque de Soleil ticket from the performance Varekai on a Saturday night in Boston, September 4, 2004.

A hand-painted purple Volkswagon bug cutout.

DO IT! Let’s Get Off Our Buts – A Guide to Living Your Dreams by John Roger and Peter McWilliams.

Raw NerVZ HAIKU – a haiku, tanka and short poetry journal out of Quebec, Canada that was self-described as “bristling, racy, vital, sizzling, zany, and essential” among other things. I miss this journal – it was always in the vanguard of short poetry.

AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST:

“Self Serve – the sex shop you’ll respect in the morning” out of Albuquerque, New Mexico (I kid you not) – an impressive and progressive out-of-the-box shop.

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late night at the laundromat stories still unfolding 

ag ~ January 2017

Leftover Love

A PURPLE CHILL

I thought of you today
as I walked the woods
a purple chill in the air
and the breath of a breeze
caught in the rustle
of leftover leaves on
beech oak and pine.

I thought of you today
in drifts of moss, lichen
and fern sentences rolling
gently onto the banks of
an icy brook and steep
hillsides of a memory
not that long ago.

I thought of you today
as I sipped an elderberry
brew how I would have
offered you a glass with
an invitation to savour and
meet me in a whimsical
ode to a painted lady.

I thought of you today
in old poems where once
there was gray-green fog
Blue Jo and a turn
to hear cricket cry in the night
much like a lover
stealing away.

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Real Pseudo-Holidays

It’s the last day of February and the last day of National Haiku Writing Month. This year, it also happens to be a leap year and therefore February’s extra day. In folk stories – it’s Sadie Hawkins Day, a pseudo-holiday based on an old hillbilly comic strip that evolved into the real world practice of Sadie Hawkins dances where the girl gets to ask the guy to dance – early role reversal.

I also use it as Procrastination Day – an extra day put to good use the practice of avoiding a task that needs to get done sooner rather than later. In that vein,  I am putting off working on paying bills in order to write this post – my last for NaHaiWri Mo ~ 2016.

Grateful thanks to all who “liked” my posts and shared your thoughts. And to all readers, writers and lovers of haiku and poetic spell. You are in my heart always.

~

February thaw
the last patch of snow remains
north of my daydreams               (5-7-5 haiku)

Flora and fauna on a Sunday stroll

 

A Blue Door

Ode to Diane’s Barn

 

I saw a blue door today.
It was painted shut on a
purple barn with touches of
pink and green on the roof.
Despite a graying azure sky,
this barn settles into comfort.
The surrounding meadow is
cheddar with a reflection of
sapphire and a hint of almond
floating around its foundation.
It stands thoughtfully alone.

The weathered barn looks so serene
in washes of toasty sun and quiet
shade with a committee of trees
tinting the background. I would like
to step inside its blue door to inhale
the sweet hay and linger in the leftover
heat at day’s end. That of a farm life
breathing in the slow decay of rusty
tools, rafters of swearing, laughter,
tears and prayer in the purple barn
with a pink and green roof.