“=❤️4ALL”—a “photo-prose-poem” by Sanguine Woods

One voice, speaking out in the darkness can be a small, yet potent source of light and healing. No fear. One at a time. That is my wish for us. Beaucoup d’amour pour tout le monde…pour tout les temps.

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Gathering the gold drops…

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The blogger, out wandering.

Nice nature walk today. And yesterday was snow all day long. Now this golden day. Colorado is like this in April. Listened to The Eagles. Witchy Woman. One of These Nights. Heartache Tonight. Already Gone. Thought about how earbuds have revolutionized heartbreak. Or something like that. Kicked a lot of roadside wishes goodbye. Loved sidewalks. Hated sidewalks. Made peace with some things. Like wildflowers. The memory of John Denver. And young me. Absorbed the ☀️ ‘s energy on my shoulders and was happy. Thought about living on a beach and getting old in Key West. Margaritas make great lovers … and sunsets. Thought about doing the same in the woods somewhere. But winter wind blows cold. And it’s hard to lose anything in the early part of Autumn. Loved my dad some. Lifted thanks to the sky. Thought about how much we want to be known by others. How very little any of us is known by others. Thought about whether that should feel lonely. Thought about that path, the road to that journey, fraught with unknowns. Nobody likes unknowns. Thought about distance from the drama in my life. Wondered how much of it I cause. Thought: life is a gift but not one we asked for and gifts we don’t ask for aren’t always gifts we want, expect, come equipped to manage well. And so it goes. Thought: If the sun could crystallize and fall from the blue stratosphere today like gold diamonds would I be able to gather up enough of them in my pockets to make the day worthwhile.

Scraped change for a refreshing citrusy drink.

Maybe, I’ll read that 1971 history of the Celts. Maybe start Malerman’s horror novel, Bird Box.

And there’s this collection of stories by Jeffrey Ford.

Books are gold drops.

I think I’ll make someone happy today.🦎

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Drawing Down—A Poem by Sanguine Woods, 2018

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Photo: aukjevanderwal.nl

Drawing Down

Bequeath me sight not as it seems—
A sphere of light to capture screams;
Come, toll the word of moons and beams—
Exhume the heft of youthful dreams.

Purvey the slice that leaves no scar—
A sliver of bewitchèd glass;
A drop to stir; enflame the pall—
Un bâton rouge pour faire l’étoile.

Encerclez! thou thornèd crown—
Each pented point a waning sun;
Le sang va embrasser le sol—
And bring the circle ‘round.

(C)2018 Sanguine Woods

Insomniac—a Poem by Sanguine Woods, 2018

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O, the blood-encrusted thoughts!
whirring like blades, wheeling
and whining through
the ambushed mind—unhinged,
unheeded—how
does one pray to be emptied?

Sly half-truths; those
brazen whole-truths, eyes
like coals
low to the burning.
“‘Tis the hooded chill cloaks the fever!”
Old Wives’—
you know—
smoldering blue at the gums

tooth and blade
chew, then whirrr,
whirrr,
then chew—
through the indigo watches
of the night.

(C)2018 Sanguine Woods

(Image credit unknown. Source: Pinterest)

“Little Morning Prose Poem” by Mick Albright

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The chill air is coming in through the window this morning fresh from its frolick down the mountain; it’s damp and crisp and carrying the scent of pine on its back, fall grass, and blue spruce. The muted chirping of small birds tells me they are farther away than they seem. I can hear the sound of tires on the Interstate, miles away; it’s a warm thrumming. There’s another sound out there; a tight barking: I’d say prairie dog, but it’s bigger. A raven, too, is playing on the windstream, whorls of wisdom for the Wanderer. I feel…not “other-than”; but, rather, “part-of”, “one-with”; laying here with Nature’s “good morning” rustling the hairs on my chest, knowing the best part of it all is the recognition of belonging.

Smoke Glass Stained Bright Colors, A Stream-of-Conciousness Poem by Mick Albright

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Smoke Glass Stained Bright Colors

Mick A. Quinn, 2017


I wanna touch the earth. I wanna take it in my hands. I wanna grow something wild and unruly. I wanna sleep on the hard ground, in the comfort of your arms, on a pillow of blue bonnets, under a blanket made of stars…It’s thundering. I’m a tad psychotic. The A/C is off. I hate this coffee. Nothing tastes good. My bird finger is blue. I think I lost five pounds. Having a hairy chest makes a cool day feel like Hell’s armpit. I started cataloging the books in my library. I have a lot of books. I miss my daughter. I miss my grandson. The house is haunted by a nasty ghost. I put licorice on my thumb. I need more friends closer to my age. I prayed for the world today. The haze from the wildfires has been slowly dissipating. When I think about Virginia Woolf I get depressed. I think too much about anodynes, and salves, and balms in Gilead. And Anne Sexton haunts me with her shock of black hair. I wanna sleep on the hard ground, in the comfort of your arms, on a pillow of blue bonnets, under a blanket made of stars, oh, it sounds good to me. Bipolar people can’t be alone. Yellow like fresh butter. It’s the only color I want, like the offstripe of a bumblebee, a little old lady’s tea room, or a Daisy button. The color of red wine is good, too. Burgundy or maroon, deeper than a bruise, but lighter than dead blood. I can’t relate to other humans. Bipolar people have to be alone. I got my love, and I took it down. Climbed a mountain and I turned around. And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills, then the landslide brought me down. Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? Can the child within my heart rise above? Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life? Mmm, mmm, mmm. My new sheets are dove grey, like absolution; or city puddle water—they are a thousand thread count; they kept touching me at Dawn and wouldn’t let me get out of bed. The dawn sun was a fuzzy peach. Sail into tomorrow, living day to day, that’s all I can afford to do, and all I’ll ever pay…is a song to sing to thank you, for making me alive, and a prayer to bring you comfort, Lord, help us to survive. I feel closed in. What I don’t want I have. What I want I can’t find. I think I’ve been abducted by aliens. I miss my old wood-burning fireplace. I want to fuck that big hairy hunter in that Pam Houston story, right there astride his pleasure on that bear rug, burnt red in the firelight where we’d never run out of wood. I want a pair of Stevie Nicks’ velvet high-heeled boots. And her black, ribboned tambourine. Well, I’ve been afraid of changing, cause I built my life around you. But time makes you bolder, children get older. And I’m getting older too. I want electric. Like Walt Whitman electric. Wise and far-reaching, pale pink, eggshell, moody blues. I want a kiss from time. A long kiss, tongue included. Drink me and know me, I’ll say to time. And time will chuckle and float away like a gold cloud, blurred and dusty. I’ve looked at clouds from both sides, now, from up and down, and still, somehow, it’s cloud illusions I recall. I really don’t know clouds at all. I want love to take on flesh, like the Christ claims He did; put on flesh, and come and find me, deep in the evergreens; tethered to a mountain; nothing but stones to eat and river water to drink. Come and find me and let me eat of thy flesh, and drink of thy blood, love. Don’t be dark. Don’t be edgèd. Don’t be silent. Don’t swaddle me in expectation. But enter me, the same. When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know. No walls. Put me in a room with four sides of stacked books…they may not be as sturdy, but they are easier to stare down, blankly, and, if they come tumbling down and crush my five-foot-7-inch frame—well, at least I’ll die being smothered by something I love. Little boys are always trying to be grown men. I believe it was Cormac McCarthy who said that, three—no, four—times. Be good, little cowboy. God may not be listening anymore. All your teachers have blown away, like dust in the wind. The evening light still dies with the sun. But, Oz never did give nothing to the Tinman, that he didn’t, didn’t already have. And cause never was the reason for the evening. Or the tropic of Sir Galahad. So, please…It’s raining now, cold drops on my back and my bare butt, my pale feet; it’s wetting the hair on my arms and my chest—sweet, Rocky Mountain rain… Who needs salvation…when you can kiss the tip of every mountain? So, please…believe in me, when I…say I’m spinning round, round, round, round, smoke glass stained bright colors ooo image going down, down, down, down, soapsud green like bubbles oooo…

(C)2017 by Mick A. Quinn. All Rights Reserved.

[Acknowledgements: “Cowboy Take Me Away” by the Dixie Chicks; “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac; “Landslide” by Stevie Nicks; “Sail Into Tomorrow” by Olivia Newton-John; “Both Sides Now” by Joni Mitchell, “Tinman” by America.]

 

Rain-washed, a Poem by Mick Albright, 2017

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Rain-washed

Today, wool-grey
Rain leans into its
Falling; every struck
Surface sings, a
Needle-song of plinks
and plings. And
Hollow things pull
Apart—red and naked
Like a heart.

Accept this rain-washed
Art. Every stroke
Untethers hope and
Flings it, flying,
Toward the Sun.

There is nothing that
Remains undone.

Heaviness falls, the
Rain cries,
Like Sin, wheeling.

Summer, now, a
Withered petal-
Dream of crisper air.
Heft and harrow disappear.
Little mirror-drops,
Languish like stars on the
Roof of my car. And
Light’s promise is
Crawling, like a
Thief at night,
Quietly away.

Mick A. Quinn
Lone Tree, Colorado
August 24, 2017

(C)2017 by Mick A. Quinn. All Rights Reserved.