| I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue busses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day--
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.
My class sings a Taj Mahal song,
'Brown Girl in the Ring', it's awesome.
This reminds me of their faces as they sing.
Ta dah da dah dah...And she looks like a sugar and a plum, plum, plum
Purely joyful dancing to that tune
in the NOW and in our blink of their moment.
e.e. cummings - but if a living dance upon dead minds | but if a living dance upon dead minds why,it is love;but at the earliest spear of sun perfectly should disappear moon's utmost magic,or stones speak or one name control more incredible splendor than our merely universe, love's also there: and being here imprisoned,tortured here love everywhere exploding maims and blinds (but surely does not forget,perish, sleep cannot be photographed,measured;disdains the trivial labelling of punctual brains... -Who wields a poem huger than the grave? from only Whom shall time no refuge keep though all the weird worlds must be opened? )Love |
Of course the beautiful parenthetical ee genius.
Today I had to explain to a child why I am so damn flawed.
And can't do more than be my me today.
Over questions that could not be asked directly.
Interpreted the what as we drove.
Teens are harder than I understood when I was one.
Speaking with my shirt on backwards, she saw what I tell her,
Consider the source, it was like that all day,
And looking down saw my shoes were really one blue the other brown
Dressing again in the closet AM rush from writing.
not even seeing it until the wearing and fool was done.
Suggested a run for Popcorn chicken and pistachio ice cream.
To elevate into a now we both could navigate.
And found in that moment a friend offered me
) smile
Shel Silverstein - Danny O'Dare | Danny O'Dare, the dancin' bear,
Ran away from the County Fair,
Ran right up to my back stair
And thought he'd do some dancin' there.
He started jumpin' and skippin' and kickin',
He did a dance called the Funky Chicken,
He did the Polka, he did the Twist,
He bent himself into a pretzel like this.
He did the Dog and the Jitterbug,
He did the Jerk and the Bunny Hug.
He did the Waltz and the Boogaloo,
He did the Hokey-Pokey too.
He did the Bop and the Mashed Potata,
He did the Split and the See Ya Later.
And now he's down upon one knee,
Bowin' oh so charmingly,
And winkin' and smilin'--it's easy to see
Danny O'Dare wants to dance with me. | I like poems with back stairs.
Well I can't affect this font and my computer died twice. Just now.
I probably got a virus.
I've been frustrated with what I don't know about this stuff.
I had a friend Danny. Just a friend of my kid days. He was fun to chase and fly from.
But then, tag is fun.
I get to do the Hokey Pokey with Little Richard now,
but I'm not sure I can recall the Mashed Potato.
And It went like this...do you know it?
e.e. cummings - when faces called flowers float out of the ground...
when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)
when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
(now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)
when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
(all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)
I'm not even interpreting this.
I see dancing mountains
And I don't think I've ever pulled that together before.
Gerald Stern - I Remember Galileo | I remember Galileo describing the mind
as a piece of paper blown around by the wind,
and I loved the sight of it sticking to a tree,
or jumping into the backseat of a car,
and for years I watched paper leap through my cities;
but yesterday I saw the mind was a squirrel caught crossing
Route 80 between the wheels of a giant truck,
dancing back and forth like a thin leaf,
or a frightened string, for only two seconds living
on the white concrete before he got away,
his life shortened by all that terror, his head
jerking, his yellow teeth ground down to dust.
It was the speed of the squirrel and his lowness to the ground,
his great purpose and the alertness of his dancing,
that showed me the difference between him and paper.
Paper will do in theory, when there is time
to sit back in a metal chair and study shadows;
but for this life I need a squirrel,
his clawed feet spread, his whole soul quivering,
the loud noise shaking him from head to tail.
O philosophical mind, O mind of paper, I need a squirrel
finishing his wild dash across the highway,
rushing up his green ungoverned hillside.
I'm not sure I care for this at all except the paper floats around. And I'm thinking of the here i am.
Christina Pugh - Rotary | Closer to a bell than a bird,
that clapper ringing
the clear name
of its inventor:
by turns louder
and quieter than a clock,
its numbered face
was more literate,
triplets of alphabet
like grace notes
above each digit.
And when you dialed,
each number was a shallow hole
your finger dragged
to the silver
comma-boundary,
then the sound of the hole
traveling back
to its proper place
on the circle.
You had to wait for its return.
You had to wait.
Even if you were angry
and your finger flew,
you had to await
the round trip
of seven holes
before you could speak.
The rotary was weird for lag,
for the afterthought.
Before the touch-tone,
before the speed-dial,
before the primal grip
of the cellular,
they built glass houses
around telephones:
glass houses in parking lots,
by the roadside,
on sidewalks.
When you stepped in
and closed the door,
transparency hugged you,
and you could almost see
your own lips move,
the dumb-show
of your new secrecy.
Why did no one think
to conserve the peal?
Just try once
to sing it to yourself:
it's gone,
like the sound of breath
if your body left. | This is something looking strange on my computer.....
fonts are very strange tonight.
But to
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