we are told space is curved
and that gravity does it
and it gets us unnerved
when they show us a dimple
on a 2D flat page
yet there’re three Ds in space/and our brains reach a stage/thatbringschaos to simple
but let e I n s t e I n conceive it
&in 19nineteen
we a l. . .l came tbleevit
though it seemed dis
intuitive
good
bye newton
hello weirdos
grab a futon
warp away
to pull a story out of the twining woodbine/front-load your title to force storytelling
let’s get started
there must have been seven other solved mysteries involving the last betrayal
there must be an imperiled female for whom dawn is the literal deadline
there must be a protagonist thrust into this because they love the imperiled female
it better have been a good and unexpected betrayal
and due to the culturally short attention spans of late we better wrap it up quick
the protagonist is a woman named joelle
she’s desperate to save deena, twin sister of her lost love ed
she’s deduced no footprints because dropped by helicopter
back-stabbing knife must have been whisked away by a drone
motive to exact revenge part-one-of-two for joelle’s falling for ed
whodunit therefore is–sorry kids
out of time
but it’ll be a better story if you write it youself
Today I saw the surgeon/Who’d sliced into my hands/To help my hand health burgeon/And sculpt as clay demands.
The good doctor says that the healing meets expectations and will likely continue for the rest of the year. After a year, he says, I can’t expect any more improvement. As of now, the only two symptoms of significance are a slight stiffness in my right middle finger and continued tingling of the fingers of my left hand.
I set the wheel to spinning/And formed a mug or two/With confidence a-ginning/And symbiosis true.
The clay body, Ironstone by name, was wonderfully supple and cooperative, and results felt more collaborative than solo-showish.
The serviceable Wareboard/Took on the two with glee/Then Thusséd and then Therefored/”Three fourths of Four is Three.”
The sound of the wheel’s motor augmented with the earcup-like acoustics of the splash tray can sometimes seem like the hum of the Cosmos itself. It is a lovely Alpha Wave maker when the wheel-throwing is smooth sailing.
Alas, the Fourth went sideways/A clay wall bent, then tore./The Clay Gods’ sometimes snide ways/So humble Potter’s core.
Here is when Failure and Success prove they are brother and sister. Big Bro says “Ah well, three out of four beats a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.” But Little Sis whispers, “Let’s take the scrap clay, which is plenty enough for another mug, to the wedging table and reconstitute it better than new. It’s a good exercise, and it’s also good exercise.”
The scrap clay resurrected/Was centered, shaped, and trimmed/And Gloom was redirected/With Wareboard’s glee undimmed.
“Try, Try Again” is ancient wisdom well suited to artisans. Every effort, be it success, failure, or “learning experience” mix, is another rung on the “ladder to the stars” that Bob Dylan sang of in the song “Forever Young.”
Now wrap them, keeping moistness/For handle-adds tomorrow./You’re happy, and your poisedness/Is free from theft and borrow.
The clunky last lines reflect giddiness and satisfaction. Time well spent is truly priceless.
Addiction and Angst go with Zero and Zapped: A to Z
Becoming a high-voltage journey through love’s urgency
Connecting a daughter a lawsuit some roadblocks that vex
Delivering pain then relief from the opposite sex. W
E watch as the narrating damsel’s distressed POV
Fast-forwards to new love and new need; in her you see you
Get tangled as drug use holds daughter as hostage and yet
Hope’s there, always peeking and promising no more regrets
In dealing with grief and pursuit of joy, grieving pursuer
Just skin-of-teeth holds it together, and not PDQ
Knapsacking her grief for a time to get comfort and sleep
Lift, calibrate–back to the fray–fraidy-cats, welcome in–O
May Heaven have mercy and Luminousness ever limn.
***”
Afterword: My superbly talented poet friend Susan Vespoli sent me a copy of her new book Therefore, Illuminated. It is a continuation of One of Them was Mine, which told in voltaic verse of her unhoused, struggling son’s last few hours of life, and his death by handgun by a (now former) police officer who was later judged to be acting “out of policy.” We learn of the trial and grueling machinations that follow Vespoli’s wrongful death suit; of her daughter in the grip of drugs and depression, who paradoxically views being unhoused and drugged-up as “freedom” and has Vespoli walk a tightrope of helping without enabling; of a search through eHarmony for connection, and finding such with a tall, thin man who gives her, and her journey, much-needed relief and joy; and finally the coinciding of the delivery of the wrongful-death settlement check with a solar eclipse, as if the Universe was writing a poem of its own with a punchline of stunning metaphor.
Friends, I hope you will find Ms. Vespoli’s book on Amazon or via Kelsey Books, her publisher. It tells her compelling journey with brilliant verse, with some in the Abecedarian form as I used above with less grace than she wields.
The baggage of a lifetime’s in a truck
Whose dark exhaust makes hellclouds when it stops
And stings the eyes and lungs of rearguards. “****!”
Says driver Ed. “Someone might call the cops.”
“Step on the gas,” says Davis, riding shotgun.
“Let’s take the lead. My asthma might kick in.”
A dancing advertisement in a lot spun
His sign, and yelled “Hey, Smokey!” with a grin.
open when you’re sad”
said the envelope on the floor.
block letters, but her handwriting.
i was not sad but i was killingly curious,
so i went on whitehouse dot gov,
and in seconds i was furious and terrified
and sad too.
i opened the envelope.
wouldn’t you know it,
another envelope was inside.
“open if you want another chance”
this one said.
hmmm.
do i?
within this envelope
were probably more envelopes
but there was also something that wasn’t.
best guess from size, shape and flexibility
was that it was a hotel room card key.
i did want her.
i thought though that the hoops
she would like me to jump through
were a red flag.
just when i decided to do nothing, though,
my doorbell rang.
.
three weeks later
i am not sad
and i need no further chances.
Driving to work/A piano piece by Johannes Sebastian Bach plays/On K-Bach Radio/89.5 on the FM dial/The cultivated- and accented-voiced Charlotte Wilson presiding
I know little more than crap about music/But that doesn’t stop me from thinking about this composition
I do know about prolificty/And I know that to keep the rocket-burner fires burning/The creators must surprise themselves, entertain themselves, delight themselves first
And in this piece Bach seems to lull and then startle his audience/Building his tone structures with logic/Then opening up a trapdoor of slight dissonant strangeness/Then adjusting the off-putting with new structural logic/To put things right again
He keeps making and breaking these patterns/And in the end he breaks the pattern-breaking too/And ends his tinkling journey with a perfect landing
Joe, I tell his vagabond spirit, that was a party and a half. Thanks.
1
loud/cloud
2
wobbling droplet meets/cement, makes a crown, and spreads/out to join her kin
3
rain drain hydroplane/gliding tires and sliding/scare there well aware/guidance gone colliding
4
At the peak of the storm/The flashes were many/A Red Carpet quorum/Of pics three-a-penny.
5
sudden cessation/of most of the fury and/all of the tempest
6
still wet: regret.
Well, Clay can be plastered to make a mold
And walls too for frescoes the paint to hold
We weep when plastered too soon & too old
But it’s liquor, not plaster, involved.
.
We metaphorize in our so-human race
Infusing locution with power and grace
And a grin may get plastered all over a face
When a meter and rhyme puzzle’s solved.
a man from ethiopia dices potatoes/while the lady who calls me papa/minces and mixes red and bell peppers/as a tall mother of teens slices turkey/a man who laughs like a kookaburra makes a boatload of refried beans in a tilt skillet/and three charming african ladies do yogurt parfaits assembly-line style.
i have had a steady gig slicing tomatoes/but am called aside time to time to put rice into five-pound bags/or lop the ends off red onions and then peel and halve them/or break a hundred and fifty eggs into a container/with care taken to not include the least bit of eggshell.
bloody mary mix is in sufficient demand/that we make it thirty gallons at a time./ranchero sauce must go from a hotel pan/to a one-gallon jar/and it’s too thick for a funnel/so be careful or you will make/a godawful goopy mess./but speed is of the essence as well/with this perishable item/so good luck.
the warehouse peeps bring stuff in to the cooler/in big paletted box blocks/they manipulate with motorized palette jacks./get em in get em shelved arrange them to facilitate/first in first out. it’s a fast clumsy dance.
the whole operation is a fast dance, sometimes exhilaratingly graceful. people want to eat well, safely, deliciously. we want to eat too, so we work work work and get paid paid paid. yay.
One with Clay, Image and Text 