"I believe in the world as in a daisy, Because I see it."

(title from Pessoa)

"If I Was a Girl..."

Cleavage

You need this face,
       altar of the soul,
a resting place

       Our fragile pole
    immersed unsure in
       ubiquitous space

      haunting parole.

Eve

"But someone pass me
The fragrant cup
Full of the dark light,
So that I may rest now; for sweet
It would be to drowse amid shadows."
----"Remembrance", Holderlin.

Samsara

"The few own the many because they possess the means of livelihood of all ... The country is governed for the richest, for the corporations, the bankers, the land speculators, and for the exploiters of labor. The majority of mankind are working people. So long as their fair demands—the ownership and control of their livelihoods—are set at naught, we can have neither men's rights nor women's rights. The majority of mankind is ground down by industrial oppression in order that the small remnant may live in ease."

—Helen Keller, 1911.

Summer, My Love, and We Must Sigh It

Crown fires
raze temples
to ground,
darling.

Ash blankets
the valley.
Shut tight
twilit eyes.

Ruddy faces
rise from shelters
of burned out
cities.

We must love.
Flames envelope
in waves thick
as blood.

It's summer,
time to sigh
over holocausts,
darling.

Sugar and Stone

An umbrella left
on a dissecting table
  disconcerts.

Rainfall on Paris,
large drops sweet to gypsies
an artist carelessly passes.

He loosens his tie
 under a canopy
  of newsprint.

Daydreams of Velázquez
crying over a broken globe,
and loses himself.

    Rain makes stones 

under that ghastly tower
      precious gems.

He stops and muses to himself,

"A corpse is not so shocking."

QOTD

"But yes, I've not mentioned the Zimmerman trial much because what can be said about a country where a murdered black kid is put on trial for his own murder?"

----BLCKDGRD


http://www.blckdgrd.com/

Sunset

The Sun was covered
 by a purple robe.
Regal night arose,
Queen of day's broken promise,
 spray of stars
her shattered crown.

Arbors

Terpsichore's on tree-tops
swaying gently
in moonlight.

She reins in the rough arc
of nascent limbs,
light as plucked feathers
in a gale.

The forest is drunk
with insentient song.

Ghosts of melodies
haunt your ear,
late traveler.

Unsettled by life's absence,
it's not your hollow breast...
Some youthful egress?
Give it a name.
Still bewilderment
keeps you wakeful
'til pale moon's
panned away
by morn's gold.

Laura Nader, "Culture and Dignity: Dialogues Between the Middle East and...

Daze

A gavel falls

but makes no sound.

Dream spills
down fleece slopes
into wake's gutter.

Hands can't gather gold
buried in clouded eyes.