Reducto Anagramatico Sunday Afternoon 1915 Wallace Stevens. Poem Excerpt from Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems by Robin Ouzman Hislop
http://www.aquillrelle.com/authorrobin.htm
reducto anagramatico sunday afternoon 1915 wallace stevens
come give balm to the gusty grieving
nights to hush day green the seas
for her dark oranges bloom an
indifferent inhuman evening
of cherished comfort and wings
like wide complacencies
but next moves in mythy gat motions
among any hind’s heaven or paradise
& cries cause the sun’s littering
our afterwards river sky relinquish
the mountains and whistle in her porch
death still the imperishable inescapable
for receding boughs to wear sleeplessly
the sun colours to hang of sky bosom
serafin plum the perfect rivers the hills
the lay sky paths that live impassioned
upon grass phrases in extended cries over
her peignoir and coffee upon blood calm
Robin Ouzman Hislop is on line Editor at Poetry Life & Times at Artvilla.com. His numerous appearances include Cold Mountain Review (Appalachian University, N.Carolina), The Honest Ulsterman, Cratera No 3 and Aquillrelle’s Best. His publications are collected poems All the Babble of the Souk, Cartoon Molecules, Next Arrivals & Moon Selected Audio Textual Poems and translations from Spanish of poems by Guadalupe Grande Key of Mist and Carmen Crespo Tesserae (the award winning XIII Premio César Simón De Poesía). In November 2017 these works were presented in a live performance at The International Writer’s Conference hosted by the University of Leeds, UK. A forthcoming publication of collected poems Off the Menu is expected in 2020.
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Robin Ouzman Hislop is Editor of Poetry Life and Times at Artvilla.com . You may visit Aquillrelle.com/Author Robin Ouzman Hislop about author. See Robin performing his work Performance (University of Leeds)
Summer Peeks into Winter | Poem by David Michael Jackson
Summer Peeks into Winter
What are you doing there, Tree?
Are your leaves gone?
Did they not nourish seedlings
because you were planted
in this soil beside the road
in this tended yard
where nothing grows
without permission?
Do you watch me standing in the cold
beside my door?
Do we both look through your branches
to the grey sky and think of spring and new seeds?
How is it that we are here, Tree?
We are handed down eyes that see and leaves that worship the sun.
Summer visits us, Tree.
In the cold wind she sings to trees
of saplings and babies and bees.
david michael jackson
……image from Abstract Original Art
Welder Poems | Songs | Verse about Welding
Fee diddly dee, a welder’s life for me
A box of rods
A welding screen
A pair of gloves to keep me clean
Fee diddly dee, I’m appy as can be.2nd verse
Fee diddly dee, a welder’s life for me
A spotty hat
A blue cravat
Look at the gap, I’m not welding that!
Fee diddly dee, I’m home at half past three!Another:
Tell me, tell me learned elder,
How may I become a welder?Let me be an honest toiler,
Let me only weld a boiler.My imagination boggles
At the glory of the goggles,Welding mild and welding stainless,
Welding welding, ever painless,Firmly held in jigs and fixtures,
Nobly fluxed with cunning mixtures…….from Welding poems
Welder in Murfeesborohttps://www.murfreesborowelding.com/
Steel Sculpture
Daniel Napier is an U.S. Air Force Veteran of the Gulf war who resides and works with steel in Nashville, Tennessee. We will be presenting the steel and metal art by Daniel as it appears. We seek gallery representation and art contacts for Artvilla artists. To contact Daniel or any artist at Artvilla, contact editors@artvilla.com or contact the artist directly.
First published at Artvilla.
Visit Daniel’s site here
Rich Man Don’t Pay Poem
Rich man and the company don’t pay
but they get to have a say
and the snake oil man
is in the FDA
and the car man
is in the EPA
and there’s a party for you and me
in the national parks
with the D O E
Forget the roads and the bridges too
We’ve got too much work to do.
Planes and tanks they don’t come cheap
Your freedom is there for us to keep
Pay the bill at the hospital
and don’t complain how business is run
You must give your flag your all
and you can keep your gun
…..david michael jackson
Plumbing Poem | Woes and Septic Poems
There I was
under the house again
crawling in water
toward a tiny stream,
a small waterfall
between a crawlspace and a wet hell,
because the commode is a water devil.
Feed me water, it says,
or take a ride to a gas station, friend!
I approach the leak,
crawling in a leak creek,
avoiding the call to the plumber,
between a crawlspace and a wet hell,
dragging my wet tools minus the one I need,
minus the one tool the plumber know that he needs,
or she, should she also be
crawling between a crawlspace and a wet hell
with the tool that
I don’t have.
I approach the leak,
which only drips at me now,
I approach with my vast knowledge gained from
minutes of watching videos, with my
shark bites, my compression fittings,
my torch, my solder, my flux,
minus that tool I missed in the video.
“Blast ye Gods of human plumbing distress I cry!”
as I turn wet and humbled,
as I drag myself
toward that small rectangular hole
at the end of a long dark wet
crawl, hoping nothing is moving ahead of me.
“Who needs a plumber!”
I call as I emerge
flat on my back exhausted in the sunshine,
and hear the words,
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
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First published as Plumber Poem by David Michael Jackson 2019
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Plumber Clarksville https://macplumbing.com/
Paul Klee Poems | Poem to Klee
Once Emerged from the Gray of Night, 1918 by Paul Klee from PaulKlee.net
Poem to Klee by David Michael Jackson
A poem for thee
my dear Mr. Klee
a poem for the music,
a poem for the art,
a poem for the poems,
Klee.
The sunset comes in poems of color
in notes of light
for they are the same
these colors,
these words,
these notes.
They are all the music from the church on Sunday
flowing from an old wooden building
where ladies wear ribbons
and the preacher’s words put old men to sleep as the children shuffle.
We are all in the grass, crawling toward the farmhouse.
We are the women speaking of Michelangelo.
We are the music that makes you slow down to see which garage it came from.
We are the child playing in the dirt,
my poet Klee,
my musician Klee,
my artist Klee,
and me.
by David Michael Jackson…..12/01/2019