Inspired
Volcano
Last Updated (Tuesday, 30 November 1999 00:00) Written by Megan Whitney Monday, 12 April 2010 02:47
Flying above
looking down-- lily ponds bleak in their darkened state
have not yet erupted, blue sparkles elder over Pliny ash as a fallen hero from Italy collapses on victory’s verge. Ernest, in his ways, he does not listen.
Dull-focused in on grey centered entrance to a Vesuvian hell.
Opening ruptures planet’s face, small at first love grew quickly nurtured, watered by her cum dripping off his face—forming pools for fresh water fish to weave in and out, almost extinct and under—
Grow coral reefs,
hot. Magma and ash escape below suffocating in self-offending pressures.
Vulcan rains embers down as Chilean women scream out in fear.
Tectonics awash diverging ridges built up over time. A frog leaps from one pad to the next as drums beat incessantly, ancestrally on the second overhead.
Sliding past each other, wings spread wide so plates cannot sink into ‘isms.
And though boundaries plume in distant planet’s wake—Ernest dives now searching for Venus’ pink love. A love that pulses waves between thighs replacing credits for quitters she closes, inhaling deep.
Force and bulge as Helen does while Michael is nowhere to be found and crowning heads link rocky boundaries for life to be never-lasting.
Tall compost ejected in Ernest, next month’s earnings will be worth this month’s cost, he talks.
Spits sheets spread thin with lines tagged brief. All roads lead to nuclear war and his critique is vulgar, ripening vulvas as they lush.
Erupt from cinders he grows. He glows.
At the University College of North Wales at Bangor
Last Updated (Tuesday, 30 November 1999 00:00) Written by Megan Whitney Monday, 05 April 2010 02:01
At the University College of North Wales at Bangor
by Gerald Locklin
Most of my students here are very poor.
I seldom see them in the pubs: they
Cannot really afford the prices.
As winter hits they have to decide whether
To spend their shillings on the coin-operated heaters
Or on food.
I suspect that heat often wins—you can
Freeze to death quicker than you will starve.
Their incentive is that they will presumably
Have more comfortable lives if they survive
The minimalist conditions of college.
From which to buy books.
We are encouraged to require
Very few books.
A book is a valued art object here.
I never hear a complaint here
And no one misses a tutorial
Without the most profuse and formal
Of apologies.
In California my students and I and everyone else,
Also including the movie stars and politicians and
Pro-athletes,
Seldom stop for breath
In the midst of a constant bitching.
Jennifer Farley-- A Dangerous Woman
Last Updated (Thursday, 07 January 2010 17:02) Written by Megan Whitney Thursday, 07 January 2010 16:56
A great start, to a great day! I love this poem by Jennifer Farley
A Dangerous Woman
I am a dangerous woman…
Infinitely compassionate and wildly loving.
Softly strong and strongly soft in my ways.
Don’t get to close, you may see dreams come true and wishes appear from thin air.
I am a dangerous woman…….
Able to give unconditional love from an endless well within.
Blindingly bright ~ I will continue to shine until the stars fade from the heavens.
For God’s sake, don’t give me your heart, I might show you what it’s for and how to use it.
I am a dangerous woman……
Capable and real.
Genuine and wise.
Whatever you do, don’t tell me your secrets, I will keep them.
I am a dangerous woman…….
Gently staunch in my defense of family, friends and home.
Crazy in love with my life.
Don’t expose me to your children, I may teach them something of value.
I am a dangerous woman………
Reveling in my sensuality.
Enjoying all the pleasures of being female.
Stay away from me if a lover that is both your equal and your joy is what you seek.
I am all that I am meant to be.
If this means danger then……
I AM a dangerous woman.
Wyatt Prunty- Cold Watercolor
Last Updated (Tuesday, 30 November 1999 00:00) Written by Megan Whitney Sunday, 03 January 2010 22:10
In the spirit of the new year, enjoy!
Cold Watercolor
by Wyatt Prunty
We saw the birds jockeying for the feeder.
Inside, the networks fed us New Year's Day.
And then there was the snow, in thick raw blots
Down past a row of windows where it caught,
Turning the sills to ridges, as outside
The streets, houses, and yards thickened
From their named and numbered ways into
A watercolor unreadably white . . .
And all the while the manic snow descending,
Sometimes glazed against a pane but mostly
Falling from itself into itself
Under a low, bruised, and indefinite sky . . .
Until the things I watched to measure change,
A rencent stump, raised flower beds, porch steps —
Had disappeared, with the snow still falling
And the gray January light fading,
Fusing the trees and houses in one shade . . .
Suddenly a shadow now, beyond the glass
That mirrored us with looking out,
Ourselves out there, watches and rings reversed —
As reporters had the years reversed,
We said, looking out, seeing us looking in.
Nights Our House Comes to Life
Last Updated (Tuesday, 12 January 2010 03:19) Written by Megan Whitney Saturday, 12 December 2009 15:57
This is a lovely, haunting poem.
Nights Our House Comes to Lifeby Matthew Brennan
Some nights in midwinter when the creek clogsWith ice and the spines of fir trees stiffenUnder a blank, frozen sky,On these nights our house comes to life.It happens when you're half asleep: A sudden crack, a fractured dream, you boltingUpright – but all you can hear is the clockYour great-grandfather found in 1860 And smuggled here from Dublin for his future bride,A being as unknown to him then as she is nowTo you, a being as distant as the strangersWho built this house, and died in this roomSome cold, still night, like tonight,When all that was heard were the rhythmic clicksOf a pendulum, and something, barely audible,Moving on the dark landing of the attic stairs.
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