brief silent reading by wendy blake

is this thing on?

The mind of a poet hosts an intricate network of coordinating contradictions, linking experience and
projection, image and sensation, vision and revision. A blended human impression of storyteller, singer,
and sculptor; actor, observer, and intuitor, a poet is a spider spinning golden threads among silvery
branches, building beauty in banality and making magic of mundane.

~~~

Metromanie
I am talking about me
     now
& you don't know me yet
      you do
because I'm right here
      saying
that it's all about
standing in the center
turning with a
[big blank something]
beyond our coincidences

~~~

Olympus Watching, Winter
i
No words marry
mountains to clouds
but they kiss
(rub and touch)
beneath fractured illuminate,
too warm for February and
too early for sunset.

ii
Envision playfulness:
A child who tosses sand
to the Sound, tempting
waves to toss it back,
barely hears adulthood warning:
(careful your shoes)

iii
Liminility
Trace lines between
sand and surf,
mountain scrape and sky,
gull-squawk and god-breath.
In the lines dividing air
from water, boat from bridge,
self from surrogate,
we scrape life from being.
iv
Another Intangible Title
The man with the kite
colored as the elusive green
line of sunset flies
gently, ankles unsupporting
weight which frees itself
to the soundless tug
of lifting breeze.

~~~

Live Reading Uncounted
The holes in poems where
laughter slips in,
(or sighs, or slippery
tears filling spaces like
rain in puddles) make
moments for words
to whisper
I am.
I am true.
~~~

november daisies
steadily angel wing white
dance their last
in air breathed icy
remembering northlands
winter brittles stems
tenacious petals soon scatter

~~~

Dear Professor
can I call it a poem
if it's chopped into
short lines
surrounding
itself with blank
empty space which
lends to interpretation
that fills in the blanks with
spectral perception ?
for what is real if not
the unwaveringly beautiful
images which come to our minds
only through our senses ?

~~~

They were children, man
At Woodstock.   19
         15
   grooving and sleeping
     leaping
trippin' in Max's fields
     when they said
          from Stage
             the roads are clear
             y'all can go'wan home

~~~

It's All You
I wrote this book
and you're in it
K  ?
You don't have to
like it or own it
or read it.
Just so you know,
I call it un-
authorized biography

~~~

If light filled my soul in prism splintered
color coded striations of reason
I would embrace the bindings tethering
my days each to each happily alone

back to the front
regarding the narrator
exact retelling
moving through montana

Calvin, hanging out grinning at the top of this page, is, last time I checked, exclusively copyrighted to
Bill Watterson. He doesn't know where his boy's gotten off to now, but I'll do my best to engage his
mind, rather than his mischief. (Thanks, Bill!) Click on Calvin to visit his ucomics page

let me know your mind: rant@taopoet.net