Wingtips

Stormy Wearher

Groping

Groping

An ink stain appeared on the sand,
as if a cuttlefish was spitting fear;
the stain grew swallowed rocks,
wrote pages on the sea, opened
an immense ink pot where seagulls, boats,
deck chairs, umbrellas and the same sun sank.
It then burst and concealed us in blackness.

We grope in the dark, brush our sticky hair
looking in a blind mirror,
"and make a welcome of indifference". *

T. S. Eliot ( From the Waste Land)

My first Photo and Artwork Exhibition

Waiting for the guests to arrive

The entrance to the exhibition

 

The Exhibition room

A bit closer to the panels. There were four with images  front and back, and additional two smaller panels.

A small selection of what the buffet offered

Fragmentation

Because of the seismic waves
we hide now in fragments'humming
vibrations, watch the street lights pulsing
along the night's backbone, wait.
Wait for the crust on faces to crack,
reveal what's rotten behind
our painted eyes, wait
for the new murder-into-days to begin.

Harder than Dying

Harder than Dying

She was there, lying under a veil of sand
sprayed by wind brushes; her mouth dry,
her body, a bony hourglass.
I knelt and dug deep, reached dune roots,
palmed water from a tiny pool, poured
drops to soothe her thirst.

But she refused to drink; I lay down,
close to her -- on her skin, sinking and expanding
in a transparent lake, I saw a reflected oasis
waiting.

The Monobird

I wrote this for NaPo, but I am growing fond of it and will work on it. Also grateful to Vicente Huidrobo whose chant IV I imitated.

Winter-Summer Chant

There is no time to lose
it's the time of the monobird
that joins disjointed distances

birding the bird flies

at the horiland of the scapezon
the robday of inlight
comes close
crosses the ninghtindark in galeness
look as it comes
the robired
the nightinbrown
the robichild
the nightingal
the robiwind
the nightinbreeze
the robirhyme
the nightinfree
The robiwinter mourns his twiddle-oo-twiddle
withdraws his red chest
buries it in the warm nest
far from the orgiastic xmas sylphids
and then comes the nightinsummer
cocking her head
blotting phone lines and twigs
with long melodious notes
sunsets stir and stretch their blushing faces
over treetops burning with fever

Yet we prefer the robingale
his beloved child the robinsquall
her skin of tears the nightinplea
her nectar throat the nightingigolo

the nightinrogalebin

Dear Everybody by Michael Kimball

Michael Kimball, gifted novelist, published his third novel.BR
Congratulations, Michael; proud to call you friend. BR
Below, the interesting and well created book trailer made by Luca Dipierro and Rachel Bradley, of Black RArrow Studio.

Michael Kimball's Blog