Sat, 2 May 2009  This is a vilanelle.Comments[0] |
Wed, 18 February 2009  Still playing with the language of this poem . . . Yearning 4 U my yearning for you is a wild sea churning, is epidote crystals tapping sacred knowing, is a wild horse galloping across ranchland under a flaming sky
I’m not in love it is infatuation aspiration exhilaration anticipation of your igniting match
Comments[1] |
Sat, 14 February 2009  Are there times to cultivate indifference? Comments[0] |
Mon, 26 January 2009  For Shy Women in Solitude Those of us who live in cages pause to open cupboards itemize and arrange boxes and cans of prepared foods we eat when we are not hungry and we wash our plates unsated
our voices are tinny and crackle we know the days of turning pages the drowning waters of our tears nights when we hunch under a mound of blankets touching our own skin we imagine another's hand our nipples erect, expectant beneath a stomp and shout moon
curl our arms around our own backs until it feels almost as if we are not alone but then our breasts shrivel in waiting and we get up to the assault of silence, pace, stopping only to look in the cupboards, to wind the ticking clock Comments[0] |
Sun, 25 January 2009  A new experiment . . . the poem with music laid behind it and a visual. See how it goes.....-------------- Comments[0] |
Sat, 20 December 2008  (The pic above is actually my parking lot with a gorgeous sunset. This poem is a Sestina. This is one of a triptych--three sestinas in this case that go together....) BALANCE It's easier to escape into a dead past than to walk the voluminous fence that separates his life from yours, to keep a precarious balance while you long for the solid feel of arms around you, a caress in the night. The most longing times are at night, but when you recall the past, it's a means of disarming a present -- that looks like a fencing match, a means of getting your balance. The past may be dead. But it's yours. And you can remember all of your hol-i-days: a canoe trip down a river at night . . . . . . learning to stand on one foot . . . balancing your checkbook . . . looking beautiful . . . and walking past a string of men sitting on a fence showing you their flexed arms. . . . The first time he took you in his arms, when maybe he loved you some time before the construction of fences . . . some time before you got lost at night . . . some time when you had no past together . . . when all seemed in balance. But the scales unbalanced. Words turned into arms -- firing up the aching past you'd divorced when you left your father's house . . . wounds reopened in the night -- until you had to build a fence to protect yourself, a fence built high and straight, loigs balanced. And here you are: alone in the night with only your own arms to surround you. Not much to look at in the dying past. Yet armed with the past You pull back from the fence Balanced for a moment at midnight (c)2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sat, 29 November 2008 
my mind spins unable to empty itself of you
i was born without skin you say standing in the doorwary contemplating the rain remembering yourself an altar boy among candles gregorian chants & the strange sad music of the homeland you left at 19 long before you met me on a bridge between the Sahel and the suburbs beneath a sky of crossed stars you pierced me with a kiss like a spear carried me to a cliff at the edge of the canyon and then you flew -- a naked peregrine against a sky clouded by smoke from a bridge on fire below leaving my skin burnt to ashes Ii hold in my naked hands and my mind spins unable to empty itself of you
(c) 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Thu, 27 November 2008  a man who liesa dishonest man is not a fun man he'll break your heart at every turn a dishonest man is not a fun man he'll leave you to cry and burn don't ever love a man untrue don't love a man who lies to you he'll break your heart at every turn while in the dark you cry and burn a man who lies is not your friend his love is fickle, prone to bend if he bends the truth at his whim face his lies: stay away from him save your heart for a man of gold whose word is good, whose word is true he's the man you can love 'til you're old the kind of man who won't betray you don't ever love a man untrue don't love a man who lies to you he'll break your heart at every turn leaving you to cry and burn (c)2008 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sun, 26 October 2008  What You NeedTired of being alone, you open your doors and invite people to press their feet into your carpets, drink wine, and talk about politics, movie stars, and the meaning of life. Alone again, you muse about how women and men long for extended seasons of love and how all you know of the world is asses braying -- a lion's roar -- garlands celebrating your house --that if your philosophy is skepticism, no one can dispute the words you spread out on the sand under the sun, that if you fill cups with water and feed hungry children, who will deny you your ambition? --that favors turn up in unexpected places. . . You meet a man in the road carrying luggage with foreign stickers, and ask him how things explode, to explain spontaneous combustion, to carry your grocery bags to speak plainly of plans, to sit down on your sofa to write a letter that talks about how hard it is to see the obstacles that lie in the desert ahead. And then you stand near the desert not knowing if the sun rises or sets, knowing only the time to cover your face from the drying winds. It's sleep . . . or . . .love . . . . or . . . God . . .you need. #### (c) 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sun, 26 October 2008  Generation 1999It's in the headlines in the tabloids on the lips of people knocking on my door almost before the sun comes up "the end is almost here" As children we were taught to fold ourselves under our desks at school fallout shelter salesmen knocked on our doors and we knew we were the first generation that could be annhilated in less time than it takes for a soulful kiss and when we got older our parents said: "What's wrong with this generation? they live like there's no tomorrow." Most of us are seeing middle age in the mirror in the morning . . . and our children are standing in supermarket lines where blaring headlines announce the end of the world . . . . . .watching people stream toward sem-hostile borders bombs and mines flare and boom behind them some kids garb a school in explosives Do you know the world is coming to an end? . . . But my tulips are up again leaves unfurl on brown branches young rabbits dart across my lawn Everywhere is the music of birds who have made the long journey again. Water falls from the sky and changes the color of the grass We interpret symbols and imagine we're equipped to portend the future. The wheel of fortune turns Who stands to gain from saying "THE END!" Who stands to lose? ************************ (c) 2008 Binnings Comments[0] |
Solotramp's Podcast
Poetry Propaganda -- How audacious! by Eleanor A Binnings
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