Sun, 15 November 2009  Rick Davis is playing harmonica on this. I'd love to have a solo.Moonbeams & Thin Air The way you love me is unfair Your good intentions all turn to lies all moonbeams and thin air I no longer know what I may share without clean water, the orchid dies the way you love me is unfair between us at first was something rare but history tells me it's no surprise it's all moonbeams and thin air. for you i laid my raw skin bare too often i've exposed myself unwise the way you love me is unfair some things in life are meant to wear long....but .... still time grows wings and flies it's all moonbeams and thin air i recall the touch of your hands in my hair but now i'm unreflected in your eyes the way you love me is unfair it's all moonbeams and thin air i love you more than you care....... (c)2008 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Wed, 30 September 2009  BEATOn my block six girls are pregnant, their bellies almost bigger than they are so they can't see the ground when they walk The way they walk is as if the wind is blowing them back four girls have babies you can hear squalling day and night and the girl-moms too yelling, "Shut up! I can't stand it!" Slap slap but the squalling goes on. Over at the clinic some people march with signs stepping on cracks with their big flat shoes their shadows growing long over the plants with wilted leaves. And up on the hill the boys dress hot, practicing moves while their music fills the street with a scorching beat. Uptown cars roll with their windows up and tinted dark and no one comes out to play. (c)2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sat, 26 September 2009  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] |
Sat, 26 September 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] |
Thu, 17 September 2009  Rebel nun of the 17th century.Sister Juana Ines de la Cruz lived in the certainty that "all things come from God, who is the center and at the same time the circumference from which all the lines of creation issue and where they stop." Such was the life of this religious woman of 17th-century New Spain, who not only left her mark on Spanish-American literature but whose cry of revolt over their inferior position of women is timely even today. Beatriz Berger. World Press Review. Oct 1994. From http://www.lasmujeres.com/sorjuana/rebelnun.shtml Here is your introduction to Sor Juana. And here: http://www.latin-american.cam.ac.uk/culture/SorJuana/SorJuana2.htm A Su Retrato Este, que ves, engano colorido, que del arte ostentando los primores, con falsos silogismos de colores es cauteloso engano del sentido; este, en quien la lisonja ha pretendido excusar de los anos los horrores, y venciendo del tiempo los rigores triunfar de la vejez y del olvido, es un vano artificio del cuidado es una flor al viento delicada, es un resguardo inutil para el hado: es una necia diligencia errada, es un afan caduco y, bien mirado, es cadaver, es polvo, es sombra, es nada. My translation: To Her Portrait the artifice of colors that here you see testify to cunning and crafty grace But if its false logic and gloss faded away, we'd begin to see how illusory is the likeness, how human vanity deceives us all into thinking years erase the horrors those years have etched into our faces But to battle with time is insanity, is a futile gesture you cannot hope to win, is an absence of caution, is wit put aside is a delicate flower caught in the wind is a weak defense against what Fate's contrived is a conquest doomed, and you know in your mind it's a corpose, dust, shadow, a reed's insides (c) 2004 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Direct download: To_Her_Portrait_-_Sor_Juana_translation.mp3 Category: podcasts -- posted at: 10:40 PM Comments[1] |
Sat, 2 May 2009  This is a vilanelle.Comments[0] |
Sat, 14 February 2009  Are there times to cultivate indifference? |
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] |
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] |
Wed, 24 September 2008 
In
the still dead of night, a fear takes hold, a
suggestion of giving too much, then being left alone. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. How
many times have you yearned to be bold but
afraid the cord will break and drop you with a moan. In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. You
travel to the days when they tried to mold you,
dissatisfied with your natural skin and bond. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. You
relieve the threat of getting ironed into the fold of
a cloth without txture, music, or tone. ]In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. Night
after night, the stories are told about
houses burning that you don’t own. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. You
lose sight of the rainbow as the days unfold counting
the minutes you have yet on loan. In
the dead still of night, a fear takes hold. Time
breaks your heart, and you grow cold. Comments[0] |
Sat, 2 August 2008  DRAMAI don't care to dwell in the past that murky place of half-baked memories my story begins here now on this Saturday afternoon in a strange city Oh sure, there was this and that... that this event the epic cast in others' stories villain friend confidante lover, fallen idol when cast in another's drama and understand the role I am supposed to play I potest "I am not like that!" But he tries to convince me I am He needs someone to play that role and I care and I am free watching the rain beat against the window my drama begins as a silent monologue it is a Saturday afternoon in a strange city . . . (c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Wed, 4 June 2008  FIRST ELEGY Excerpt from the Duino Elegies by Rainer Maria Rilke - TranslationMy translation has attempted to somewhat simplify to make more accessible to Americans. I hope I have not lost the profundity of Rilke. First Elegy (Excerpt) Who, if I cried out, would listen among the classes of holy angels? and should one clasp me to its breast, its profound essence would dissolve me. For beauty is nothing but the first sight of a terror that we can hardly stand except that it quietly refrains from destroying us. Every angel is too awesome. And so I swallow my luring call and weep in the dark. Who can help us us? Not angels, not men—and animals know that we’re homeless in this world we’ve constructed. Maybe along a hillside a tree stands that we can see each day, and there are always yesterday’s streets and the fidel habit moved in like a tenant who now secure shall not move on. Oh, and there’s night—night when a cosmic wind erodes our faces—gentle, yearned for, but how it forces us to confront the solitary beat of life. Is it easier for lovers? No, they only conceal the lottery from each other. Don’t you understand yet? Throw the emptiness from your arms into the clearing where we breathe— maybe the bird in the widened air will fly viscerally. -Translation - Eleanor A. Binnings (c)2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ================= Die erste Elegie Wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen? und gesetzt selbst, es nähme einer mich plötzlich ans Herz: ich verginge von seinem stärkeren Dasein. Denn das Schöne ist nichts als des Schrecklichen Anfang, den wir noch grade ertragen, und wir bewundern es so, weil es gelassen verschmäht, uns zu zerstören. Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich. Und so verhalt ich mich denn und verschlucke den Lockruf dunkelen Schluchzens. Ach, wen vermögen wir denn zu brauchen? Engel nicht, Menschen nicht, und die findigen Tiere merken es schon, daß wir nicht sehr verläßlich zu Haus sind in der gedeuteten Welt. Es bleibt uns vielleicht irgend ein Baum an dem Abhang, daß wir ihn täglich wiedersähen; es bleibt uns die Straße von gestern und das verzogene Treusein einer Gewohnheit, der es bei uns gefiel, und so blieb sie und ging nicht. O und die Nacht, die Nacht, wenn der Wind voller Weltraum uns am Angesicht zehrt –, wem bliebe sie nicht, die ersehnte, sanft enttäuschende, welche dem einzelnen Herzen mühsam bevorsteht. Ist sie den Liebenden leichter? Ach, sie verdecken sich nur mit einander ihr Los. Weißt du's noch nicht? Wirf aus den Armen die Leere zu den Räumen hinzu, die wir atmen; vielleicht daß die Vögel die erweiterte Luft fühlen mit innigerm Flug. Direct download: First_Elegy_Translated_Rilke_-_Binnings.mp3 Category: podcasts -- posted at: 1:01 PM Comments[0] |
Sat, 8 March 2008  An acquaintance with privilegeThe walls are so high Opportunity is perennial yet underground like a sigh Acquaintance with privilege Who truly are you? Behind those walls, what do you do? Or think about when moments are spare Or minister to with strong feelings of care? Acquaintance with privilege What matters to you? What are your priorities? In your life, what's new? (c) 2008 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Thu, 7 February 2008  Travis Lemle is the artist. Once long ago we created the Solotramp website together, Travis' art, my poetry. The title of this art is "Alone." Then we didn't go into the site for a period of time, and it vanished. Comments[0] |
Mon, 4 February 2008  Shadowsthough i hear your words there is no action so why should those words mean anything to me? you've held your secrets you've hid in the shadows you claim that's your right and yes, yes it is you can stay in the shadows i'll not look for you there nor will i care what you say stay in the shadows it's your right but those shadows will hide the jewels Comments[0] |
Thu, 3 January 2008  ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Two years ago today is when I flew to Phoenix to meet the surgeon for the brain bypass. These two years have truly been an incredible experience. I am alive. Thank you, everyone!!! xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxooxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo ==================================================== My first for 2008 . . . a poem I had sought . . . and here it is. Cycles of life . . . I Wait We're slipping along the paths that lead away from each other-- no longer lovers and barely friends. The echo of your words of love throb in empty canyons ever more distant while day to day jargon swallows memories of when we once touched. Even now a bond reaches from me to you, each day unraveling and growing more tenuous. We don't talk except in empty phrases that neither move the earth nor us. I neither leave nor stay . . . I wait. (c)2008 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Thu, 22 November 2007  I originally wrote "Bodies" after a conversation with a bulemic. It was among the first I recorded after my surgery (quite body conscious then!) and experimented again with the sound. I decided to re-do it, so here it is, a bit different. Another change I still want to make in it . . . next time. . .Bodies This body slid into the world with perfect limbs lungs . . . and innocence for years it did all the things bodies should do moving breathing crying cringing from bumps falls burns bleeding touching he sweet the bitter he sour salt sleeping under blankets and beneath stars seeing objects and plants and animals hearing music and voices and clicks and creaks Maybe we don't enjoy the way our bodies hurt or give warning or the rough hands that press into our ribs the bite and itch and burrow of feeding insects the way cold can be too cold or hot too hot and how viruses make us ill when do we learn we're not to love these bodies? their colors their shapes the sounds they make? the marks and scars that hint at our most dramatic stories? we conceal our bodies some of us even keep out the lights so our lovers will not judge our bodies as harshly as we do ourselves those who remove their clothes have the bodies we're supposed to have implanted liposuctioned rhinoplastied bo-flexed waxed like fruit in a display ad how do we come to be conscious of bodies and then despise our own? these bodies that entered the world to do the things that bodies do . . . these bodies that cook everything we can ever taste of life (c) 2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sat, 17 November 2007  ODE TO A GLEN Come now into the shady glen with the ferns underfoot a brook enters from a mysterious opening in the dark soil and tumbles rock to smooth stone the leaves shift to allow dappling of light over the old log we sit upon in this quiet place where so much happens without words take in the scent of humus and yesterday's rain fingertip to fingertip we breathe in a moment that cannot be revoked (c)2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sun, 16 September 2007  You inspire me to remember walls of stone, dead-end streets, the razed hill where the bulldozer sits idle. Back at the house a man is tuning the piano while you and I walk over clumps of dirt beside a cold lake. I keep an arm's length between us, knowing how thin my skin's become. Tell me . . . what's the use of it? One more step toward an abyss where there are no words, just a sucking gravity and darker dark-- and heat that sears old wounds. That's the composition of emptiness . . . I stand here with you and see twisted, broken forms littering the ground we walk upon, and I can calculate the distance between us by measuring the span between me and the ragged moon. What's the use of it? I take my own hand to lead myself home. Bridges burn behind me on the lake. I can feel the flames; no need to hurry now. Nowhere to go. You inspire me . . . so. (c) 2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Fri, 10 August 2007  A new musical background for this villanelle .Touch I want to know the meaning of touch if i touch you, you don't say so.... why do you hold back so much of what you feel where there is such possbility for where we might go? Why do you hold back so much when our hands and thoughts match as do our songs and their echo I want to know the meaning of touch, want to slide off your shirt and caution and look at you beside the window why do you hold back so much? Tonight I am tired of the watch, wary and distant, lying low-- want to know the meaning of touch... Let me caress your wounds -- wound me if you must burn me to ashes; melt me like glass-- oh I want to know the meaning of touch Why must you hold back so much? (c)2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[1] |
Wed, 18 July 2007  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 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) 1997 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sun, 3 June 2007
La Gitana will take you where you've never gone beforeLa gitana who dances between moon and star has the power to touch you at your core Revealing the nuances between venus and mars she'll take you where you've never gone before guiding you through an enchanted door her ability to lead you past walls and bars has the power to touch you at your core she'll take you where you've never gone before to worlds described only in ancient lore she causes you to yearn and to dream more dreams t han floated on the evening air Her breath lifts you to the heavens to soar to dance with her among gasping stars Her voice on the strings of a sweet guitar have the power to touch you at your core the power to touch you -- caressing and stimulating every pore. she'll take you where you've never gone before la gitana who dances between moon and star has the power to touch you at your core (c) 1999 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Fri, 25 May 2007 
MY NAME IS LIGHTThose empty plates that lie beside the spoons are white and barren as November's moons; the candle on the table brings no scent, but time is never given--only lent. Strike up the match and touch it to dry bones; a barbeque of all our sad night moans and fears that choke us while we yearn but starve-- the world has done enough to dredge and carve a cruel gulf to keep us separate. The gumbo's on the stove; come fill your plate. The days that stretch ahead we cannot know; the candle burns too quickly or melts slow, but now my kitchen glows with hottest flame. Cross the line, come close, and know my name. eleanor (c)2000 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Tue, 1 May 2007  RARE
i rarely think of him any more that man who made me laugh and dream i hardly recall the way he held me nor how the fire dissolved to steam i always was who i am without pretense i never quite understood why he jumped the fence "you're too beautiful for me" is what he said strange words that spun around in my head i rarely think of him any more might not recognize him on the street though he shows up invisible in my cold feet i don't miss him now even when he comes to mind though the scar he left across my heart is easy enough to find the teaspoonful of ashes that reminds me of when the burning began i could blow into the wind now with the breath across my hand "you're too beautiful for me" is what he said strange words to leave spinning in my head Beauty in the scars, beauty in the dreams beauty in the way fire dissolves to steam beauty in the ashes taking flight on the wind beauty in the tears washing me clean again (c) 2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Tue, 1 May 2007  BuffaloI had such a prejudice against rednecks I got in a relationship with one just to find out what it was all about A relationship with a redneck means when you go camping there's got to be a Colt 45 in the tent You learn the names of all the guns his special room is filled with pelts and horns just to remind him of what he killed he drives a big red truck and takes the back roads away from population his hero is John Wayne One time I asked him if he could go back to any time in history what it would be and he said he'd find himself on a hill in Texas on a day the buffalo converged . . . millions of buffalo black on the earth commercial bison slaughter last year was a record 34,444 animals consumers turned to bison as an alternative to beef in the wake of the discovery of mad cow disease someone's dreaming of buffalo ranches in Hokkaido, Japan, to serve at a specialized restaurant like the media mogul Ted Turner's Montana Gill but i listen and i hear the drums and the song within the winds -- and in the distance I see the herd . . . blackening the plain (c) 2005 Comments[0] |
Fri, 30 March 2007  The Woman of SanityShe's the one you love when you want sanity when that crowd you run with eats your soul when the routine life is all uncertainty -- then you love the woman who exacts no toll. You love her because she doesn't ask you to give she's like a bright stroke of lightning, like the waiting earth and she holds a piece of your heart...a shard of ice, a flake of stone... That sturdy bit of sanity in a churning world the live and let live woman, blood, flesh and bone.... (c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Thu, 29 March 2007  The Meaning of TouchI want to know the meaning of touch if i touch you, you don't say so.... why do you hold back so much of what you feel where there is such possbility for where we might go? Why do you hold back so much when our hands and thoughts match as do our songs and their echo I want to know the meaning of touch, want to slide off your shirt and caution and look at you beside the window why do you hold back so much? Tonight I am tired of the watch, wary and distant, lying low-- want to know the meaning of touch... Let me caress your wounds -- wound me if you must burn me to ashes; melt me like glass-- oh I want to know the meaning of touch Why must you hold back so much? (c) 2007 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------- The original of this has been on my website here for a few years: http://geocities.com/tori_the_rose/ Or if it works this way: http://geocities.com/tori_the_rose/ The website needs IE browser to open properly. That webpage is the predecessor to this one. The music there is completely different from here. But yes. Predecessor. Comments[0] |
Mon, 19 March 2007  This poem was written after talking to a woman who had bulemia and got me thinking about loving our bodies . . .I will probably record it again, but in the meantime:Bodies This body slid into the world with perfect limbs lungs and innocence for years it did all the things bodies should do moving breathing crying cringing from bumps falls burns bleeding touching the sweet the bitter the sour salt sleeping under blankets and beneath stars seeing objects and plants and animals hearing music and voices and clicks and creaks Maybe we don't enjoy the way our bodies hurt or give warning or the rough hands that press into our ribs the bite and itch and burrow of feeding insects the way colds can be too cold or hot too hot and how viruses and bacteria make us ill when do we learn we're not to love these bodies their colors their shapes the sounds they make? the marks and scars that hint at our most dramatic stories we conceal our bodies and some of us even keep out the lights so our lovers will not judge our bodies as harshly as we do ourselves those who remove their clothes have the bodies we're supposed to have implanted liposuctioned rhinoplastied bo-flexed waxed like fruit in a display ad how do we come to be conscious of bodies and then despire our own? these bodies that entered the world to do the things that bodies do . . . these bodies that cook everything we can ever taste of life (c) 2006 Comments[0] |
Fri, 16 March 2007  If you've gotta have one, well here it is: . . . the Guaranteed Love Spell . . .This is the guaranteed love spell to be chanted under a blue trapper's moon I am every woman whose eyes have held yours who has steamed your nettles raised welts in your mind made you weep, laugh, drift I strip away your barricades your hesitation to love and my breath stuns enchants you with the scent of ginger, sassafrass I fill your bowl I am a mosaic of spices to awaken your taste my touch sings to your skin like a harem of bells I am the yeast leavening your dough to ecstasy I host your roots, make you lucid I lay my claim to you You will never forget me (c)2006 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Thu, 1 March 2007  Complexities of life . . .A couple years ago, I was emptying my life of everything I did not love. And then . . .. among others things, someone robbed my home while I was in the hospital. I sold that home, the home my daughter and I had never gone to live in again . . . Open life . . . open arms . . . Here's the first (unpoetic) poem of 2007. what a year of loss it's been what a year of loss my home my lover my routine what a year of loss it used to be i had high hopes but reality sank in it used to be i could throw a rope because i was so strong what a year of loss it's been the old path closed, destroyed the new path does not permit the user the liar the thief 'cause what a path of loss that was what a path of pain crafting a new path is just a little hard a path of strength a path of peace it's just a little hard but i'm alive so i'll keep on refueled and travelin' on the time of loss behind me now the rocks and rooks blown off the new path does not permit the user the liar the thief i'm alive and i'll keep on myself my love my dream (c)2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sun, 11 February 2007  "Essence" We meet in a place where words and pictures begin to occupy some apartment or maybe a dance hall park bench or chair in the back of an auditorium in the back of the mind sometimes i lay a kiss on your cheek but you don't feel it sometimes you dance with me in abandoned circles to music I don't hear it there's a room of desire with a locked door a succession of past lives marching around the periphery of the colonnade dancing around your landscape near the sea and palms and brown women shaking my landscape of mountains and sky and pink children what could make these landscapes collide and quake open that locked door? a car a train a plane a thumb held up to the wind But time is not of the essence The essence is this time (c)2006 eleanor a binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Fri, 2 February 2007  The name of this poem is "Half." This poem is for those who are close to someone who has Post Tramatic Stress Disorder.(c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Fri, 26 January 2007  This is the first poem I've recorded in 2007. After Midnight It's after midnight on the sixth year after you inaugerated the shattering of my heart, and I'm not thinking about the way you held me in the palm of your long-fingered hand nor looking for those letters I saved somewhere in a cardboard box, but rather realizing how murdering the memory of you didn't quite end the sense of your breath in my ear nor your stroking of my leg that night before the taxi came and took you permanently away from me. You'll never know the way you lived in my cells . . . Nor the way I used to gaze at the stars to feel close to you-- same stars, same old moon tonight -- reminding me how small and alone I am, no one filling my pores with hot, yearning music, no one carrying me where I've never been before nor wanting to jump the fence into my yard . . . Oh, this holy life in an expanding universe where it's after midnight on the eve of a fading dream of the impossible. I'm learning, at least, to sleep eyes open, although I still sleep naked as if I were immune to the cold . . . This body eclipsed so long, it's as though the world's turned dark. And now the languid stretch of limbs, wanting the feel of anything . . . even if just feeling my textured, soft skin. (c)2007 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Wed, 17 January 2007  This is one of the early ones when I first began experimenting with laying the music behind the poems. Some shades of the music exist in another one, and I'll either change this one or that one. Meanwhile, here is "Bad Lover," with the hope you never experience one. But if it happens, well . . . write a poem . . .(c) 2005 binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Mon, 15 January 2007  I wrote this poem shortly after the Downing Street memos were reported -- awhile back. It is in my combination here titled Political Propaganda, but now I've decided to set it up here alone. (My poems are mostly still packed away; that's why the poem's words aren't visible here.) I've heard that political poetry fades when the issue is resolved. But gosh, today it's hard to believe we live in a democracy when the dog on top kicks crap over all others except those who feed him treats. Brainwashing. Last year at this time when I was awaiting my brain surgery and Sharon was como-ed out with his stroke, I was watching a lot of TV since I was supposed to do anything strenuous (that is just about nothing so my there'd be no interior-head explosion. It was clear that a lot of people were coming out of the Cave, i.e. Plato's Cave. When it had become clear that the U.S. was going to Iraq, I began researching to find out why since all the puzzle pieces weren't fitting logically together. I expected to find a good, solid answer. Nope, I found seriously nasty answers. Depressing, aggravating, frustrating, ugly. The Downing Street memos were just one more nail in the sociopathic coffin. How were all these people who encourage or make terrible decisions raised? Raised to be sociopathic . . . psychopathic? Anyway, I wrote this political poem in a little state of irritability given the news of the Downing Street memos. Soooo, it is . . . my irritable poem?? I wish I knew who the person I'm quoting in the poem is. I found it as an anonymous quote. I'd love to give that wise person credit!! P.S. There's a Downing Street memo webpage here: http://www.afterdowningstreet.org -- and another here: http://www.downingstreetmemo.com/ Here are the words . . . . sow a thought; reap an act...sow an act; reap a habit...sow a habit; reap a character; sow a character; reap a destinty, someone wise person once said....being sensible is not the same as being overcautious...being reckless is not the same as being courageous...being stubborn is not the same as having conscious resolve....blind faith is not the same as confidence...; getting the answer you want is not the same as the Truth.......when a leader fixesintelligence and facts around a policy...? Lead time 90 days . . .Use forces already in theatre ...lies, lies, lies . . .sow a thought, reap and act, shed blood.... sow an act; reap a habit . . . (c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[1] |
Sun, 14 January 2007  This is "Birds." Since my aneurysm., most of my stuff is packed away, and I'm not sure where the poem is. I'll pop it up here as soon as it turns up for me. It's a little different . . . maybe . . . (c)2005 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sat, 30 December 2006  The blizzards have made me think of this poem, "Drought," since it appears that the drought has ended.People must wonder how many people the water here can support. Definitely xeroscaping is a good idea here. Sprout, grow, bloom, go to seed . . . (c)2004 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Thu, 14 December 2006  Jimmy Cacciatore and Jason Hollar produced Flowers for You (c) 1999 Cacch a Smile EnterprisesUnique--Jimmy grew up with English and Sign Language together (spoken in the home!) -- born in Fort Carson and grew up in Fort Collins. Great childhood, lotsa friends, lotsa sports--diving, football, soccer, baseball . . . and then one day Jimmy was on his way to diving practice, but did not make it. The true headbanger: life changed with a head injury. He had to relearn speech, etc., and is quicker at Sign Language than speaking the complexities of English. But he can do music!!! The accident wiped out education, but he kept his all-time, all-good personality. Who wouldn't love his music???? The first song put up here is "Empty Years." Drummer is Rick Trinidad, and Jason is on electric bass. Jimmy plays acoustic 12-string guitar. Enjoy, enjoy!!! Comments[0] |
Wed, 6 December 2006  For a ManYou light a fire in an ash can under the willow and sliver moon setting with Venus over the open sea. We talk of shifting continents, how this wind may breathe over us the mingled dust of our ancestors' bones. Mars rises behind the moon. The fire casts violent shadows over your face. I am a continent of women to you---but to me . . . you are one man . . . who fires a thousand years of rage into me-- enough rage to burn the sky-- I am no continent--but an ocean swallowing fire whole. Watch now how Mars trails the moon... and the moon is falling into the sea (c)2004 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Sat, 18 November 2006  My intention has been to put up some translations. But I ended up redoing the audio of "Tell Me." Driving & listening . . . Well, maybe this is better than the original audio I made of this strange little poem. Then . . . meanwhile I have popped up some videos on http://www.myspace.com/solotramp (c)2006 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[1] |
Fri, 29 September 2006  Now I'm wondering if it was the aneurysm pressing in my brain, creating a Pressing-Feeling. I know there was a day before the doublevision set in that I got up in the morning and started down the stairs, and the doubling existed for a few seconds. Prior to my awareness of the aneurysm, I had two bad falls on ice about one year apart from each other. It is impossible to know if they influenced the aneurysm or not. But they were memorable falls. Here's a picture taken a month or so after the first fall -- still the bump & bruise. And here is "Pressed." (Next I hope to put up translations.) (c)2006 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[1] |
Sun, 10 September 2006  Among a few other of my love poems -- "La Gitana," "Carnival Man," and "What Is a Love?" -- is:Guaranteed Love Spell to be Chanted During a Blue Trapper�s Moon i am everywoman whose eyes have held yours, who has steamed your nettles has raised welts in your mind made you laugh, weep ......drift i strip away your barricades, your hesitation to love my breath stuns enchants you with the scent of ginger sassafras and then fills your bowl i am a mosaic of spices that awakens your taste my touch sings to your skin like a harem of bells i am the yeast leavening your dough to ecstasy i host your roots ....make you lucid i lay my claim to you you will never forget me (c) 2006 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[2] |
Sat, 9 September 2006  The poems contained here are:"Generations," "Trackin'," "Greed?" and "Sow a Habit." (c)2006 Binnings ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Comments[0] |
Solotramp's Podcast
Poetry Propaganda -- How audacious! by Eleanor A Binnings
Categories
legalitiespodcasts
poems
tallkin'
Archives
FebruaryMay
September
November
January
February
March
June
August
September
October
November
December
January
February
March
May
June
July
August
September
November
August
September
November
December
| S | M | T | W | T | F | S |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | ||
| 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 |
| 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 |
| 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 |
| 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | ||
Syndication
powered by
