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] |
Sun, 31 December 2006  This has been perhaps the most challenging year of my life. It began with the knowledge that it was not to be long before my head was cut open and a bypass done in my brain. --That is, if I was accepted as a patient by Dr. Spetzler. You know how oftentimes we make New Year's resolutions that we tend to forget and not fulfill . . . well, this year has not held much of the unfulling part of the resolutions. The one thing I understood was that the best thing I could do was to be as healthy as possible to come through the surgery favorably. It turned into three surgeries . . . and funny how for months afterward, I thought my head would smooth out & feel normal again. Ha! Now I know a bumpy head is a little reminder that will always be there, even when my hair has all grown out & covered it up. My resolution for this year is to grow stronger and more self-sufficient. I'll hang onto the 2006 resolutions of being as healthy as possible also . that is healthy physically, intellectually, emotionally, spiritually. I suppose that keeping that health-orientation will help me to fulfill my goals of strength and self-sufficiency. Perhaps the greatest lesson of 2006 has been that Nature rules! Category: tallkin' -- posted at: 3:07 PM 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] |
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