Mon, 14 December 2009
Jimmy Cacciatore and Jason Hollar produced Flowers for You (c) 1999 Cacch a Smile Enterprises
Tue, 8 December 2009
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
Wed, 2 December 2009
Sun, 29 November 2009
my mind spins unable to empty itself of you
my mind spins
unable to empty
itself of you
i was born
you say standing
in the doorwary
an altar boy
& the strange
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
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
Wed, 30 September 2009
On 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
Sat, 26 September 2009
It's in the headlines
in the tabloids
on the lips
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
that could be
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
in the mirror
in the morning . . .
and our children
are standing in
where blaring headlines
announce the end
of the world . . .
. . .watching people
bombs and mines
and boom behind them
some kids garb
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.
from the sky
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
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.
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.
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
Sun, 9 August 2009
It's be awhile & I listened to this one today, so I thought I would move it toward the front for a little while.
Time for a new photograph.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 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
Sat, 2 May 2009
This is a vilanelle.
Fri, 13 February 2009
Are there times to cultivate indifference?