Mon, 14 December 2009
Jimmy Cacciatore and Jason Hollar produced Flowers for You (c) 1999 Cacch a Smile Enterprises |
Tue, 8 December 2009
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 |
Wed, 2 December 2009
DRAMA |
Sun, 29 November 2009
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 |
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 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 |
Thu, 17 September 2009
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: 8:40pm MDT |
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
"Yielding" is a vilanelle. |
Fri, 13 February 2009
Are there times to cultivate indifference? |
Sun, 25 January 2009
MY NAME IS LIGHT Those 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 |