Ugh. Another rejection

Columbia Journal adds to my growing list of rejected poems. This one for “The Nun.” I fear it wasn’t PC enough.

 

The nun

Kneeling like a nun
the Rembrandt scowls
fire from its canine teeth

a brigand awaits
as if Sunday comes
with grief suds
suitcase in hand
the moon awaits

tumbling is it?
for the dandelions blown
wisps take flight
wings then bloom
scurrilous things
bolted to shoulder
to soar
rickety above
smooth below where
currents idled no
longer hold
sway

Her robe slips
and creamy shoulder
like a light shines
a blessing or sin
it eats at the soul

to exist is it?
or some kind of blasphemy
anger
at the knock
upon locked doors

empty-headed

Blind now
Blind then
Blind forever.
 

A bed unruffled

Planning to introduce this poem at author’s event. About a lost love.

In the mornings she was best
like a waking dream nuzzled
wisps of disheveled hair
and muted eyes
the bed ruffled and wrestled
and covers covering
mounds

We float to each other like thought
to meet in Holy Communion
or like a spring awakening
rise from the passing
resuscitated into grace

Yet she fades
a whisper gone without hint
only the bed is left
and even that without a sign
not a crinkle here nor there
neat to a fault
and clean

Author’s event

Will be attending an author’s event ( that’s what they call it) at a local college this month. First time to do something like this. So I am busy getting extra copies of my poetry b0oks and writing poems to go with some art that I have.

Cool thing. And will meet about 15 other authors there.

 

We are but wisps

Grey ones forgotten
With crinkled skin
And gentle eyes

To limp along
and then to die

As if to never live at all

Memories are merely
wisps of air

God

They were here
weren’t they?

Living ignoble lives
like you
like me

We follow them
to this passage
from young to old
from birth to death

They
show
us
the
way

until we become memories too
wisps of air

Grey ones forgotten
with crinkled skin
and gentle eyes

Canon City 2/19/2017

Great sandwiches, surreal service

Just had a surreal moment and just have to write about it. One of those, you can’t make this up stories.

I went to a Jimmy Johns drive-through in Canon City. Laura and I ordered two sandwiches, the meal deal — chips and a drink.

At the window, the server confirmed our order.

Then, a second employee brought our food and handed it out to us through the window. One-piece-at-a-time. First, she handed the sandwiches through the window. Like maybe she thought we were going to eat them, right there, in the drive through, at the window.

Then she handed us the drinks.

What?

Then she handed out the chips. A bag at a time.

“Do you think you might want to get a bag?” I asked.

So she said: “Sure,” nicely, and went back and brought us an empty bag, so we could put our order in. Like this is the way they do it all the time.

It’s happening. We are expected to do everything ourselves now. Customer service means never having to say you’re sorry.

 

 

 

 

 

Agents? Really?

After a year of searching for an agent, I’ve come to understand that for them, it is about the money not the art. And so if you don’t fit the right profile or have the right stuff, writers are just wasting their time. Witness “Martian,” and JK Rowling’s new book, which had a hell of a time finding a publisher because she didn’t use her name.

I read the story of one writer whose travails in finding an agent finally netted her one, and when she looked back on it, she said she wished that she had spent that time writing.

So, writers write. Agents sell their talent and take money off the top. The sides, and the bottoms.

Just also read a post by a screenwriter, now successful, who was turned down widely on his writings. Finally, someone optioned his movie and it proved a hit. Suddenly, all of those agents who had ignored him or put him down with their “expert analysis,” rang him back. So he read them their earlier comments and they filled the air with excuses.

I write poetry. And so I get it. Nobody reads poetry these days. And it flatly does not sell. I have written a novel about Native American spirits and am told nobody wants to read anything about Native Americans. I wrote a screenplay about a Pottawatomi Tribe in Michigan and baseball. I got some help from the rep of a relatively powerful actor, but learned that because of his age, he is not taking on much beyond acting. And Chris Eyre didn’t even read it when it was sent to him. He blew me and the rep off.

I’ve studied and learned how to write a synopsis, a query, an outline. Indeed spent hours on it when I should have written other, more fulfilling things.

The last time I heard this many Nos was when I sought dates for the high school prom.

What do I do? I take the advice of the writer who said: just write. And Kindle like crazy.

 

The Nun

I like the imagery of this one…

 

Kneeling like a nun
the Rembrandt scowls
fire from its canine teeth

a brigand awaits
as if Sunday comes
with grief suds
suitcase in hand
the moon awaits

tumbling is it?
for the dandelions blown
wisps take flight

wings then bloom
scurrilous things
bolted to shoulder
to soar
rickety above
smooth below where
currents idled no
longer hold
sway

Her robe slips
and creamy shoulder
like a light shines
a blessing or sin
it eats at the soul

to exist is it?
or some kind of blasphemy
anger
at the knock
upon locked doors

empty-headed

Blind now
Blind then
Blind forever.

Nashville heat

Wrote this while prowling the streets in one of my favorite cities in 2007.  Lived there a couple of years. 

 

Nashville

is hot

Like

blasphemy

With hunks

of heavy air

Cruising

city streets

Bruising

The innocent

 

Like urban

gangs

They infiltrate

The wine-scented

alleyways

Riddled with

Honky tonks

And roust

The ghosts

Of  empty orgasms

 

A dose

of truth

In this city

Of rumpled dreams

Goddess

Wrote this poem in Nashville. A sorceress. A woman. It’s in one of my books, Drifts, I think, on Amazon.

 

Flames dance
on amber plains

Smoke boils
in sullen rise

Amid clouds of her
own making
she is free
to brand her
missive
not dainty
like watercolor but
bold, deep
and angry like
hot oils
flung
upon pocked canvas
big as the moon

“Goddess,” she demands.
Goddess. Goddess!”

Her eyes burn down
upon consecrated land
where burns
the soil and burns
the soul

“I am Goddess!”

She sets the world
back in its
place to dance
across the sky
like heat lightning

Knitting together
its wounds
does she

and to rise yet
another day
For she is Goddess
And Goddess lives forever

Ashes to ashes

 

It sits
This restless
dust

Imprisoned on an
indifferent
Mantle waiting
to be
carried home

Where winds
will spread
his ash
to empty hearts

even then
to settle
on musty hills
that roll to
hogs back
and on to sunset
no longer alone.

He looks
for the messenger
To creep in one
sleepy night under
moon shadow
To steal away
His bits and pieces
To release
On far hills