Unreachable

Cry into the sea

Breathe out sky

Take stock of time

de-canting through

a liquid hourglass.

Remember the sound

of sea as it rushes

the feel of skin

as it prickles to wind

or the way turquoise water

turns clear in the cup

of your hands as you stand

alone and unreachable -

horizon paper thin.

-Debbie Calverley

Untitled (for now)

Cry into the sea
Breathe out sky
Take stock of time
de-canting through

Remember the sound
of a sea as it rushes
the feel of skin
as it prickles to wind

or the way turquoise water
turns clear in the cup
of your hands as you stand
alone and unreachable -
horizon paper thin.
Debbie Calverley

Airports

In the silence of my hotel room
sudden noise of building fans
planes take off and land
on the highway all the traffic
hurries somewhere.

I'm tired with nowhere to go
Tomorrow is another day.

Debbie Calverley

A great link to show solidarity

You can watch this update live from around the world, it is a great thing to do!
btw this was not an attack on music it is not that specific it's an attack on all of us and everything we stand for, it is not limited to something singular.  Everything is about people.

https://secure.avaaz.org/en/paris_solidarity/?bGhzOjb&v=68045

Prayer - Lia Purpura

Prayer

Its occasion
could be
a spot of sun,
bar sign, label
on jeans,
carnation, red
light where you
wait and
gratitude hits.
Or a name
the length
of a subway car
that only makes sense
when you say it aloud
in your head
as it passes. 

LIA PURPURA

It Shouldn't Have Been Beautiful 

Dig - for November 1st, 2015

As storm skies blow in

calmer seas begin to churn

to toss and turn, whirl

in spiral pools, drill

to excavate some ancient site

buried in its sandy bed.

And so we search

to find mystery lost

only revealed when wild skies

flash strobes of lightning

clap out thunder at midnight

wake us from our small lives.

Set the every day on fire!

Quiet endless tick of wall clocks.
Dig - blow the ghosts away.

- Debbie Calverley

Fall

Poplar leaves shiver
Silver dollars in sunlight
Spruce stands ever green

- Debbie Calverley

As Evening Comes

His scribbled thoughts

dissolve into clouds

pink with evening sun-fire.

Until day descends

into dusk his eyes reflect

that unsinkable blue –

A ship on the horizon

sails ghost white.

Somewhere in a grotto

of yellow rock and olive trees

her shape in shadows.

As day heat generates

into the small of her back

she instinctively reaches –

A small star begins to gleam
A full moon expands

- Debbie Calverley

CK Williams

Writers Writing Dying
CK Williams

Many I could name but won’t who’d have been furious to die while they were sleeping but did—
outrageous, they’d have lamented, and never forgiven the death they’d construed for themselves 
being stolen from them so rudely, so crudely, without feeling themselves like rubber gloves 
stickily stripped from the innermostness they’d contrived to hoard for themselves—all of it gone, 
squandered, wasted, on what? Death, crashingly boring as long as you’re able to think and to write it.

Think, write, write, think: just keep galloping over the hurdles and you won’t notice you’re dead.
The hard thing’s when you’re not thinking or writing and as far as you know you are dead 
or might as well be, with no word for yourself, just that suction-shush like a heart pump or straw 
in a milkshake and death which once wanted only to be sung back to sleep with its tired old fangs
has me in its mouth!— and where the hell are you that chunk of dying we used to call Muse?

Well, dead or not, at least there was that dream, of some scribbler, some think- and write- person, 
maybe it was even yourself, soaring in the sidereal void, and not only that, you were holding a banjo 
and gleefully strumming, and singing, jaw swung a bit under and off to the side the way crazily 
happily people will do it—singing songs or not even songs, just lolly-molly syllable sounds, 
and you’d escaped even from language, from having to gab, from having to write down the idiot gab.

But in the meantime isn’t this what it is being dead, with that Emily-fly buzzing on your snout 
that you’re singing as she did, so what matter if you died in your sleep, or rushed toward dying 
like the Sylvia-Hart part of the tribe who ceased too quickly to be and left out some stanzas?
So what? You’re still aloft with your banjoless banjo, and if you’re dead or asleep who really cares?
Such fun to wake up though! Such fun too if you don’t! Keep dying! Keep writing it down!

Last Lovely October Day!

Oh dear I resemble the Ortega painting!

Ortega '64 - Love this!!

Happy Thanksgiving - a gorgeous autumn!

Blue

And the sky is so blue
And the leaves so yellow
And she thinks of his eyes

Somewhere a sea recedes
Too soon taken

- Debbie Calverley

It's Too Quiet In Here

It's Too Quiet in Here

A sparrow mistook
a light for the light
of day. A contractor
penciled Transitional
Space on the plans.
A woman parked
next to the airport
and stood on top
of her truck.
In an empty office,
a fax inched out
of the printer.
The wind knocked
over a metal bucket.
Spirals at the end
of a vending
machine turned
to let down the chips.
Everyone in the sub-
way pitched right.
A blue crayon melted
on the welcome mat.
The timer for the timed
test went off. A pilot
light went out. Every-
one on the bus pitched
left. A shade slapped
open, untouched, and dust
flew up into the sun. 

CAROLN GUINZIO

Turning

So goes the revolution. To turn the wheel,
to rotate, revolve, turning
the turn, the turn of a hair—and it's the loss
of all composure. A hairpin turn, to turnabout, to look ...
Now it's your turn
to turn down, to spin, swivel, swerve,
to take the curve that turns
the stomach, to veer and arc,
with the turn of a screw
the turnbuckle of the body is fixed.
Turning the tables.
You're never turning back.
Turn the key as all heads turn,
when nobody is looking,
the body turned loose no longer impounded.
Turn up the music.
Turn off the lights.
Turn on. Turn over. We take turns
twirling before turning-in for the night,
to return to sleep,
to turn out with the morning riders
who, in turn, turn their pages.
Turn around and we turn a certain age.
Turn around again and the sunlight is turning,
turning this dim room bright. 

ARTHUR SOLWAY

August Fog

Unusual for this time and place
as there is no harbour.

I watch it roll across the tree tops
so mysterious that it hides the sun.

A plane takes off invisibly,
lost in the roar of flight.

The garden is still as if a haunting
has just taken place.

I remember Sandburg's fog,
the little cat's feet, the haunches-

and am suddenly humbled
by the history of words.

- Debbie Calverley

Summer in the 'Peg! Harvest time.....

Blue Moon

Blue moon
you left me standing alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own
Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for
You heard me saying a prayer for
Someone I really could care for
And then there suddenly appeared before me
The only one my arms will ever hold
I heard somebody whisper "Please adore me"
And when I looked, the moon had turned to gold!
Blue moon!
Now I'm no longer alone
Without a dream in my heart
Without a love of my own

Billie Holiday

Magic Realism

trees pasted onto sky
the whole world holds -
a ghost of a breeze

- Debbie Calverley