like mashing
a heartbreak
through a sieve
scooping it up
holding it dearly
by mary ann blinkhorn
Monthly Archives: April 2012
deciduous man
oh deciduous man
in deciduous forest
can’t you see that
when the leaves have fallen
i still love you?
by mary ann blinkhorn
the color of memory
a half-finished, turned corner
satisfied coldness
incomplete
rain falling
against the grain
overcrowded rice bowls
rise stumble
stumble fall
touch
she draws a man
with yellow hat
the color of memory
by mary ann blinkhorn
her separate reality
she opens dresser drawer
and finds untapped poem
skeletonized
on bottom liner
immeasurable
unreachable
unlike any other
if only it weren’t so
if only she had
and you hadn’t
by mary ann blinkhorn
full moon driving
in retrospect
she views him as
a full moon
driving pickup truck
following stars
and empty planets
his ever-present heart
beating like
a packrat stranded
in just another traffic jam
the cold lineup
brave cheeks
weighted winter
thoughts of
mae west’s framed eyes
by mary ann blinkhorn
into an urban vermeer’s light
into an urban vermeer’s light
noise, stillness, solitude, silence
present condition
sitting cross-legged on carpet
jaywalking wind
pushing free press onto
abrasive scouring pads
sending it all to kitchen
sleep night
night bright
resting with one eye shut
one ear open
she waits
it was an artful pint, was it?
and you heard what?
poe’s raven?
poe’s raven ranting
perched on circular straw?
hands
held tight
much delight
evening walk
coffee-molasses in
late night carafe
in 24/7 diner
stars dancing embedded in clouds
back home
ripe poems
rampant,
fruitful
thin-skinned
verses continuing on in the kitchen
where they eat brain foods
fish, walnuts, blueberries
comfort foods warming on burner
like invading a frozen
time capsule
that was a simile
not a smile
he’d say to her
and then laugh
by mary ann blinkhorn
bohemian moon still shining
artist sketches
a plentiful street
walks down red and
smoky gray sidewalk
bohemian moon shining
many signatures passing by
lacking words
their stories undone
palettes bright
their tired frames searching
for comfortable chairs on patios
but there are none
not tonight
artist goes home
bandages window
where view hurts the most
bohemian moon still shining
by mary ann blinkhorn
heart
he calls a spade a spade
she calls a spade a heart
she finds his poems
buried under snowbank
extracts them
absorbs words
tucks them into warm coat pocket
for poetry is indeed art
he calls a spade a spade
she calls a spade a heart
by mary ann blinkhorn
mypenandme 