Andy Warhol uses a tomato soup can to show how fame can be condensed into fifteen minutes but create memories that take on a lifetime for a star; yet they are mostly a throwaway for the rest of the sky. To me Campbell’s soup cans’ innards served as dinner sauce bases for tired grandparents and…
Category: poetry
POPO2022 day 24 — woman looking up at moon
when I was a girl you walked me home at night you listened to me when I was a girl my street held scant menace danger was at home you walked me at night knew why my footsteps slowed saw that he was there you listened to me convinced me to turn around to tell…
POPO2022 day 22 — various mushrooms
dirty bottom fruit from unsweet decomposings no jellies from these dirty bottom fruit necrotic kingdom’s bounty domed, brainy berets unsweet, decomposed, yet surprisingly tender when sliced and sauteed no jellies from these tomato sauces instead odd fruit companions
POPO2022 day 21 — la gitana safety matches
Coney Island days when the seeing eye promised forever summer Coney Island days barkers, music; languid nights cool sands, lapping waves when the eye promised doubt’s voice drowned in salty breeze and children’s laughter forever summer I remember our love then and am young again
dVerse — MTB — Mid-Season Splendor
Juiceless lemons see-saw the sky Autumn fruits reigning down Bright flattened squash Light figgy bosh Autumn fruits reigning down Yet green grows grass, persistent clown Dichotomy that’s posh As trees grow bare Lawn takes the share Dichotomy that’s posh Seasons tease many-hued montage Summer, fall, here and there Coin toss descry Moment’s reply Summer, fall…
POPO2022 day 20 — swans and gold-haired woman
one fell night a swan princess dreams herself human gold plaits in soft garb one fell night a swan flies herself high, perches in tall tower window dreams herself human waits for her sweet prince’ kiss; his lips soft as velvet gold plaits in soft garb feathers plucked in bare envy imprisons herself
Tanka Tuesday Ekphrastic — Dearest Dorr
© Lisa Fox, Felt Mansion Early mornings I look from my bedroom window, the pond’s still surface a mirror that waits. I walk along the edge. My fingers remember being dirty, planting the urns, again. Aster and marigold, bright in the summer sun, when the world was full of colored perfume. In green brocade, I…
Tao-Talk 