Thursday Thirteen

13 (Tra-La-La) Denials

1. I didn’t see her standing there. (That was the Beatles.)

2. I didn’t put a spell on you.

3. I didn’t want to hold your hand.

4. I didn’t shoot the sheriff.

5. I didn’t see her again last night.

6. I don’t want to know what love is.

7. I’m not the walrus.

8. I can’t see clearly now.

9. I didn’t feel the earth move.

10. I didn’t fight the law.

11. I didn’t hear it through the grapevine.

12. I didn’t leave my heart in San Francisco.

13. I won’t be home for Christmas.

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More T-13s Here
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Feast On Feast

(Out to lunch / visit the Highland Center for the Arts in Greensboro, VT.  Amazing  artwork by Kate Emlen on display in their gallery.  Click her link below to see more of this magnificent work. As usual, the computer screen does not do justice.)

He hopes she travels to the places she paints because no one should be burdened by the task of carrying that much natural beauty around in their head, let alone finding some method of transferring it onto canvas so effectively that the viewer, inevitably mesmerized, transfixed, finds it nearly impossible to move from one painting to the next.

The Center prides itself on promoting and presenting what it refers to as “performing” arts, but as he moves through the lobby from one painting alcove to the next, it becomes increasingly obvious that a brushstroke, in this case, is no less a performance than the masterful arias and pas-de-deux presented on the stages within.

After a small feast in the Center’s equally remarkable café, his meal itself yet another masterwork to be savored and praised, he reluctantly gathers himself and leaves for home, carrying with him an Irish soda bread scone for his Beloved in the hopes that she might accompany him back sometime because true beauty, shared, is always amplified.

Separate Ways (A Ghazal)

She likes to travel, leaves him alone for days at home;
and he, reclusive, easily a hermit, gladly stays at home.

She likes to wake to the sound of surf and a foggy sea,
imagines him waking up in the mountain greys at home.

Fog is fog, he tells her on the phone; it all burns off—
but when she leaves he finds himself in a haze at home.

He makes the bed and cooks the meals. He’s got his flutes
and drums and all the other things he plays at home.

Still, he hopes he remains Her Beloved Poet, immersed
in words and searching for the perfect phrase. At home.

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IG/RT Tuesday Platform
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Looking Back, Looking Forward

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Let me start by saying that *82 Review is one really fine literary publication; one which I am very grateful to have been associated with in the past, and one which I am pleased and look forward to continuing my association in the future.

The upcoming issue (#7.1) will be released on Friday (3/22) and will include my brief Creative Nonfiction piece, “Face Rocks”. This piece is one of my particular favorites, and I’m sure you’ll see why once it’s published.

Meanwhile, you might familiarize yourself with the fine work they always publish. You can find them here: *82 Review.

As I’ve said, they’ve published me (twice!) before. You can check those out, if you’re interested:

Charlie (Issue 1.1, March 2013)
The Kindness Of Strangers (Issue 4.2, June 2016)

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