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Showing posts from 2016

the fall

the drone of micromanagement, in quarter-hour installments, each created to contradict, they layer them, a cake, to celebrate. doubt becomes belief, own the fault, the pieces of the puzzle fall into a pattern, a plan, mean-spirited, worthy of a Scottish wife, with a complement of false concern. a blight of human kindness.

farewell (Eugene)

No words to express my sadness because he is gone too early; before all our tales told, before all our adventures shared, before all our poetry reworked in the confines of my car. I whisper to him inbetween the  hours,  when the sky is bruised  black&blue, to him,  on the other side...  

Erasure poem I

ultranervously,            in panic, ran away.       The demoralized young man         held on waiting,           biting his nails. chest, shoulders drooped.                 turned away walked off through the gate into the nearest bar,                    for a long time lost                                           

side by side (Eugene)

Poetry brought us together, friendship grew, side by side. I miss a turn or two,  among all our words,  there'll be more, next time. At the end of the evening, he extends his hand to mine, warmth to warmth, good night . He flicks the outside light, I beep in reply, our ritual complete, superstition satisfied, I drive away, believing he is safe inside. Beguiled by this foolery, I would not see him again.

The turn of a screw

10 pm The eyes of most young men glaze over her, yet tonight, he takes her in, he flirts with her. He is Stanley calling out Stella's name, Catullus stalking Lesbia in a lusty poem. It's crazy-sexy feeling... 11 pm Should she lie with this man and lie to her mate? Flesh pressed against flesh in the deep dark of night, but in the harsh bright of dawn? He tempts her with his heat, should she open herself to him? 12 am Too much alcohol, too many words without listening. Tales tumble, rough sex and women past. Romance&mystery drain, the chemistry distills. A hook-up? He doesn't deserve an answer. 

Judy Melchiorre: Poet

photo by author I  have written poetry on and off since high school.  I began to post poems on my fashion blog in 2013 and finally separated the poetry in 2015.   It was a strange path through my passion for fashion to my commitment to poetry, but I'm proud to say I am a poet.  I am a member of the James River Writers and the River City Poets, both based in Richmond, Virginia. I've chosen two of my poems to share with you and am open to your comments.  Big thanks to Tina for this opportunity. Sincerely, Judy

ceramics 101

Clay, tools, brains - they are all working except the boy who never does. Hands into the medium, pounding, molding, sculpting, objects taking shape, efforts made. Four days of nudging, coaxing, asking, they are finally following the lesson plan, I will not tell them.

my reach...

photo by author I dream of shooting stars, but my feet are mired in thick mud and the sky is far away. My reach too short, no words spun like a spider's web, to catch the reader in its deceptively strong fibers. Teased by its evanescence, it eludes me, leaves me earth-bound.

Ungracefully...

photo by author I feel my age upon me, the years heavy, each ache married to a pain, my memory from sharp to swiss. Once all was possible, now compromises to be made. I have a tiny thimble of years left,  I am determined to tamp it full of life.

dedicated to Amiya M.

Pastel colored chalk from the dollar store to write on the sidewalk as they talk about boys, no school for two weeks and Christmas wish lists. They are 12 year olds, middle schoolers, friends together on a warm Saturday night in December. Amiya's words unfinished. Two young men tuck guns into low slung pants, resting against their hip bones. They are high on adrenaline and testosterone, anxious to settle a feud with another 'hood. They jump into the car, bullets cut through the air, until they pull away. Amiya caught it as it flew, nameless, she runs then drops, her blood slick on the grass.  A woman holds her as her breathing changes, shallow, slow. Her friends cling to each other, wet with tears; sirens and blue lights, even the police off balance by the shooting of this young girl. At the ER, she is pronounced,  her mother told her only child is dead.    Amiya's words blurred by rain, bleached by sun, unfinished.

less...

photo by author a voice missing ethereal/other-worldly/surreal the harmony off we are less without his inventive spark his unique view through eyes of different colors his artistry yet his spirit remains to inspire

all that jazzzzzz.....

Jean-Baptiste de Moyne Bienville, founder of New Orleans G.T. Beauregard, General of the Confederate States of America City Park New Orleans Museum of Art David Smith, Amusement Park, 1938, Steel Calder mobile is writing an art?! jazz band at bamboula's house across the street from hotel orange tree blooming one day later, snow covered trees on Afton Mountain

reflections on New Orleans...

                                                               all photos by author

the big easy...

I posted a few photos from my camera on Facebook. More to come from my "real" camera. I'm back.... photo by author
Dear friends, I'll be off the grid for about ten days. Gathering bits of this and that for some new poems... And some new photos as well... Judy

chasing it

Her life full of self recriminations for choices made, regrets for lost opportunities. Each day grinds away, no closer to where she wants to be. Something creative thrums deep within, the wings of a bird against her cage of ribs. It wants to be free, to fly, to become   something wondrous, not yet imagined. Perhaps too late, to become  reality.