1. Patterns

    And when I come back, what should I choose if I could?
    Marrow in a bone of wheat, sinew in a cicada the wind
    plucks to life every seventeen years. You asked *Why
    do the same things keep happening to us?* Imagine
    the body at a way station: upholstered bench
    on which strangers settle their shifting weight,
    write furtive messages, phone numbers, complaints.
    The frayed cord and the lining come undone in parts.
    What does it exact, the wish for something simpler– one
    green stalk, slender in the steady rain; not even to want
    a sheath, limp yellow frock sodden against the ground.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    04 08 2011


    So, when was the last time you curled up
    and played daft possum to this here nostrum:
    “Into each life, some rain must fall.”? Yup.
    it’s cold outside, it’s where we all come from.

    And there were torrential ones, violence
    done on the hapless and clueless sons of…
    But it was easier blaming deaf heavens,
    Au courant to curse man’s absented love.

    Blame the stone dog, too, it just stood by,
    while the daffodils yelped: bring spring on,
    let the sunshine in, do not let my buds die,
    or leave limp frocks sodden on the ground.

    Dang, if I know what this street is coming to,
    let alone earth’s havoc on lives, a killing gung ho.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    Mississauga, ON 04-08-11

  3. Dave and Luisa:
    I also reposted the MP lines and both poems in my blog today to mark our writing collaborative poetry for the National Poetry Writing Month. Thanks, and see you on the porch. (:–) or (:<3)

  4. She: What did you buy at the 99 cent store?
    Me: The same as you; fish, pepper, saccharine. Are you asleep?
    She: Mm hmm.
    Me: What are you dreaming about?
    She: Boas. Bears.

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