A Moon, An October

Blood Eclipse

Blood-dimmed tide,
cockshut light,
dimpsy at dawn,

ruddy earth shadow
creeps across the pocks
of the Man-in-the

murder most full
the bloodshot eye sliced
by arcs of strung wire,

the body shoved
by slow inches
into a pile of trees

Rosy-fingered, Aurora
pulls on her white gloves,
puts on a shine,

occults
polishes off
the smudged print,

the goddess did it
with the daylight
in the garden.

I wrote this poem after watching a lunar eclipse in October 2014, then left it parked on the drive. Farmers have car gardens, phalanxes of old vehicles parked in a corner of a field; I’m not the only poet and writer with a garden of texts backed up onto a hard drive or tucked in the corner of an online cloud. Open a file, climb in, turn the key in the ignition, see if she starts.

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Random Photo: We’ll Meet Again

bowman field dc3 nose self

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

Mrs. Dr. Omed and I took our grandson to an air show. There was a very shiny Douglas DC-3, a B-25 bomber, and a General Patton impersonator with ivory handled six-guns wandering around the airfield. I’m not clear what General Patton had to do with aviation; he did tanks. The three singers dressed as WWII WACs singing We’ll Meet Again (the song sung by Vera Lynn at the end of Dr. Strangelove as the H-Bombs explode) punctuated the surreal patriotic nostalgia of the event.

Bonus photo:

bowman field dc3 engine props

 

Museum of Joy: The Isolator

Gernsback Isolator

Hugo Gernsback, 1884-1967, founded the first science fiction pulp magazine, Amazing Stories. The Hugos, awarded annually to writers and artists at the World Science Fiction Convention, are named after him. He was a bad writer, according to Hugo Award winning writers, and as publisher, was known for not paying his writers. The flavor of his inventive genius can be judged by the above.

A Poem of July offered to October

Ex Voto

The swifts lift themselves
high above the tall cypresses

as living praises
to an empty sky.

The swifts drift
in recursive spirals
a motile computational ogam

of sickles
kenning and reaping
an invisible insect minuscule

in the deep dye
and dome of air.

The swifts shift the blame
little saints of fleet ink

black against morning blue
flakes of obsidian
lodged in a huge unseeing eye.

The gift swift
as a stone knife in the chest

the heart heaves in offering
the cicadas cry.

This poem has been sitting on my drive since 2013. I decided to post it to remind myself I once wrote poetry. I’ve been clicking through the poems on my drive, and there are a lot of them I’ve never posted or published anywhere. Some of them no one but me has laid eyes on. There’s no particular reason for that, other than I’m my own audience and I don’t feel I or the poems will perish if I don’t publish. We, of course, will perish. But, in the meantime, here we’ll flicker.

Random Photo

floyds fork pope lick web leaf face shad

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play. Only because it rhymes.

Tight crop on leaf “face”:

floyds fork pope lick web leaf face shad crop

Random Photo

graf eye lips bowling alley twk

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.

Random Photo

sunflower head cu detail

A photo a day keeps the Doctor in play.