Juicy Quote

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Image created by L.K. Thayer

“Passion is what adds so much value to life. And if you think about the things that you do, there’s so much juice potential for them if you do it.”

Mario Batali

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Madness Deepens

“It Is Not Over Yet”

Today was a day when rain poured against shattered hearts

Breaking pieces like a drumroll, sinking droplets upon surrender

Thickening air against chest conpressions, loss of breath

Gasping for relief from this winding road, where footprints are lost

…..

Gathering the strength to be strong for the battle

Yet tears flood palms, black stained cheeks of sorrow

Screams fill the mind of weakened prosperity

This load to carry, being pulled down by gravity

….

Now that the storm has passed, I look up

As night pushes up the day, I will take you by the hand

I will hold with all I have, here where we stand

I will not let you die, and be left there

….

Where God knows where…..

….

If I could, I would, wish it be me

To take it all away, to take this pain

Give it to my body – oh Lord – hear my plea

I will sacrifice myself for her to be free….

….

Burden of shifting cells, ripping away the soul

Making the thoughts become uncertain

Shaken, taken, and left out to dry

Just don’t close the curtain

….

Red velvet strands, dripping from incision

Tubes of filtered forgiveness, clotting memories

The great depression, lies upon whispering winds

The storm is here, pouring out clouds of confusion

….

There will come a time,

When the storm brings it’s rainbow

Across your heart,

Bringing sunshine, from above

….

On my knees, without a word from silent lips

But a loud scream, against my soul

Tears falling upon the floor, puddling

Then I saw you, there, a shining light

….

Sigh no more, mother, cry not a tear

For God is there to make your dreams better than hopes

He has his arms around you, tightly

Sigh no more, mother, he will help you cope…

….

– Madness Deepens

© 2013

Mary Fae Smith

photo-74

What Woman Wants

“Go deeper, Go deeper, Go deeper”

He told her.

He questioned her.

He begged her.

He pleaded her.

Not her. Him. Him Him. Always him. Deeper into her but never into him. What did he want from her? WHat was he excavating inside the mine field of her soul?

Entering through her womanhood and moving in.

Out…out. Out! She wanted out. She wanted him out. Out in the open. THat is where she wanted him. No longer insider her.  In front. Standing. Staring. Revealing.

He was no longer allowed to hide in the Woman.

She forbid it. Gave him no respite. Gave him no solace. Gave him no home until he built her one first…

And let her go inside. Go deeper and deeper and DEEPER into he man.

All the longing in her soul craved entry within.

How does woman enter a man?

How does she penetrate and plant her seeds?

How does she build a life within his love?

Serious now. She meant it. Meant it down to the fibers holding her together suspended in time.

“Leave me. Leave me be. I want you to go. Go far away. I can no longer be your home. You must find your own. I cannot replace what’s been lost in your soul. You cannot infiltrate mine and play parasitic host to mine either. Be yourself for once, you slob. Be Man. Not A Man. Be Man. I need Man. All of Man. In one man.

Let me enter into that.”

She cried in her pillow.

– Mary Fae Smith

© 2013

Pablo Neruda

 

“If You Forget Me”

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

“Burning Fruit, Man On Top, Aching Sun” by L. K. Thayer

 

Burning fruit, man on top, aching sun
Dark aroma of  bittersweet, crash of sea and stars
What magic do you hold inside your timber?
What amorous light surrounds me with your glance?
Oh, infatuation is a tunnel of twists and turns
Through smothering vapors, cutting switches for foreplay
Love is a mischievous temptress
And two bodies on fire with a sulfur spark
Kissing and licking I devour your beast
Your stanzas, your sea foam, your effervescence
And pulsating poetry, throbbing with wit and flair
Caressing my thighs, warming my fire place
You harden at the sight of my name
We ponder into infinity

L. K. Thayer’s Foto Fetish

© 2010

Stevie Kalinich on “The Jazz Poets Social Club” @Elderberries tonight!

 

 

Foto by L. K. Thayer

I love the poetry
I love the people
like hungry children
like needy beggars
we ned the inspiration
to carry on
in the face of such immensity
when economies are falling
and depression is rising
and everyone says no
I say yes to keeping the language
and its many voices alive.
The word painters and the painters
with the brush
and the invisible brush of images
The prose and poems
will touch you
one for one
one for another for
certainly in our time
the end f 201
we need the voice of poets
that spoke through the beats
The Kerouac’s and Mcheline;s
of the world
who are now blooming
to keep poetry alive
is to keep life alive
while poets write
and painters paint
and doers do
there is hope for the world
for they will never
silence these voices
and we will rise
a sisterhood a brotherhood
rise up against oppression
and hatred.
We will plant the seeds
for peace
and revolution
wherever the soul is violated
and mankind’s needs
are pushed under.
Keep the poem alive
and God Damn come tonight.
There is something for you here
whoever you are.
LOve
Stevie

Stephen John Kalinich

Elderberries Cafe, Hollywood, CA

L. K. Thayer’s Foto Fetish

© 2010

“young white suburbanite” by Joelle Blackstarr


on any given friday night,

a young white suburbanite,

cruises in his beamer,

into the city, bose blastin’ fiddy.

he sports the latest, greatest, hippest, dopest, phattest rags

that his daddy’s silver spoon could buy,

but that silver spoon is the very reason why.

he protests the riches that they don’t deserve,

lashes out at his very own private federal reserve.

he’s looking for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder,

music getting louder.

young white suburbanite,

in the middle of the night,

loses himself in another man’s culture.

not understanding the subtleties of cp time,

he hits the club way too soon,

stands around with beer in hand,

realizes that the night was not so well-planned.

but he’s fly and hip and dope and –

and thinks he’s ahead of his time,

but the reality is that he simply

got there way ahead of time.

the music swirls within his head,

and the sistas think it’s so dred

that he’s holding his own,

while out of his element.

but to his detriment,

the beer pulls him to the dancefloor.

now, whitebread ain’t so fly no more.

and we think “ooh, that’s gotta hurt!”

beer has him moving to the beats,

the sight has us fallin’ out our seats.

“yo – young white suburbanite!

some fly sista would like ta get witcha”,

but homeboy’s homeboy has had

one too many rollin’ rocks.

young white suburbanite

struggles with all his might

to get his homeboy standing upright.

now, homeboy’s homeboy wants to fight.

young white suburbanite

came to the city,

blastin’ fiddy,

lookin’ for some black flava,

or some brown suga’,

or some white powder.

whitebread

got that gangsta beat going ‘round in his head.

cruisin’ in his jet-black beamer.

he’s just trying to understand

why we always catch it from the man.

tries to understand what that’s like,

he beats a path to every open mike,

struggles to get a feel for what it’s like.

a fruitless pursuit and he can’t see why

he can never feel the pain like you and i.

he innocently protests and lets out a sigh –

“it wasn’t me and i refuse to carry that lie”.

it’s neither out of compassion,

nor because it’s popular fashion,

but, instead, because the guilt of the fathers

prey upon the innocence of the sons.

on any given friday night,

deep within the urban blight,

from dusk until daylight.

lookin’ for some

black flava,

brown suga’,

white powder.

out of the gloomy mist and into the light,

comes an urban legend . . . a young white suburbanite.

Joelle Blackstarr aka Freedom

© 2008