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 Dec 2015 Joe Adomavicia
katie
If I seem distant it's
because I am.
I abandon this city
like rain down gutters
trying to get back
to a home, a field, a shore,
no traffic, no smoke
where air is pure
& lungs breathe deep,
in a rhythm
untarnished by
tarmac & brick;
modernity's grip
that looks for life
& buries it, forgets
Earth has a pulse
a heart that beats
beneath us.
 Dec 2015 Joe Adomavicia
bones
..
 Dec 2015 Joe Adomavicia
bones
..
There's folk on the news
on the tele tonight
and all of them
making me sad,

they're all of them
thumping on tubs tonight
and waving
American flags,

and it's not so much
the waving I mind,
or the sound
of tubs being thumped,

it's more the thought
that human kind
will thump them
for someone like Trump..
 Dec 2015 Joe Adomavicia
ryn
May the air be brazen
and unafraid.
To kiss the glowing embers
in our faltering hearts...

With its fingers,
albeit light and wispy
Yet...
Calloused with experience.

May it never loses
its motivation.
So it could grant us ours
and nurture us back
to flame.
That which exists 
exists in our minds 
our consciousness defines what we see 
each conscious person defines reality in their own way 
each thing or person is only there 
by there being other beings
with which to interact compare or touch 

each sense its different description of what is 
what is is as much what we make it 
as our lives are 
we make our lives 
parents try to mould and guide us
but if we are strong enough 
we judge for ourselves what is
and what to do about it.

Margaret Ann Waddicor April 2015
Puppets are controlled by someone
Life is a puppet if controlled by stupidity
We become a living puppet show.
Dose he know I'm crash landing?
Dose he know my mind races with thoughts of him?
Dose he know I see the way he looks at me?
Dose he know that I'm not lying?
Dose he know how much I idolize him?
Dose he know I find his eyes to be the most gorgeous in the world?
Dose he know sometimes I count the stars to keep my mind off him?
Dose he know of all the little things I do for him?
Dose he know how much pain I'm in?
Dose he know my favorite place is in his arms?
Dose he know that he's healing all my wounds?
Dose he know I would do anything for him?
Dose he know I love him?
The red flower centered
between exotic curled lines
evokes the smell of old Jaipur
the Hawa Mahal ~ Palace of the Winds
where the maharaja’s women once peered
from pink honeycombed windows above streets
overflowing with painted elephants, camels, turbaned men.
A river of color, movement, sound
from red-dust shrouded sunrise
to ember scorch at the horizon line
the desert broken only by the organic rise
of dung and mud-bricked houses sheltered
by one denuded tree, a mirage of shade.

A cobalt hurricane spiral or vine’s end
worn smaller than its origins
its story, the shelf on which it sat
perhaps a fragile immigrant, hand-carried
from the old country by someone’s mother’s mother.
Whole and admired for a century before
its demise, told with regret-laden mouths
mother to daughter, daughter to mother
Oh, I wish we still had that blue bowl
great grandmother dropped
when she heard about Roy

a circle of memory, come to rest
on this distant curve of beach.

The cream and blue striped shard
could be my grandmother’s coffee cup
rimmed brown and lipstick stamped
sip, then drag on the Raleigh cigarette
always attached to electric-tipped fingers.
The cup was most likely broken in the war
that raged until death parted my grandparents
maybe it sailed harmlessly past my grandfather’s shiny
head and hit a rock near the creek, exploding into pieces
a small token of their shattered marriage
a lifetime of regrets carried to the sea
grievance-scrubbed, muted by the journey
this sliver must be handled with care.

The largest fragment found
tangled in the eelgrass at my feet
delivered on a tide of need
at the ebb of an unexpected storm
a perfect cross, soft edges raised
on a rough slab of terra cotta.
The fragile sun had warmed
the worn shape nesting
in my palm like a missing piece
as my restless fingers traced
down and across, across and down

asking questions, seeking answers.
The stories "told" by my favorite collection of beach treasures...
 Dec 2015 Joe Adomavicia
Sjr1000
Her hair is blowing
in the high desert
winds
She's gotta
1942 Big Chief engine
between her knees
bequeathed
by her great granddaddy
She's heading up
395
Sierra bound.

She'll tell ya
she's had enough
straight time
driving her far from crazy

Pacing
playing losing aces
pulling her hair
she knew she
just
had to get out of there.

Now the great Mojave
has its expanse
Joshua Trees
they just had to laugh
as she rode by

China Lake
flashing
21st Century
weaponry

Passing through Independence
she's feeling free now

Now I can't say
running away
is
the way

But when your hair
is blowing in the winds
You gotta Big Chief motorcycle
between your legs
and
the ******* aren't stopping
what else can you
say?

Heading to the Sierra
gotta get the mountain view
high above it all
slump those shoulders down
breathe on through

Heading up Big Pine
smelling the Jeffrey Pines
Bishop too
ancient Mono Lake
when it ain't snowing
freedom reigns

Her hair blowing
in the mountain winds
didn't mean anybody
any harm
just had to get
out of there
alive

Bye bye
baby
take care.
A definite nod to Neil Young's "Unknown Legend"
"Somewhere on a desert highway
She rides a Harley-Davidson
Her long blonde hair
flyin' in the wind
She's been runnin' half her life
The chrome and steel she rides
Collidin' with
the very air she breathes
The air she breathes."  
Can't beat Neil's version, recently ran into a version by Shovels and Rope, very cool.
~

solstice = sun stopped; in the case of winter solstice,
the moment when the sun ceases its journey northward
from the earth’s equator and turns southward toward
longer days; much like the journey our sun takes,
love solstice then is that moment of
arrest and redirect for one’s direction of travel
in life... and in this, the moment
a Sagittarian and Capricornian
separated on two sides of the solstice,
turn, collide and coalesce.


~

hers,
the waning side,
winter's reprise,
calls to the night,
at height of eventide.
his,
on ebbing turn,
the sun's reverse,
together rise to step
as one at winter's ball.
their dance across the sky
'neath moonlit nights.
two in love,
in lockstep of
the stars above,
collide and coalesce,
their waltz amidst
the delicate pearls of
a Milky Way stage!
no more his lonely
path among the stars;
his heart she's swept,
to never dance alone;
her arrow sent with bow,
piercing to the marrow,
holds his life,
his very soul.
bold and daring,
her voice of caring,
soothes his troubled heart.
he, her promise, calls
to her adven’trous heart,
two stepping toward
a rising warming sun,
in birth that spans
the space and time between,
forever now as one;
this their solstice of love!

~

post script.

*she (late Sagittarian) is the setting-sun-kissed, rain-misted huntress,
he (early Capricornian) is the rising sun's icicled traveler.  
mere days separating their arrival, though theirs could not be
more varied.  their births under different signs; his in the wintry
heartland, hers in the sun-kissed southwest; individually they are fire
and ice, huntress and wanderer who together have captured,
captivated each the other’s heart.  you’re not likely to see them
separately, but when you do, it’s only briefly when resupplying
their home, their hearth, their hearts. two making a most unlikely one,
but oh so surprisingly, so beautifully passionate!
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