M. D.'s Weekly Poetry Challenge

Kisses

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Thu, 20 Jan 2011 20:31:22 PST

and then you brought me

a basket of warm kisses

through long years of snow

The Price You Pay

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 15 Jan 2011 14:05:14 PST

Rubies, sapphire, diamonds & gold

All the money your purse can hold

Had nice place flood took away.

Nothing’s left to do but pray.

Nothing shines more than a day

Ain’t nothing worth the price you pay.

Baby cried when the black water came.

Cried and cried as we washed away.

It's hard to live, hard to breathe

After losing everything you need.

Nothing shines more than a day

Ain’t nothing worth the price you pay.

Everything’s changed now I’m back

Where I lived, everything’s black.

New city’s for them, them that got.

Just mud for us, us that's not.

Nothing shines more than a day

Ain’t nothing worth the price you pay.

Nothing left where I’ve been.

Nowhere to go to start over again.

No one said I was born to be good,

But I had a good life in my house of wood.

Nothing shines more than a day

Ain’t nothing worth the price you pay.

Rubies, sapphire, diamonds & gold

All the money your purse can hold

My next house gonna be steel and stone,

Up on the hill, like the rich people own

Nothing shines more than a day

Ain’t nothing worth the price you pay.

I Miss You

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 08 Jan 2011 21:56:20 PST

(January 3, 2011)

It is the month of ravens, the season

of liquid light. It has been a long year

for golden tigers, and I cannot bear

to be without you for another day.

My tracks freeze in their place, there is no more

getting away. Even my shadow is

brittle. In the great spruce behind our house,

three ravens squeak rusty nails out of iced

bark with their cawing, change positions as

they ladder up branch by branch, but the one,

I think female, is first to find the top.

Yesterday, after the snow came, the sun,

behind a wispy smudge of cloud, shimmered

dreamy and moonlike, and a lone eagle

wove its way across the steel wool sky like

the shuttle of a loom. It is the month

of coal, of burning cold. The charred raven

brings its gift of fire to all those who

freeze. The crystal sunlight turns into ash.

I am left to ask, “What brings you to me

in the night? Will the knit of need and knot

of time hold only when arms and legs are

woven tight?” My fabric frays without you.

Here in the slant burn of the winter sun,

in the black and gray grit of frozen thaw,

I climb the stark tree of mind, limb by limb,

into the murky sky. Each day away

from you, I ache in the hollow of my bones.

___________________________________

See the vidoe version:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0odVZQSWwgM

My Will Is Gone

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 18:05:22 PST

The stars are melting / I’m a going home (2x)

The wind is moaning / don’t wanna be alone

Come on baby / be my port in the storm (2x)

Won’t you love me / while my will is gone

I need your fire / to light up this hole (2x)

I need your loving / to fill up my soul

You love to tease me / but you sure can please (2x)

Come on baby / put my mind at ease

Say you love me / it won’t last too long (2x)

I’d say I’m sorry / but I've done no wrong

Come on baby / help me ride this storm (2x)

Won’t you love me / while my will is gone

My will is gone

The Solstice Eclipse

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sun, 26 Dec 2010 11:54:04 PST

This poem needs to be viewed as a pdf. Please click here.

"The Solstice Eclipse" is a "2D" (or 2 directional poem).

It was composed to be read both vertically (down each column) and horizontally (across each row).

Living Well

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 18 Dec 2010 13:47:54 PST

to live well beyond

your means, find wealth in the breath

that fills you with light

Amber

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 11 Dec 2010 16:07:21 PST

I found the poet’s flashlight
shining dark as honey through
the mouth of a dream,
welding everything together,
filling the mind with sweetness,
oozing over edges like tree sap.

In the cave of our love
by the touch of your skin
I find my way, I flicker
and flare in the warmth
of your arms, then all is gone
in a sputter of breath.

When the day fades, how precious are
these luminous moments together.
The poem slows it all down. Under
its thick, sticky baptism of amber,
the radiance of ebony keeps us
golden through the silky night.

Another

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 10:39:05 PST

to fall in love with
each breath sweeter than the last,
sigh like flowers when
bees wiggle in, that’s one thing,
to live it, is another

The Third Full Moon in a Season of Four

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Fri, 26 Nov 2010 09:32:31 PST

The gathering storm eats

this true blue moon,

a dry wafer, soft hazy red

against the tin horizon.

It slips like a shining quarter

into a jukebox of cloud,

lingers gleaming in the dark coin slot

while the sad song plays.

We walk on bundled and

stiff like scarecrows into

the blustery November dusk.

We came to watch the full moon rise,

but what seems more pertinent now

is how this diaphanous disk

of sanguine floats pale

and quiet as milkweed seed

on the edge of the wind

and then is gone. There is

something rare yet relevant

in the way it disappears top first

into ambiguous lips of gray,

like the way you pull me

into your love from whatever

sorry spin my mind puts me in.

We tread our rambling path

calling owl and raven,

dizzy from the hordes

of squawking geese

hurtling above our heads.

The leaves crisp from their fall

crackle under our feet.

We have become deeply familiar

with how the rippled lake

smooths itself into evening,

how the shadowed land stretches and

yawns as the sleep of winter nears.

We wonder if the glowing gold eyes

of coyote will follow us into the dark.

There is something amazing,

something intimate and perhaps enduring

in how our footprints freeze in mud.

We have been this way a hundred times

through blistering summer heat and sudden

spring rains. Nothing ever remains,

yet this sunken moment

of our meandering, frosted in

the last blood of sunset,

glimmers as night closes in.

Rerun

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 20 Nov 2010 17:43:23 PST

I watch myself

(someone has to)

an endless rerun

of a canceled sitcom.

(There is nothing better on.)

With each episode the laugh track builds,

until snickers echo guffaw.

I long for the theme music,

the predictable end, a chance to begin

again. I have seen it all before.

I want a commercial to tell me

what I need to be happy.

Everything I say is misunderstood,

as if I am talking in igpay atinlay.

If someone bothers to reply,

it’s like white noise, radio static,

the high buzz of the test pattern,

punctuated by screeching

brakes, the breaking of glass.

On my birthday, I go off

by myself, howl through

the empty night until

there is nothing left

but a mournful wail.

Yesterday was not like this,

it was quiet and made

of silly putty. The sun

was a lemony lollipop.

Cars jostled joyfully along

like bright balloons,

bouncing refugees

from the happy party,

and your face, pressed

warmly against mine,

picked up the colors

of my cartoon.

The Moon

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 13 Nov 2010 10:57:05 PST

- autumnal musings on the Four Mile Canyon Fire, 2010

The moon is the moon

whether pale as pumpkin seed

or smoke red. The moon swells,

a plum, it ripens blushing

with sunset or dark as a bruise.

Why bemoan what changes, what spins

the stars into unending darkness? Only what passes

endures, what we hold will be lost.

Flames on wind shriek through trees,

ashes all we possess, and still we go on.

I Came Here

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Mon, 08 Nov 2010 18:33:03 PST

in a ninth century
sports car formerly
owned by Ivar the Boneless.

It runs on ice water
and has a Viking horn
hood ornament.

I drove through words,
my tires hissing words
over hills of words.

The ribbon of asphalt
snapped me to you
like a whip.

I flew over mountains in a toy
airplane losing my hair
on the bald peaks,

it's rubber band engine
whirring like cicadas after
a twelve year nap,

revved up and hungry,
a spinning dervish
dizzy for your love.

I climbed without fear
the hollow blue of loneliness
into inner space.

My mind sucked
into a vacuum, my eyes
smoldering like falling stars.

I put my breath
behind me
to move on.

I rode the Titanic through
iceberg after iceberg
each the size of a hundred

Manhattans to find you.
I stayed mostly underwater,
held my breath for centuries,

floated face down
cold as a splintered reed
in the icy heart

of a saxophone.
Now I open like fog
in the sunlight,

with your hand
warm on my shoulder
I turn to meet your lips.

Each day all is new.
The ancient sax
howls outside my sun

splashed window
thick and golden as honey,
brings me to hear again.

The Kill, an experimental poetry video, by M. D. Friedman

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Wed, 03 Nov 2010 21:54:11 PDT

Here's my new video poem. Please let me know what you think.
A full screen preview is availble at www.mdfriedman.com.

The Phantom Gallery

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 23 Oct 2010 13:58:18 PDT

This poem needs to be viewed as a pdf. Please click here.

"The Phantom Gallery" is a "2D" (or 2 directional poem) was written in repsonse to the 90 Minute Art Show at the Yellow Pines Reading Series in Boulder on September 15, 2010.

It was composed to be read both vertically (down each column) and horizontally (across each row). It is difficult to get a full appreciation for the work by looking at it on a page. Please click to listen to the audio version. (The vertical voice is M. D. Friedman and the horizonal voice is Mariamne Engle Friedman.)

Hushed

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 16 Oct 2010 15:39:36 PDT

- in response to Bea Bulter's watercolor painting, Untitled

the sputtering cyclone of

the golden ghost of hope

curls like the smoking promise

around a glowing womb

rubs the nerve raw

opens to the dawning

shadowed forge of life

a lens of black flame

focuses the whirling circle of pain

into a screaming vortex of mirror shard

the lightening claw

of dreamed desire

hushed in misted silence

The Weaving of Two

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 14:11:25 PDT

- in response to the fiber art pieces of Jill Powers, A Blaze with Light & Red Essence

a blaze of red fiber

a broom scraping sky

skirted with leaf and pale scale

the top chopped teepee

its sap swells sweetly into bone

binds together feather and spore

shapes a basket crowned with stubble

the sunset scorches

the bird stitched night

drills my seed into white hot steel

On Works by Helen Brader

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 02 Oct 2010 14:27:03 PDT

Ancient Words

nothing to say
nothing more to see
the throbbing emptiness
of molding words
the chapel of a broken soul
darkness squeaking with light

Opening

begging to begin again
sucked through the graying door
the smoldering storm of it
pierces the muscled grain of stick
deep within its core
reaching into ragged root
dank with musky lust
the twisted branch
seared to its bright quick
draws me through my shadow
sews me into the skin of earth
a heart embroidered with peace

Red Motion

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Tue, 28 Sep 2010 15:05:54 PDT

- in response to Mark Jorden's photograph of the same name

blurred into vivid line

the stainless pipe

caves in on itself

falls into the tired vase

sheds its casing like a cracked cricket

Red Alert

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Wed, 29 Sep 2010 11:50:45 PDT

- in response to Wendy Rochman's political word art sculpture Alert

alert

Bush's mind

is missing a few pieces

the thorny stem

is missing its rose

blood gurgles out thick as oil

in the name of

Republican fraud

autumn blue

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 11 Sep 2010 10:44:49 PDT

staring up into

porcelain sky glazed deep blue

fickle fall breaks through

Milk the Moon

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Sat, 04 Sep 2010 10:30:36 PDT

The way we go is cold and long.

It’s far too far to right the wrong.

The curves are steep, but the shoulder’s strong,

You’ll never catch us …………..without a song.

The dreams we bleed have slipped from sane.

The hearts we hold are full of pain.

Still no reason for a sad refrain,

We can melt the stars………free our brain.

The last one left to write is screaming,

the demons there to fight.

When liquid light is a streaming,

Just reach into the sky…and milk the moon.

All will be there all too soon,

Our heads spun open, cracked with dawn,

Our bodies all disarmed,

Swinging true to form ……….we punch the sun.

We’ll run this road until we’re gone.

Y’know feeling good can’t be wrong.

Our tears are warm and hearts are strong,

You’ll never catch us …………..without a song.

The last one left to write is screaming,

the demons there to fight.

When liquid light is a streaming,

Just reach into the sky…and milk the moon.

Bee Line

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 18:45:16 PDT

Wherever I am

I am what is missing. - Mark Strand

Hovering above

what is missing,

the pollen dusted bee

falls into the honey

of my eyes and everything

is golden. What is

this that was,

this that now I am?

Where are my wings

to climb the sun buttered sky?

What is this emptiness

that fills my lungs

and lifts me

into weightlessness?

The wayward wind,

has the last say.

I move within

a motion not mine.

Flying is falling

when there is nothing

to rise above.

I rise with each breath,

fall into love.

Memory of Anita

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 07:43:06 PDT

Autumn's golden light
reminds me how she would burst,
"Daffodils bloom again."

Quiet Storm

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 09:36:45 PDT

Night is made of quiet, the day to darken.

I prop my heart open with a pin,

Set a trap, capture all that comes in.

A question always lingers,

Why can’t I hold what passes through my fingers?

I sit with the Self that lives within,

Sit with the persistent Why I Am.

A storm bursts flooding mind and skin,

Liquid light ever raining,

Oily thought, rainbow on pool draining.

A Recipe for Love

md@poetscoop.org (M. D. Friedman) — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 11:55:11 PDT

Open everything that is not and pour it in.
Heat gently. When the fat sizzles,
cover and let simmer until tender.
Mix in all you are. Knead it.
Let rise with the warmth of your touch.
Whisk until stiff. Churn as long as it takes.
Layer joy upon joy. Season to taste.
Make fresh from scratch. There is always more to add.
Sweeten with syrup, coconut and wine.
Let the pot overflow. Go ahead and make a mess.
Serve with heavy cream, dried cherries and cracked nuts.
When the aroma swells in your head, filling it
with dreams, and the spice laden steam stings
your eyes, it is time to feast. Devour slowly
and savor every bite. Leave no scraps for the pampered
animal that begs outside your door. Leftovers never satisfy.
The recipe is always changing. It never tastes the same.