Look for him when the cicadas fade

When the seedpods come unbound

When with every breath and every rain

The fan-shaped leaves fall down

A Barrel

There is a barrel up in the blue
Carried on by such gusts,
Such humours and such moods
As are worthy of its cargo

I left my dress, and maybe you
Left something in there too
I know how the flowery cotton
Climbed my arms and played
To every curve and flash of eye
Yet it was white noise to you

I think on the barrel, so full
And so light despite we two
Maybe you left nothing there
Nothing for me, but all for her

Anatomy and Geometry

Touch me light on nape of neck
Pluck my sleeve at inner elbow
Find my seams and on them breathe
In my ear, hum deep and low

Puzzle out my shoulder bones
And the knuckles of my spine
Trace the lazy whorl of hair
Swinging ’round my navel wide

Compare anatomy and geometry
Dispassionate, tell me how
These models lean on white sheets
And are drawn so simply now

Up through the tepee’s top
Photo by Tawny Holt

Hello Friends

The image of a tepee is not only a picture of a dwelling. It is also a symbolic image, each tepee pole is a marker that ties the builder to the earth, emphasizing interconnectedness. It is a spiritual habitat that embraces the occupants. A symbol of a nourishing and nurturing place.

We intend to share this interconnectedness as writers and artists in our Second Anthology, called The Blue Hour Anthology Volume Two. Some of you may be familiar with our process. Susie and I select art, and writing that has been published on our website from the middle of March to the beginning June. We will email the contributors that we have selected some time in June for the July BH Two acceptance. There is no set theme, just good art and writing. We cannot compensate our contributors with a book but will provide a complimentary, high quality pdf. We will also make an ebook which will be available on Lulu.

Also, stop by our etsy store to see the great books we’re selling.

http://thebluehourmagazine.com/2013/05/20/blue-hour-press-books-for-sale/

Beauty might not be the first thing
that comes to mind as you stroll down my shady street
as it wisely winds through this
community of folks filled with sincerity
masking the incongruity
of a musing magnolia tree planted
right next door to the pharmacy
arms stretching towards nowhere
which is found by the bunch here.

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/theliteraryunderground/2013/05/21/the-unknown-show-w-bud-smith

Yesterday, after work I poured myself a comically huge glass of wine and called Bud Smith to discuss our work at The Blue Hour and Philip Vermaas’s book Better Cigarettes and Other Poems. The Unknown Show is an interview series hosted by Bud Smith. The featured guests will range from writers, artists, musicians, ect. with a focus on projects that they are working on or promoting. The goal is to #1, not put you to sleep, and #2 leave you with some personal and often creepy details about a person who used to be unknown to you. On this show he also spoke with Mark Brunetti of the Idiom and Piscataway House: Matt K. an ex-member of the Mennonite community in Pennsylvania.

It was a pleasure to talk to Bud, and in this era of online communication it’s great to hear the voices of artists and writers.

http://thebluehourmagazine.com/2013/05/15/presale-and-ebook-available-better-cigarettes-and-other-poems-by-philip-vermaas-published-by-blue-hour-press/

Cheers!

Beware of these glasses, the hang over hides in the lip.

What they don’t tell you when things become comfortable
And you don’t have to sweat and reach for every little thing
Is that comfort is insidious
That it puts up walls painted in pretty colors
To hide the institutional grey underneath
How tendrils come up from the couch
Pretty little clinging vines that tighten when you try to move

What they don’t tell you is the walls are made of cardboard
That bend and mildew when it rains
That the tendrils grow tiny thorns that irritate the skin
That soon the embrace of comfort becomes hands around your neck

When that happens, you have two choices
You can stop resisting and accept your pretty prison
Convincing yourself that you aren’t settling
That really, this is such a nice little life
And comfort just likes you a whole lot and doesn’t mean to be suffocating
Or you can begin the process of disentangling the vines
And knocking down the walls.

I suggest your motions be covert at first,
Snipping away thorns when comfort has it’s back turned
Tiny movements to prepare for the break

But soon, you’ll just have to take that leap
Wrench comfort’s hands away
And kick the walls down

I promise you, it’s the only way you’ll remember that your alive.

and with everything soaked
                           the wind turns light
wrung out
                   fit now for flight

At dawn
              our curtains
                            quiver

And through every bird
            we begin our hearing

                           of

a whirl, a roar
                           a sprouting once more
of mud flecked
                           Skunk Cabbages

Their dirt tickling crown
                           loosens the ground
                                                      and is startling

Their gift, a greeting:

                 Louder than the Trillium
                     Louder even
than our renewed expectations