Category Archives: Poetry

Something pungent

. Something pornographic in the shallot’s disposition, Indisposed to be an onion, much less leek or chive, It tempts not by strength or intellect or subtlety But preens and coils before the eyes. “Scallion” charges he, “Queen,” says she, “of … Continue reading

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The best of the poems, photos, and meditations to appear on UPICTURE have now been collected in a book,  KILLERS IN TUTUS, available at Amazon.  Click here.  The cover photo appeared on November 2, 2012 in an essay on Fasching … Continue reading

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We is I, I is We

Children play in the confessional: We is I and I is We.  There are problems with canes and crutches always, as prostheses discarded are reclaimed on Mondays. Nous rendons grace a … But the chantier fund needs chanting up. No … Continue reading

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. No one is to be blamed for the way they laugh, of course. It is assumed to be an unconscious form of consciousness, so also a permissible glimpse of the private person. We think “Oh, of course, he laughs … Continue reading

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How do U picture?

What are we seeing here? I almost wrote looking at but that comes later. There is something left, something right we want the sense of, that’s why these words want to erupt. What you picture is sub-sequent (that’s the clue) … Continue reading

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Not all stairs lead to the next …

. In September you walk your garden, seeing that not all crops have produced, not all plants have survived, some trees never even bloomed. You look up in the shattering leaves falling from the autumn’s oaks, knowing not all stairs … Continue reading

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Birdsong after rain

. The best birdsong comes after hard rain when severed tree limbs drip green gelid water, car alarms clash with keening ambulances in spongy air. There comes a pause. Then birds never noticed cry across my body from the window … Continue reading

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Pink Bike at the Art Museum

. For an early morning outing he took his daughter to the Art Museum, which he imagined in its Rocky majesty: They ran laps around the fountain and sprinted up steps to see the sunrise reflected on downtown skyscrapers: the … Continue reading

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Feel them stir.

. Winter is a time of seeming surfaces: trees glittering with ice, land locked beneath snow drifts, little grey birds flitting like flies in arbor vitae. But everything will return from roots, sleeping, nearly dead, they perform their yearly miracle, … Continue reading

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The Approach of Winter

. Young and stupid, I thought of old poets depressed by the approach of winter as damaged trees, as lame dogs, lacking the lean into headwind. But the seasons teach us, and woe unto you whom the sand-sided wind does … Continue reading

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