This is a daily exploration of creative energy. We post every other day "in response" to each other.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Houdini in Chains
Houdini had been born in a time
when belief in magic was strong and common place
like water to wine
and the mystery of electricity
Handsome and devilishly deft in the ways of human nature
he sought not so much as to trick, as to astound
subtle manipulator, but not enough strength
to escape the binds
of wife and mother
Both laid claims to his body and soul
Mother by birth Wife by fire
neither one cared to untangle the chains
of female bondage
encircling his heart and mind
with duty and desire
Houdini escaped the obvious magician props:
Those ropes never held
These chains are child's play
The Chinese Water Torture; a gift of life
His mother preceded him in death
but he never escaped his wife
who continued to call his name
and summon his body
until she too reached eternity
Desire always wins out in the end
But Mama got there first
Labels:
bondage,
Harry Houdini,
Houdini,
Houdini mother,
Houdini wife,
love,
magic
Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web. To contact Tru Dillon please go to her web page http://poemandprose.wordpress.com/ and send her a comment.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
The Tourist Train
my thoughts are like a tourist train
slowly moving out of dark forest
towards the limitless ocean
the cars filled with beings
who don’t live here, just visiting
happy children waving
parents cautiously smiling
grandparents tense,
they know where this ends
I sit and watch
suppressing the desire to climb on
slowly moving out of dark forest
towards the limitless oceanthe cars filled with beings
who don’t live here, just visiting
happy children waving
parents cautiously smiling
grandparents tense,
they know where this ends
I sit and watch
suppressing the desire to climb on
Friday, January 2, 2015
New Years Walk
He has a sure and steady stride
like one I used to Love
More like a lope really
a slow giddy-up kind of walk
unburdened by sickness
or frailty
a Knowing is his gait
and a place of purpose to go to
Its all purpose;
the dark blue jeans
the camouflage jacket
the mirrored sun glasses
He is moving through this parking lotlike he owns it
My gaze lingers too long
He turns around to see me
I dont return his look
instead I stare at the blue blue sky
Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web. To contact Tru Dillon please go to her web page http://poemandprose.wordpress.com/ and send her a comment.
Saturday, November 8, 2014
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
I can remember
I can remember when there seemed to be an order to things
If I did this, then this would happen
I I did not do this, then this would not happen
Order has Mutated
Order was a Joke
Order is no More
Life is happening in crinkly bits
that make no sense
My soul has flown the coop
and left me bereft for my self
Realizing there are no mistakes,
only a jury rigged semblance of life ahead
The royal We plods on
Look!
My coffee is getting cold
time to hoist high my wind ripped sails
and get on with todays mighty living
If I did this, then this would happen
I I did not do this, then this would not happen
Order has Mutated
Order was a Joke
Order is no More
Life is happening in crinkly bits
that make no sense
My soul has flown the coop
and left me bereft for my self
Realizing there are no mistakes,
only a jury rigged semblance of life ahead
The royal We plods on
Look!
My coffee is getting cold
time to hoist high my wind ripped sails
and get on with todays mighty living
Labels:
coffee,
order,
sails,
soul scars
Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web. To contact Tru Dillon please go to her web page http://poemandprose.wordpress.com/ and send her a comment.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Murmuration
I take a breath of the cool air
let it out to join the ocean of molecules
that surround this day.
My thoughts rise up like
birds up from the weeds
thousands of birds rise and
turn as one
a great black whale of the sky
which turns and swallows itself
then up and over
a giant mushroom cloud
the birds turn as one to form
a question mark before
settling back into the weeds
let it out to join the ocean of molecules
that surround this day.
My thoughts rise up like
birds up from the weeds
thousands of birds rise and
turn as one
a great black whale of the sky
which turns and swallows itself
then up and over
a giant mushroom cloud
the birds turn as one to form
a question mark before
settling back into the weeds
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Lighten the Load
Taking an inventory: what to get rid of?
Black faux seal skin coat from Mother, long in her grave
Black lace scarf now in tatters that she once wore to church
Hair from dead husband, cut from his large lusty pony tail
Nails used to hang me from the cross
Quilt made from petrified tears
Notebook containing dreams from 1982
Notebook containing dreams from 1990
Photos of people now long gone and forgotten
Skull of tiny seabird found on the shore
Mildewed bible with mouse nibbled corners
Pressed flowers from first and only prom date
Rubber band ball
Love letter from first abusive boyfriend
Love letter from first non abusive boyfriend
Letter from Father where he says he loves me and I should be a good girl
Tiny holographic eyeball that stares at me from a silver frame
Wanting none of these things, they are put in a box
and moved
yet again to my new home
Black faux seal skin coat from Mother, long in her grave
Black lace scarf now in tatters that she once wore to church
Hair from dead husband, cut from his large lusty pony tail
Nails used to hang me from the cross
Quilt made from petrified tears
Notebook containing dreams from 1982
Notebook containing dreams from 1990
Photos of people now long gone and forgotten
Skull of tiny seabird found on the shore
Mildewed bible with mouse nibbled corners
Pressed flowers from first and only prom date
Rubber band ball
Love letter from first abusive boyfriend
Love letter from first non abusive boyfriend
Letter from Father where he says he loves me and I should be a good girl
Tiny holographic eyeball that stares at me from a silver frame
Wanting none of these things, they are put in a box
and moved
yet again to my new home
Labels:
inventory poem,
memory,
moving
Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web. To contact Tru Dillon please go to her web page http://poemandprose.wordpress.com/ and send her a comment.
Monday, July 14, 2014
Ballast
The boat chugged slowly
around the headland
cutting through choppy waves
on its way to the harbor
the customary seagulls
sat on the cliffs and watched
as if waiting for some dreaded event
the boat waddled low in the water
it would not clear the bar
the sailors were throwing
heavy sisal bags over the side
ballast to lighten the load
whatever it was the gulls just hissed
around the headland
cutting through choppy waves
on its way to the harbor
the customary seagulls
sat on the cliffs and watchedas if waiting for some dreaded event
the boat waddled low in the water
it would not clear the bar
the sailors were throwing
heavy sisal bags over the side
ballast to lighten the load
whatever it was the gulls just hissed
Monday, June 9, 2014
Faith
For my Friend Brian
Faith is the Ballast
Some use Water
Others use Dragonwood
Faith is the Ballast
Some use Water
Others use Dragonwood
Caricature of Lola Montez's departure for America
Labels:
ballast,
faith,
Lola Montez
Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web. To contact Tru Dillon please go to her web page http://poemandprose.wordpress.com/ and send her a comment.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Rondo in F
The operator sits down
a piano becomes a time machine
she presses the keys
and a message
from the eighteenth century
enters the room
although buried in an unmarked grave
“Wolfie” as he was affectionately called
etched out his thoughts
into the wall of time
sitting here, in this room
listening to that message sent
over two hundred years ago
I write these words on electric paper
a message folded and stuffed
into a crevice in that same wall
a piano becomes a time machine
she presses the keys
and a message
from the eighteenth century
enters the room
although buried in an unmarked grave“Wolfie” as he was affectionately called
etched out his thoughts
into the wall of time
sitting here, in this room
listening to that message sent
over two hundred years ago
I write these words on electric paper
a message folded and stuffed
into a crevice in that same wall
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Percussion
She is the Percussion
tick tock
click clack
jingle jangle
Come to rattle yer cage
Ha Ha no one is safe
Kakoosh kakoosh
swish swish
peasoup peasoup peasoup
Come to rattle yer cage
Labels:
cage,
noise,
peasoup,
percussion
Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web. To contact Tru Dillon please go to her web page http://poemandprose.wordpress.com/ and send her a comment.
Friday, May 9, 2014
The Apron
I asked Mr. Google
if he knew her
if he remembered her
he shrugged
I’m sorry he said
maybe if she had
done something important
or she was the mother of
someone important
then I think there would
be a line around here somewhere
turning away I wanted to say
I remember her
the smell of soap and cooking
imbedded deep in her apron
as I grabbed on
to steady my feet
if he knew her
if he remembered her
he shrugged
I’m sorry he said
maybe if she had
done something important
or she was the mother of
someone important
then I think there wouldbe a line around here somewhere
turning away I wanted to say
I remember her
the smell of soap and cooking
imbedded deep in her apron
as I grabbed on
to steady my feet
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Mother and Son
I'm sorry
Its OK
I was so young
I know
How can you ever forgive me
Maybe I never will
Its OK
I'm sorry
I know
Labels:
mother,
mother and son,
son
Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web. To contact Tru Dillon please go to her web page http://poemandprose.wordpress.com/ and send her a comment.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
The Stories We Tell
A group of refugees with
tired road-worn feet
gather under a shading oak tree
and after resting for a while
started exchange their precious
stories of home
good soil, sweet water, old friends
the perfect proportion of
sunny days and gentle rain
and after taking time to
complain about their situation
closed their eyes
remembering days and places
that never existed
tired road-worn feet
gather under a shading oak tree
and after resting for a while
started exchange their precious
stories of homegood soil, sweet water, old friends
the perfect proportion of
sunny days and gentle rain
and after taking time to
complain about their situation
closed their eyes
remembering days and places
that never existed
Monday, April 28, 2014
No Perfection
Today is a day like any other day in my postage stamp yard blinding with white sun
Iridescent hummingbirds, royal purple petunias, green aphids and rusted rose leaves
Exist side by side
Floaty butterfly's are in decline while the ants quickly take over carrying their precious
Jade like aphids from leaf to leaf spreading disease while they make sweet milk for the colony
My life is expecting perfection; No fuck ups allowed
I could have been a flower or bird or aphid or ant
but stuck in human form
watching—weighing—wishing
There is no perfection,
Only the acceptance of its non existence
Labels:
ants,
barbie poem,
butterfly,
Hummingbird,
insect,
no perfection,
postage stamp yard
Tru Dillon has been involved in art since she was born. Drawing, painting, singing and writing have captured her interest above all else. She wrote her first book of poems at 12 years of age and has since written many more poems and is hoping someday to create another book of her poetry. For now she is content to write on the World Wide Web. To contact Tru Dillon please go to her web page http://poemandprose.wordpress.com/ and send her a comment.
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