|
|
|
Best Poems From
DONNA QUESINBERRY
(06/05/1957)
|
|
| |
|
|
17.
|
She Moved Mountains Then Ranges Took Control
what is it to write ~ dropping consciousness ~ reality in the limelight ~ vessels that deliver hemaglobin's scripts ~ free versettes ~ free versors ~ transcend their own air
<>|<><><><>|<>
crossed earth
grabbing dreams
putting them in parcels
to send back home
~~~~~~~~~~~~
opened tabloids
countering ills
packaged them for shelf
images to store forever
~~~~~~~~~~~~
discovered mysteries
escapist visionary renderings
holding auras captive
in every space
saying vacancy filled
Donna Quesinberry
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
18.
|
She Spoke With Aquinias, He Told Her To Go Home, To Wait
~<: >~<: >~<: >~
she ate persimmons
midst white noise
bared in
mirrored reality
rousing peaks
details clamored, oscillated
high to low
low to high
equalizers balanced
giant birdseeded ledges
garnered breasts
swollen heart
pacing
midst white noise
~<: >~<: >~<: >~
Donna Quesinberry
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
19.
|
Talking To Mice
My old p u s s y lays like dust
waiting as hours pass her resident attitude.
She's resplendent in her own self-satisfaction,
consummations beyond number-I believe she
self-actualized. We let her stretch-out, relaxed in postures,
and pay her homage as time saunters by extending
no especial curiosities.
The day she first arrived
we were breathless, named her-
sophiekat.
Her downy fur had sleek appeal, everyone
who saw her always said she was a real good p u s s y.
A little thread worn now she's lost some luster,
we groom her regular to keep up appearances
knowing passersby miss the details.
Our psychologist friend rubbed off on her,
so she won't prowl anymore, the mice
sit down next to her and she talks with them.
She doesn't believe in chasing anymore,
she communicates instead.
Doesn't feel she's grown so old
why, just days ago, we discovered her.
Having had it all already
she requires only peace in solitude;
once in a while
she urges me to play with her,
then i know
she's still my sophiekat,
still my friend.
So i do.
Donna Quesinberry
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
| |
|
|
20.
|
Tattered Hairy Swallows And Pigs By Walls
Tattered harried swallows and pigs by walls
The black mass craved
white light,
It was known by all
who lived;
Swallowing up the tattered
harried swallows,
First-then pigs who stood
by walls.
The black mass sought
passion's play.
It grew to heights untold,
yet counted-
Capturing the favored queen
her troops,
Though some delighted, found lands
yet undivided.
The black mass reigned
thousands' years,
It careened, it howled, excited
then died.
It's funeral grand, fastidious, sure: to wit
no-one invited.
Donna Quesinberry
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|