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Best Poems From
DONNA QUESINBERRY
(06/05/1957)
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17.
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Raspberry Gardens
~another bucketman series~..
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the week was dry
without whit, she
misses humor in
the mundanity
of modern dwelling.
thinking the rustic
life may be the
more illustrious
after all this social
experimenting and
clammoring to the
new heights, perhaps
the obillisk with the
small cottage and
two acres, like kernals,
would be the wiser
stimulation. where
clothes could be
dropped for a balmy
steam in the outdoor
sweathouse for family
or close friends with
vodka all around
one, two, three shots
then basking by firelight
at the end of a 'day'
of tilling owned earth.
would have merit.
the blackberry gives
her sore tendons.
like the swell after a
romp on the keyboard
battling words for the
merriment of unknown
souls or soldiers, who
are wrecking their toils
on humanity. the earnest
buck, somehow shot
for his rack. to hang
on walls with decals
and profane misalignments
the faked photos with
handshakes and leers
from sidelines. of those
jealous souls. to labor
at the earth and shake
her roots. would somehow
be beneficial. and maybe
a little paint and dabbling
with herbs would satisfy
what she has become.
Donna Quesinberry
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18.
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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
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19.
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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
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20.
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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
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