Crossing the threshold,
musty air hinted at
life as a sarcophagus.
between lopsided rooms.
It was no surprise
when it burnt down.
But what made it a poem,
was the name:
& flea market
“You belong in a museum!”
Just a homeless drunk’s proclamation,
but she tended to agree.
Then one day: prophecy fulfilled!
She becomes a 1904, North Island Manse of the villa style
(while next door, the Presbyterian Church has been converted).
She loves the 2 mil window panes,
so thin they distort the view,
and in a certain light, and at a certain angle,
she sees Monet in the neighbouring silk trees.
She delights in the scrim and sarking remnants,
where one room reveals it’s hessian walled past
(even the local museum is limited to modern gibbed plaster boards).
She adds her own additions:
turn of the century township photography,
wooden reproduction writing desks,
woolen carpet with antiqued colours,
and rotary dial phone in Bakelite.
It was only her work in paying the mortgage that stopped her
becoming a full-time museum.
Sometimes she’d notice how curated her life was,
so she’d deliberately leave a mess of DVDs in her “living room”,
but really it was just the contemporary section exhibit.
But museums have openings and she
couldn’t red cordon her life forevermore,
but neither could she curate someone else’s life,
and while he talked to her of
Bobbins from old woolen mills he’d
found hidden in antique emporiums,
she wondered if the museum would have to close.
But even museums modernise. She allowed in a smart TV.
She sighs a little, thinking:
“art may sometimes imitate life,
but I wanted my life to imitate art”.
She dreams of smashing the TV,
but not yet,
not while there’s still
love to be found.
You know they can appear bird song floating off a tree branch a cat rocking his cat flap before prancing into the hallway the cyclist appears – disappears – appears in the wing mirror a pot slipping from the poorly stacked dish rack You know they can appear but sometimes you enter that concave zone […]
Your hazel eyes: green and gold
stoke my embers, make me glow.
Lighting shift reveals amber hue,
where iris warmth melts me to you.
Who I see, before me now
Showing me truth, teaching me how.
Reflections of one, given so true
Circles of love, give me to you.
(The second stanza was in response to the first)
Where magic and pen meet.
Something poetic and intensely creepy
Keep it Rolling...
Embrace your unrestricted nature and surrender your soul to the power of the invincible…
.Welcome to my Metaphors.
Tracking retractions as a window into the scientific process
Musings on poetry, language, perception, numbers, food, and anything else that slips through the cracks.
we were born naked onto the page of existence; with nothing but the pen of our soul to write ourselves into eternal ecstasy ~ DreamingBear Baraka Kanaan
Critical analysis of scholarly open-access publishing
ON = TIME
Get your poison, love.
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Poet playing in the bowels of vowels and kicking across consonants, I run roughshod through uncooperative words and strike an inking rhyme or two. Copyright © 2012-2014 Tiffany Coffman All Rights Reserved
"This is just the kind of sense that's... not."
A work in progress
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** OFFICIAL Site of Artist Ray Ferrer **
on the road + poetry + traveling bookstore + Nostrovia! Press + Tucson, AZ
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A collection of poetry and essays on politics, social justice and the condition of humanity