She walks to the sea — to her home
on this bright but cloudy day
steps onto the sea alone
confused she wanders away
yes — she can walk on water
I’ve always known this was her way
she is neptune’s prodigal daughter
she is returning home today
on this bright but cloudy day
with my heart bursting with wishes
tearfully she must walk away
high above the colorful fishes
with her heart awash in wishes
a’walk on the sea’s blue sway
high over the colorful fishes
she’s pulled by two loves today
she slips into the sea’s blue sway
neptune’s beauty on bold display
she has mixed feelings of love today
so she lets her heart lead her way
alone with her dreams and wishes
now a’swim in the seabed’s sway
deep deep down with the fishes
she has made up her mind today
here among the beautiful fish
she’s resolved but still afraid
she’s embracing her father’s wish
she’s again become a mermaid
having shed her human skin
she descends with a quiet spin
a graceful whoosh of her tailfin
and her sea life begins again
now a’swim in the seabed’s sway
there’s nothing more really to say
she has left my world today
letting the sea carry her away
she’s off into the ocean’s blue
her time on dry land is through
she’s gone, nothing I can do
but bid her sweet love adieu
because sadly — I always knew
she can’t… can’t take me — it’s true
~ I originally published this October of 2018, again Oct. 2019, now Oct. 2022. ~ Happy Halloween
This castle is most ominous
since becoming Voivode of Wallachia
Vlad II has not followed his father’s example
no joy and celebration reverberates
through the greattooms, hallways, and towers
of this venerable old structure
it has become dark and foreboding
and rumored dangerous
even deadly
but I know they are not just rumors
there is a murderous evil dwells here
undead and otherworldly
bloodthirsty and cruel
a ruthless predator
whom I have come to slay
I must move quickly from this light
that pools incrementally
in this long
pungent
segmented hallway
there is some safety in the shadows
that linger tight
to the arch walls
so I bolt
through the full moon’s glow
that seeps silvered through the windows
I press myself
against the damp irregular surfaces
that are the stacked-stone
boundary breaks
of this eerie chiseled passage
I pause at each
listening
casting glances all ’round
this monster moves like a vapor
so what I can see
is far more important
than what I can hear
but still
I listen
this demon has servants
soul sworn to loyalty
that must move on foot
their approach I could hear
so fully alert
I employ all my senses
in my critical vigilence
stealthily I move
from archway to archway
until I reach the last
I halt
relaxing the tension
in my right hand
I carefuly open my fingers
very slightly
to close them tight again
feeling the smooth wooden shaft
of the stake I have carved
securely in my grasp
this is the weapon I’ll wield
to bring and end
to the ungodly bloodlust
of this ghastly creature
the good people here call
Dracula
as I stand here
back to the dampened wall
relief seasons my trepidation
nothing in my being
wants this dire mission
to which I am shackled
but it is only my hand
on the carved wood dagger
tightly in my sweating grip
that can bring an end
to my uncle’s unholy
reign of horror
I am the youngest male
of our cursed bloodline
so the brutal deed
falls to me
creeping ever forward
like a shade on the dank wall
I move cautiously closer
to the iron-laden
dense wood door
of his sleeping chamber
my heart pounding
my diaphram starved for breath
I feel I may pass out
but still I pursue
the evil incarnate
that lies coffin’d
in undead repose
suddenly
a noise
immediately behind me
it echoes through these catacombs
pierces my taut raw nerves
and instantly paralyzes me
trembling
I turn
no one there
hushed
I listen intently
no other sounds
save the blood
pulsing as a roar
in my ears
I begin to move
but again
I hear it
panicked
I jerk my head around
and see
in this frozen moment
my stressed mind deduces
the source of the noise
moisture
collecting on the stone ceiling
gathers overhead
into sagging condensation
it released
as a weighty droplet
splattering on the floor
just behind me
with a sharp startling slap
I relax a bit
enough to again draw
tensioned breath
several more labored
careful steps
and I place my hand
gently on the wrought handle
of the immense door
confirming the lethal dagger
quivering in my right hand
I reach
steadily as possible
into my pocket
and withdraw a strange key
I have secreted there
that allows me access
to his chamber
it is unnaturally heavy
and seems to emanate
an unearthly energy
I clutch it firmly
fearing if I lose my grip
I will lose my nerve
I guide the key
into the slot
of the ornate handle plate
seating it fully
slowly I begin to turn it
I feel the resistance
as the key’s teeth
engage with the bolt
and begin to grudgingly
draw it from its secure well
just before I have fully retracted it
I pause
my mind racing
blood pressure soaring
overcome by the magnitude
of what I am about to do
no turning back now
this must be done
and I must do it
but I am terrified
still I hesitate
attempting to gain
my much needed composure
I slow my heartbeat
steady my breathing
steel my resolve
and turn the key
its final quarter inch
the lock clicks
the handle releases
and the door unseats inwardly
this is it
fate has dealt the deck
I am both prisoner
and executioner
in this horrible game
I swing the door open
ever so gradually
eyes rapidly scanning
this vampire lair
Thirty-two, synthetic polymer paint on canvas, each 20 x 16″. Overall installation, with 3″ between each canvass panel is, 97″ high x 163″ wide — artist: Andy Warhol 1962
Evidence of soup can be found as early as 20,000 BC, with the invention of waterproof clay containers for boiling, by the use of hot rocks — a method used to cook acorns and other plants. The earliest archaeological evidence for the consumption of soup dates back to 6000 BC, and it was hippopotamus soup.
The word soup is from both the French word “soupe”, meaning broth, and from the word “suppa”, a Germanic word — from which also comes the word “sop” (bread used to soak thick stew).
Interestingly, the word “restaurant” springs from a 16th French word “restaurer”, referring to a highly concentrated, inexpensive French soup, sold by street vendors. In 1765, a Parisian entrepreneur opened a shop specializing in such soups. This prompted the use of the modern word restaurant for the eating establishments.
In the US, the first colonial cookbook, published by William Parks in Williamsburg, Virginia, in 1742, included several recipes for soups and bisques. A 1772 cookbook, The Frugal Housewife, contained an entire chapter on the topic. German immigrants, living in Pennsylvania were famous for their potato soups. In 1794, Jean Baptiste Gilbert Payplat dis Julien opened an eating establishment in Boston called “The Restorator”. He became known as the “Prince of Soups”. The first American cooking pamphlet dedicated to soup recipes was written in 1882 by Emma Ewing: entitled “Soups and Soup Making”.
In 1869 fruit merchant Joseph Campbell, and commercial canner Abraham Anderson had a simple idea to make food that was good, trusted, affordable, and available to the masses. Campbell Soup Co was born. Americans eat more than 10 billion bowls of soup each year.
In 1962, Andy Warhol turned the Campbell soup can into an international icon of Pop Art, with an installation featuring thirty-two, synthetic polymer paint on canvas — every flavor of Campbell soup. The most popular soup variety in the U.S. is chicken noodle.
”Self Portrait” artist: Andy Warhol
andy shoots his soup
lou and nico go velvet
quant makes it mini
lichtenstein makes the girls cry
all whilegoes the culture
Tanka backstory:
~ Andy Warhol creates his famous Campbell soup can art.
~ Lou Reed and Nico partner in the famous band, Velvet Underground.
~ Mary Quant creates her controversial Mini Skirt.
~ Roy Fox Lichtenstein creates his two famous “Crying Girl” artworks.(see below)
Here
in this moonlit forest
midnight shimmers
through the misty boughs of old growth
as if star clusters dance the branches
from harvest to hunter
this moon strides the equinox
evolving sentinel
to watch over
above our high-mountain meadow
setting aglow the chill lake
like sterling satin
a light frost
blankets this crystalline wonderland
night holds deep and quiet
save a great white owl
echoing through the sparkling cedars
lover and beloved
we entwine
wrapped in a pre-dawn half-wake
a semi-lucid trance
enchanted by the spectacle
just outside our window
I hear myself whisper how long have I been awake
is it morning
yet I do not want to know
I do not want to break this spell
but rather
to lie here in your arms
wrapped in swaddled warmth
to fall again
into tender slumber
gently lit by moonlight
traversing with moon and you
this time and space of dreams
Laced slim fast into skin tight midnight leathers
hearing the resonant call of the freedom bells
seduced by the beckon of the open road
she races two wheel’n into further
leaning tightly into curves
wind whipping her hair
her knees tucked
head down
flyin’
My first hand began with two red queens
lady hearts <~and~> madame diamonds
two powerful bitches as ever there was
neither’d be mistaken for the queen of oz
loved ‘em both — they sacred me
shared ‘em both — they loved me
the dealer dealt me three more cards
each one was a king
thought to myself
we gotta full house here
ain’t that a helluva thing
had this sly smile on my face
my pair’o ladies — leather’n lace
we were sure to do some damage
in this cold n’lonely poker place
saw my opponent comin’
stared straight into his ugly face
his was a handful’a heavy black clubs
a fierce flush from ten to ace
was this the time for my disgrace
knew I’d never beat his heavy crew
need’ta change m’plans — try sumthin’ new
but diamond lady wanted blood
that warrior woman is a stud
the story is true about the diamond queen
a crazy royal tempest — dirty, down, and mean
but m’lady of the hearts is a lady true
fightin’ ain’t what she do
compared with m’lady “D”‘s lit anger
as tough as any red queen could be
my lady “H” simply ain’t no “banger”
she wouldn’t be much help to me
the beauty of my queen of hearts
is revered by wealthy lords
finest poets of the realm
wax on in sweet accords
she gets the smitten “marks” to the table
from there my queen of ICE is able
my diamond lass is killer cunning
she’ll kick your ass if she sees you coming
n’there’s another thing ‘ya see
she happens also to be
the lethal red queen of swords
a warrior of very few words
yes, we lost the hand for sure
but then we won the war
we — got all the money
that gang’o clubs
just got the door
I wrote the core of this piece 24 years ago, as an homage to Shel Silverstein.
I’ve now significantly edited it to address Lisa’s prompt for today.
Where The Sidewalk Ends — Shel Silverstein
From down there
down there
it’s coming from down there
from where?
down there?
yes sis
I swear
that horrible smell
that’s filling the air
the one that’s most certainly
impossible to bear
is coming from that women
with the massive blue hair
sitting right there
on the patio chair
on the deck of the house
that’s below us
right there
what a putrid aroma
you’d think that she’d care
there are simply some things
that one never should share
like the stink that is rising
from that vat by her chair
on the deck of the house
right below us
down there
maybe I’m wrong
at least I hope I am
please
but I think in that vat
she is fermenting a cheese
ah—thn…ah—thn…ah—thn…
ah—think I’m gonna !SNEEZE!
from the grody-gross loathsome
smell’a that cheeze
not sure what kind
hope it’s not what I think
but only one kind
makes such a horrible stink
oh no dear — I’m right
I’m gonna scream bloody murder
that nasty cheese she’s fermenting
is a vile limburger
if one’s going to create
such a noxious foul stench
at least have the manners
to be a neighborly mench
and not foul the ozone
rather exhibit some pride
ferment when you’re alone
and please — do it inside
and lady — the hideous color
of that mountain of hair
I can’t help it
can’t help it
I can’t help but stare
it’s a tangled and horrible
monument to…
a disgusting and eye-blinding
shade of bright blue
and causing me a feeling
of nausea too
I must look away lady
my heads starting to whirl
between the cheese
and the hair
you’ve made my toes curl
I fear over the edge here
I’m going to hurl
and I don’t want to do that
in front of a girl
perhaps you’re chromatically challenged my friend
but consider the others that you might offend
a monumentally grotesque rat’s nest of blue
is not something anyone wants to look at on you
oh look sis — look
look again down there
that woman’s takin’ that vat
n’walkin’way from her chair
oh joy — for joy
that’s all I can say
thank our lucky stars
sis — she is goin’ away
and I hope away
she will stay
for the rest of the day
at least as long as the wind
keeps on blowing our way
We are infinite beings
ever reawaking slowly
from an eternal place
our ultimate coming to “be”
unknown to us as any mystery
as gradually we open to our identity
like the waxing of an eternal moon
evolving to its fullness
our essence forever an enigma
our awareness dawns
like the gradual rising
of a fresh-born sun
the ultimate unveiling
of yet another eternal path
of the infinite many
we feel the substance of our emergence
as it flows effortlessly
into timelessness
it courses through our beings
as our essential lifeblood
as we become
what we have always been
immortal
spiraling upward
to become further
as always
it is in this ever becoming
that we see
we are infinite beings
part of an infinite whole
conscious in this ever-moment
dreaming to sustain the moment
eternally
so move boldly through this plane
be not anchored by expectations
remain ever filled with wonder
always open to the unbelievable
as this thread of the continuum
unfurls
unfolding splendid miracles
When the most capable
believe they have risen above
the mucus, the shit, the afterbirth
of their origin
when in their reflection
they see perverse transcendence
towards entitlement
in which no allegiance
or kinship of nature
binds them to their center
nor founds them in the
fevered fumbling fury
of the frightened flesh parade
in which they lock step
flailing for survival
when their insanity of arrogance
so distorts their vision of time
of the ancient
of the sweating
bone-broken reality
of human swill and wallow
through which they likewise trudge
shiny shoes or no
when they blatantly begin
to eat their own
while copulating with false gods
on forsaken gilded altars
of perjured horrors
then the hour of the beasts
is certainly at hand
and the power of wild nature
will rise up to dominate
and we’ll all become
the hulking mass
of the apocalypse
deserving to be struck down
and our black hearts
torn out and severed
by the self-inflicted rapier
of raw wild justice
and our husks immolated
on the pyre of banished
abandoned truth
His muse was born in Brooklyn, a daughter of the red way. A political activist when she emerged in the Greenwich Village folk scene. Fate revealed Suze Rotolo to Bob at a folk concert in July 1961. “Cupid’s arrow… hit me in the heart”, he said.
Suze became his mindful muse. Yesteryear’s yarns now paled for Dylan, focusing instead on current social inequities. They moved in together in early 1962. As Bob’s social consciousness grew, so did his fame, and outside pressure on the relationship. It failed to survive an abortion, and Dylan’s affair with Joan Baez. Suze and Dylan ultimately separated in 1964.
Dylan credits Suze with his social consciousness, and his interest in French poet Arthur Rimbaud, and German playwright Bertolt Brecht, both nihilists — who impacted the darkness of his future songwriting. “To her, death is quite romantic. I understand her fascination.”
goes the culture
