tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90280015039068723102011-10-06T14:29:03.991-07:00poetry, poetry, poetryCory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.comBlogger401100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-69045004921762764402011-02-15T17:18:00.000-08:002011-02-16T11:24:26.180-08:00

p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }  She screams at her kids,“you do not know what Zen is,lousy grasshoppers!”

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-21236330741371911062011-02-14T19:12:00.000-08:002011-02-14T19:20:28.965-08:00

 @font-face { font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }h1 { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; page-break-after: avoid; font-size: 14pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-weight: normal; }div.Section1 { page: Section1 @font-face { font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal,

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-72943953648939336232011-02-01T17:20:00.000-08:002011-02-01T17:20:13.432-08:00

The stranger's eyes beckon, like the muddy rain puddles she loved to splash in as a child, her red rubber boots and raincoat keeping her dry, as she squealed with delight. She wants to drown in those eyes and die in his absolution, desperate to believe that her husband has nothing to forgive her. *****

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-41299434390054768122011-01-18T17:56:00.001-08:002011-01-18T18:26:21.735-08:00

My imagination couldn't encompass a world without you, or finding you that way, with yesterday's newspaper, cold coffee and oatmeal waiting for you at your solitary table.

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-82088526694281695212011-01-16T20:48:00.000-08:002011-01-16T20:48:35.113-08:00

Forgetting her husband, she inhales the stranger's words like pheromones. A delicious tingle stirs, erasing thought, desire expanding from pinpoint to saturation in seconds. Her pulse and his music come together, like jasmine vines, drunk on the scent of their own blooms. Tightly twisted in a slow-motion dance of mutual seduction, they inch skyward, rising, rising, until gravity will no

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-77903749970169108302011-01-08T07:42:00.000-08:002011-01-08T07:42:54.783-08:00

a feather settles on dusty winter ground birds follow sun

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-64696364590491000672011-01-08T07:39:00.000-08:002011-01-08T07:39:39.210-08:00

The new year is now a week old. Too early to tell what it's going to be when it grows up. Today it woke up gray and overcast, almost like winter. McAllen, Texas is one of the few places where a day like this is celebrated as a climatic breakthrough. While most of the country bundles up and struggles with snow and ice, the sun almost always shines here (sometimes too much!) I hear a Great Kiskadee

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-32790592467554555482011-01-07T22:04:00.000-08:002011-01-07T22:04:58.436-08:00

Hello All, I've been away from this blog for quite a while. I've been very involved with the poetry forum on Poem.Org and have neglected this blog in the process. To those of you who have been faithful followers all this time, thank you. To any newbies who find their way here, welcome. I'll definitely try to be a little more regular in my posting from now on. Submission The past, a seductive

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-67463487178141700172010-06-12T20:47:00.000-07:002010-06-12T20:47:14.417-07:00

He tries to sneak up, but she can smell him coming, his workout complete. She knows that he's there, but he likes playing this game, so she ignores him. Giving him her back, she's slowly unbuttoning, fanning his desire. Now he's against her, his maleness encompassing-- he's her entire world. He kisses her neck, his prickly whiskers scratching away her layers. His hands come forward, her

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-59336488173469294622010-06-12T20:29:00.000-07:002010-06-12T20:29:46.096-07:00

Saluting stiff-armed, her twelve-year-old son calls her a Nazi, his words like acid in her face. Her daughter, seventeen and bent on going to hell, keeps still behind her closed door, making pretty incisions and humming softly. Marie sighs and quietly shuts her own bedroom door. Curled on the bed, she reads the crumpled collection of meaningless words once more-- her husband's terse goodbye.

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-42129199724536615382010-06-12T20:06:00.000-07:002010-06-12T20:06:20.977-07:00

Elegant Bandit Oh Great Kiskadee, lemon-yellow vest, black mask, elegant bandit.  *** Doves They are not mourning-- sentimental more than sad-- pink-gray wistful doves. ***   Transformation Voracious eater becomes delicate sipper with rice-paper wings. *** Pulse Palm on cool granite, she feels the earth's steady pulse and forgets herself. *** Woodpecker Red top-knot ablaze, piliated

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-82840022657540450402010-05-20T20:04:00.000-07:002010-05-20T20:04:25.135-07:00

I became less than a stranger, easily left behind, an impetus for your departure, a muse who inspired your plans of solitary devising, carefully polished in your mind, savored by a heart that no longer knew me. As I shuffle through the scraps of what you left me, I think I see you watching, and then the image pops, the way a light bulb does as it ends its earthly life, a burst of

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-71242468691594617082010-05-20T17:12:00.000-07:002010-05-20T17:29:15.521-07:00

I've recently fallen in love with haiku. So elegant, such an economy of words, so Zen! I love it so much, in fact, that I've compiled five of them here together to be read either as free-standing haiku, or as a five-verse poem. What better subject than the much-maligned vulture for my haiku-ish debut? * * * * * The despised vulture soars high like the noble hawk, dines on his leavings. Hawk

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-14724795792651108442010-03-19T20:56:00.000-07:002010-03-19T20:56:22.675-07:00

My first today with no tomorrow. The clock is broken, no time left to borrow a half-cup of hope, a dash of compassion, something to wear that's not out of fashion...

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-18540228262587372562010-03-17T22:19:00.000-07:002010-03-17T22:19:17.732-07:00

The summer sun dapples the forest floor,piercing through the pine and larch branches,warming the blanket of needles,inches deep, releasing the aromaof slow coniferous decomposition.The air seems thick, as if it harbors forest spirits,invisible, yet palpable. Suddenly, everythinggoes quiet. The familiar rustlings of mice and voles,the comic scolding of squirrels,the hammering of a piliated

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-85829158445843208572010-03-12T20:49:00.000-08:002011-02-02T21:47:35.707-08:00

This poem is dedicated to all my fellow poets on a poetry forum I participate in. Some of the devices used in this poem, such as the throat clearing, the dashes and ellipses, are things that have been criticized by our peers on the forum, thus earning a special place in this poem. A-hem! Dearly beloved,we are gathered here together... the oh-so-solemn traditionalists,whose poetry smiles not, the

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-13820183578771051862010-02-24T20:43:00.000-08:002010-03-01T18:46:50.924-08:00

Peacocks posing prettily, preening periodically, prideful, plumed, poetically parading, pretending  they don't taste like chicken.

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-62264514554614974782010-02-17T20:59:00.000-08:002010-02-19T15:58:24.757-08:00

McAllen, Texas, just eight miles from the Mexican border---Today I went out in my back yard, where most of the plants are either dormant or dead due to some very un-typical cold weather last month. All by its lonesome, one "mid-winter rose" was blooming. Bright lemony, buttery yellow, it was opening itself up to the February sunshine, where it basked all day long. This is my first post on this

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-57317420400661495622010-02-14T20:31:00.000-08:002010-02-14T22:52:14.030-08:00

Patches is a pampered petbut still one of the boys.He's got two good buddies.Here's what he enjoys:He rides with his friendsin a dapple gray car.It's quite a short trip,town's not very far.He needs lots of room,so he sits in the back,as he and his buddieshead for a snack.They go to the drive-thru,like regular folk---cheeseburgers and fries,please hold the coke!They eat their lunchthen drive

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-60118606683839320612010-02-02T16:19:00.000-08:002011-02-02T21:53:57.560-08:00

I think of them as tiny people that I carry around in the pockets of my mind along with lint rusty paperclips missing buttons and small change from a misspent life they tiptoe through the disorderly conduct of my thoughts collecting bits and pieces of people and places books and songs comic strips and movies things that drifted into and out of my life a hastily discarded feeling here a

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-55247847278128031332010-01-12T12:09:00.000-08:002010-01-18T21:13:42.441-08:00

(click photo to enlarge)on one of thoserarest of daysin McAllen, Texaswhen winterhas descendedever so brieflyon the townleaving lushtropical plantsburned and blackened(like no summer heatcan do)the air is palpablecrisp anddeliciously coldon church-goingnoses(the church-goersall safely bundledagainst any moreserious exposure)the sun still shines(brighter it seemsthan in summer)and flaunts

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-51224086482451527572010-01-12T11:51:00.001-08:002010-01-12T12:51:11.406-08:00

(click on photo to enlarge)his black is the blackof the beady eyes of well-lovedbut long-lostchildhood teddy bearsshiny as ifhe'd polished each haircarefully in the early morningpromise of the daya lustrous compilationtoo beautifulto be calledmerely a "coat"much too elegantto be called "fur"the envy of the prince of darknessBen is dressedin a garmentfitting to his station---the cat who cameto

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-47078806921455929302010-01-10T20:02:00.000-08:002010-01-10T20:18:23.943-08:00

like a second-handbookfound trampledon the floorat an estate saleher pagesare folded backupon themselvesover and overlike so manyorigami birdswithout flightwithout lifewords trappedinside the creasesand foldsher clumsy handsmadetrying to shapea sanctuaryrefuge somehowturned to jailhome-made solitaryconfinement withno escapeno parolecrumpled paper birdscrushed against the bars...* * * * * * *

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-5879952033261780222010-01-10T19:37:00.000-08:002010-01-18T21:37:15.000-08:00

This is something I wrote when my friend, Linda Sue, was 55 (more than a few years back) and her son, Erik, was 15. My view of 70 is much different now than it was at 50!do you realize---my dear girlthat when your sonhas doubled his ageyou will be seventy?he will have a wife(or not)several childrenall tow-headed and lovely(or not)and you will be seventy(or not)you might be dead insteadand flying

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-89715768062087982652010-01-09T19:46:00.000-08:002010-01-09T19:59:56.557-08:00

Twitter is one of the most popular means of "social networking" these days. In case you haven't heard, any message you put on twitter has to be 140 characters (including spaces between words) or less. A while ago, someone asked "tweeters" to submit poems that fell within the 140 character limit. Here are a few that I came up with:life can be joyfullife can be sweetit's much better sharedso you

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-27165769156003944082010-01-08T20:26:00.000-08:002010-01-11T04:25:36.214-08:00

day breaks grayfall's gentle chillhardening into a biteby three pmgoodsummer finally restscurled upcozily somewherewith a good bookor on vacation maybeon the world'slower east side... * * *winterlurks alwaysbehind the facade ofspring and summerand even brother falljealously demandingtributeangry at beingthe least lovedseasonstretching outicy fingersto grasp athappy hearts...* * * * * * *

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-69976024214755796622010-01-08T20:08:00.000-08:002010-01-18T21:57:10.482-08:00

It's very cold in deep southTexas tonight---a place notedmore for its totally uncalled forsummer heat. They say it may freeze tonight. The following isfrom another winter here, eightyears ago.I rush from my carto reach the refugeof my cozy little housewind blows coldnessup against my soullayers and layersof clothingskin and bone and fatno defense against thisbiting visitortrampling downcast

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-17766804017650869752010-01-08T11:37:00.000-08:002010-01-13T16:06:19.668-08:00

(click photo to enlarge)she held onto her godwith a simple faithand abiding trustthat withstood everythingthe world had done to hershe was batteredand scarredand had even lostlarge pieces of her selfyet she never waveredin her love of god---it was carved in stoneothers looked on herwith pity---she seemed to thema tragic victim---and theylooked awaynever seeingthe sweetness of her smileas she held

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-6511620881816615632010-01-06T19:45:00.000-08:002010-01-12T07:04:11.860-08:00

This was inspired by a friend, a much older woman, who had endured a fifty year marriage. She had a bit of a temper, and there were just times...well, when she found it extremely helpful to hurl a dish against the stone wall of her little house. She told me that she'd buy cheap plates at the thrift store, just to have them on hand for this purpose so she wouldn't have to waste her good ones.go

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-7091822550680637402010-01-06T19:29:00.000-08:002010-01-08T09:23:24.813-08:00

and so they jumpedoff the golden gateknowing they'd meet againsomewheremaybe in hellmaybe in a movieor maybe in a booklike thelma and louisethey were outlawsbut just hadn't brokenany laws yetexcept the unwritten lawwhich saysyou must be good girlsyou must be bland girlsyou must belife support systemsfor the only thing you ownthat really mattersand so they jumpedoff the golden gateleaving giant

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-44552903390964891112010-01-06T19:02:00.000-08:002010-01-08T09:24:57.185-08:00

daunted bythe empty expanseof a booki'm supposed to filli realizethat i've become a creature of the computeraddicted to sending offbits and piecesof my smallinspirationsknowing there's a human heartwaiting somewhereto receive thembefore i wroteonly for methoughts committedonly to myselfwords arrangedlike so much of my accumulatedtreasured junkin a waypleasing onlyto my lonely eyesmeaningful

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-50078234873439224972010-01-06T18:52:00.000-08:002010-01-12T07:00:06.080-08:00

blankety blankblank emaili feel like an oracletrying to discernthe meaningfrom a plain white pagewithout benefit of a safety netor those helpfullittle marksvery muchlike thesethat make meaningso much more clearmy mind is cloudy enoughmy spirit in questionhow can i guess from all the thingsto guess aboutto wonder aboutto ponder aboutin this worldand the mysteriousworld of ewhat meaning is

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-18047736745040374832010-01-06T18:40:00.000-08:002010-01-08T09:27:01.381-08:00

the old, old womanmy friendforgets to remembermore every daytalking like dreaming---scraps of what's realall stirred up togetherwith things that never weredoves in her mindbeating their wingsscatteringthe pieces of her lifethe sticky notes pastedon the womanshe once wasshe talksand talksher strong contraltonow breathyand waveringa haphazard tearforms and rollsever so slowlydown her velvet

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-85056535631714974912010-01-06T18:33:00.000-08:002010-01-08T09:28:08.288-08:00

i like to look atall the old dollswith glassy eyesand fixed expressionspretty dollsonce lovedfor their beautycold dollswithout lifethey started out emptybut somehowas the years went bythey absorbed piecesof the souls of the ones who loved themand nowdeep inside themhidden safe from human eyesthey guarda spirit of their owna compositeof the little girlsgrown oldwho had to leave thembehind...* * *

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-32444151901165801392010-01-04T15:10:00.000-08:002010-01-15T18:29:34.362-08:00

(click on photo to enlarge)i opened the doorof the closetever-so-slowlytaking carenot to awakenthe sleeping voiceof a rusty hingemaking surethere was nothingtoo dangerouslurking outsidewaiting tosnap me upcrush megrind meinto pulpin the gripof yellow teethmy hiding placewas darkfilled with themusty odorof poemstoo longheld insideand thedusty airmade it hardfor meto breathethrough thetiny openingi

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-3011958804624176442010-01-03T20:42:00.000-08:002010-01-11T04:42:31.527-08:00

she dreamed of redemptionwondering if she coulddig out all her old memories(nearly forgottenin a drawer somewherecurledand discoloredwith agesome of them stucktogether in layers)and like so manyS & H green stampsput them all togetherin neat little booksand trade them infor something better...* * * * * *For of those of you too young toremember, green stampswere given away at grocery stores,gas

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-91562804952589527762010-01-03T17:15:00.000-08:002010-01-18T21:15:05.094-08:00

her petals had fallenbut her spirit still roseunbiddenat the dropof a leafthe flight of a raventhe scent of wood smokewaftingwaftingwaftingthrough her soulthe chill of autumnpromising morethe turningof seasonsreminding herof seasons turningbeforethe passing awayof summer's dubious giftsand resurrectionof calmnessand quietrose hipsplumppromising moreroses would bloomand then blow awaypetals

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-18219637721897951072010-01-03T17:09:00.000-08:002010-01-08T09:46:46.317-08:00

i planted him todayfishy eyestaring as usualhow horribleto spend your lifelidlessunable to shut outunpleasantnessor to sleep in darknessbut he sleeps inthe dark nowburiedalong with a cousin of hisbeneath a bristly fernready to givewhat is leftof himselfto a new lifejust beginninghis body swims inthe dirt nowonce-fluid tailstiffened likea corn huskonce-glimmering armortarnished and dullout of his

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-33022841611837648552010-01-02T22:29:00.000-08:002010-01-12T06:50:02.752-08:00

yeah, i got the tea towel blueswondering who needs such thingsso badlyand charming littledoggy and sailorlaundry bagsto giveto their wonderfulchild who's going awayto collegenever to returnto mama's lap againonly to discoverdrugs and alcoholand sexually transmitteddiseasesbut let's be niceand make our little playworlds cuterand more reassuringby feathering our littlenestieswith all manner of

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9028001503906872310.post-64868264888962961162010-01-02T21:57:00.000-08:002011-02-02T22:08:16.233-08:00

This is about a place that my dear friend, Linda Sue, and I dreamed about going to in August, 2002. They carried their bags full of rocks and seashells, driftwood and ocean-polished glass and their shoes full of sand home, where they decided to make a magical wall with what they had found on the beach. It wouldn't be high,  just a demarcation of their territory, a notice to all that this

Cory Raymondhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15975585578108062909noreply@blogger.com0