Week 4 and we are SMOKIN, (www.larrybourlandpoetry.com)!
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RESUMES ARE FOR PUSSIES -L. Bourland
LOVING ON BORROWED TIME -L. Bourland
EL RIO de la PROSA PERDIDA -L. Bourland
This week I’m introducing on the blog a poem inspired by Bobby LeFebre, Colorado Poet Laureate Emeritus. Being in audience with him last July he discussed including magic into what you write and I took it to heart. I was watching the Animas River flowing by and his words resounded deeply in me; I was watching poetry and magic unfold before my eyes. It’s that poem I’m sharing in the blog this week followed next week with a reading of it on the website. I texted Bobby letting him know he was the inspiration for “El Río de la Prosa Perdida.” I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for the magic, Bobby!
For art connoisseurs, I’ve reached out to world renowned artist Carrie Ann Baade who has graciously given me permission to share with you her work. I’ve followed her work for years and her strong sense of feminism has been a driving force of art around the globe. Carrie Ann’s work has been described as surrealism and historical masterpieces reinterpreted using her strong feminist and autobiographical approach to art and social issues. Please seek out her work live at exhibits, online or in her published books. She is beyond incredible! Watch for her work here in the very near future.
I’ve asked Web Designer Extraordinaire, Anthony, to develop a new forum on the site for “Featured Poets” A 2-week premier of my favorite local poets destined for poetry success. Watch for the premiere in Week 6 +/-
Please continue to spread the word of our website, help us grow and reach out. This is an incredible trip and we are all enjoying the journey together!!!
Please take advantage of posting your own original poetry or short stories on our website. You’re making this happen!
Listen to the poet - Be the poet
EL RIO de la PROSA PERDIDA
(The River of Lost Prose)
Sitting at the river’s edge
watching as the poetry flows by
listening as each stanza
wakes around every perfectly
placed boulder
where beneath
poets reside waiting
to ambush their next meal.
A poet on the shore
casts his imagination into the deepest pool
hoping to snag his best inspiration
to be shared later
at supper with other poets who’ve
gathered ‘round a crackling campfire
where tall tales of their own
poetic adventures of the day on the river
will be shared.
That evening
stillness falls over those gathered
as he recites his poetic tale:
“The pool was deep,
filled with mystery and inspiration.
The contest began SUDDENLY, unexpectedly,
I could feel immense inspiration
fighting on the end of the line
as the biggest poem
taunted me!
Teased me!!
Played me!!!
Writing its own sonnet.
Alas, the Rainbow Poet slipped my line,
swimming to more creative depths to be
written about another time.
It was the biggest!
The best!
The hardest poem I’ve ever hooked…”
The gathered poets sat stoic.
Respectful.
Reflective in their own poetic imagination.
The silence was broken with a collective sigh…
Eventually, the most reverent poetic fishing guide
softly uttered;
“That’s the biggest fish tale piece of
poetic bullshit I’ve ever heard.”
Bon Voyage
While walking my dog today
I glanced skyward
spotting the reflective fuselage
of a passenger jet, I guessed
35,000 feet overhead.
I could have easily missed it;
no contrail,
no noise,
no little hands waving
from little windows.
I watched it for about 15 seconds
then it just stopped,
stopped in flight,
hanging there.
That can’t be normal.
10 seconds!
10 seconds it hung in the ether!
I thought that must be
an eternity for a passenger jet
to idle at 35,000 feet.
10 seconds later
it disappeared from the sky.
I wished them “Bon Voyage”.
Lola barked.
We walked on.
RESUMES ARE FOR PUSSIES
On a whim
I applied for an executive position
at a Fortune 500 Company
specializing in addressing in-house and inter-agency
communication skills with which to better
facilitate their product on the global market.
I had the necessary skills,
albeit self-taught, necessary education,
albeit life experience from living on the street,
and the necessary set of bullshit abilities,
albeit the necessary set of bullshit abilities.
My only unexpected and unplanned obstacle was
Phyllis
the Majordomo
and dominatrix
guarding the reception office
of the 118-floor executive tower.
Phyllis was never wrong,
she knew everything about everything.
If you belonged in her building, she was your guardian angel
otherwise, you were the enemy.
I fit one of those two categories
and was about to find out which.
My reasoning skills were a bit dull,
albeit to no less than excessive THC blood levels.
The match, one sided as it was, was about to begin:
Me: “Good Morning, my name is Evans, Bob Evans and…”
Phyllis: “You don’t belong here. Leave. Now!”
I left.
Well, Fuck that. Fuck them
and their self-righteous communications thingy business stuff,
I’m a poet.
I never looked back.
LOVING ON BORROWED TIME
I know how
and why
I chose you
but for the life of me
I cannot find a reason
you allowed yourself
to fall in love with me.
So, why did you agree
to go out with me?
There was no trust fund,
nor fancy car,
no cleft chin good looks.
I barely catch my own reflection
in department store windows.
You held my heart
in your hands,
gentle at first
then over time
your grip would ease,
sometimes letting go.
I remember
you running back
into my arms,
into my life,
into my heart
time after time.
Were you unsure of me
or yourself?
I was always surprised
when you returned
and never really surprised
when you left.
Never expecting you to stay
or return.
Thinking our time was over
gave me time to heal
and be thankful
for what we did share.
Then,
with your usual flair
and the jiggling of the
front door handle,
you made your entrance again
as if you had just returned
from the store.
I was always pleased
and puzzled.
And so,
taking advantage of each other
continued despite
my insecurities advising me that
we were loving
on borrowed time.
Good Lord! Larry of Durango, you make my heart bleed.