Week 7 at Larry Bourland Poetry promises to be an engaging experience for our readers. We're excited to announce the introduction of our featured poet and artist this week, along with some new features on the website that we believe will enrich your visit. Make sure to explore these updates, with the big reveal planned for Sunday evening, or possibly even sooner.
This week, we spotlight the exceptional work of artist Carrie Ann Baade alongside our featured poetry. My introduction to Baade’s art came during a memorable visit to the Pensacola Museum of Art with my granddaughter, Matison. The exhibition was a revelation, merging the worlds of Surrealism, Renaissance, Dutch Baroque, Modernism, and heartfelt emotion into a transformative art historical experience.
Anna Wall, the Chief Curator at the Pensacola Museum of Art, offers insightful commentary on Baade’s contributions in her book "Carrie Ann Baade: Scissors & Tears." Wall notes that Baade’s paintings bridge the gap between past and present, employing a feminist lens to reinterpret historical imagery traditionally dominated by male perspectives. This approach not only redefines historical narratives but also carves out a space for female artists to wield influence and shape future dialogues.
Baade’s own reflections on her work emphasize the importance of women's voices in art and culture, voices that have been historically overlooked. Her art explores themes related to the untold stories of women, their achievements, and their creative expressions. It is, in her words, a celebration of women finding their voice.
We invite you to dive into the captivating world of Carrie Ann Baade this week. Let her visionary art challenge and inspire you as we explore the intersection of poetry and art in our website. Join us at www.larrybourlandpoetry.com for a journey through the powerful narratives of resilience, power, and transformation.
THE ALLERGIES OF WIND CHIMES
My thoughtless neighbors
hang wind chimes
without regard to known
wind charm allergies
suffered by those
living next door.
There oughta be a law
banishing wind chimes
near my bedroom window.
The tinkle of glass
resonates not unlike
the nasal tone irritant
of the buffoon who
doesn’t recognize his or her own
ceaseless mind-numbing chatter
that is nothing more than
ceaseless mind-numbing chatter.
oh, for God’s sake take down the
folded and bent silverware wind chimes
and use them to feed your neglected children.
…and your artsy-fartsy kiln fired pottery chimes
clunking in expectation of a gust of wind
insuring broken ceramic sounds
like the pitifully sorrowful bird
trapped in the fireplace chimney
trying in vain to escape the flames
while thinking, “Why me?”
The wind doesn’t need your help,
it is everything
it is supposed to be
as it is.
It rustles music through every tree.
And why don’t my neighbors
rake their damned lawn?
There oughta be a law!
DISCRETION BEING THE
BETTER PART OF VALOR
I saw two people
arguing in a Walmart
parking lot yesterday.
I couldn’t hear their
words of war,
a war nonetheless.
They looked like a murder of crows
scavenging for common
sense and the need
to fill hungry intentions.
Arms flailed,
wild display of angry
gesticulations
egging the other
to throw the first salvo.
He was bigger,
by a continent,
but even he could see
and seriously perceived
the invisible army standing behind
this petite female warrior
consisting of Gods,
champions, super heroes
and the rage within
of a protective mother,
all at the ready to be unleashed
upon her command.
SELECTIVE GENES
Do not tell me
it’s not good for me.
Do not tell me
I cannot smoke cigars.
Do not tell me
I can’t drink Jack Daniels.
Do not tell me
I can’t eat a Twinkie
(or a box of Twinkies!)
Do not tell me
I cannot jaywalk.
Do not tell me
I can’t climb the ladder,
(I choose not to climb it!)
Do not tell me!
I’m 93 years old
for Christ’s sake!
SIGN LANGUAGE OF THE HEART
From near the fire
across the room
you would gaze upon me,
I could feel your eyes
and unseen hands caress
my willing body.
You were well rehearsed
in sign language of the heart
like when you turned your
“I’ll see later naked” smile, inward
that only I could read.
You could play the heat in the room
like Nero on a chilly Tuesday night.
Warmed in winter
in our fireside rendezvous
your body was as perfect as a BLT
with the crusts cut off.
Always exhausting each other
in love’s aftermath, gloriously catching
our collective breaths
fully sated yet, starved for more,
ever more.
I could not get enough
of you,
could not give you
enough of me
but we tried
and we tried.
Love’s never-ending hunger.
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Good gawd yawl. I just can't fathom that these words come out of your brain. I can't wait for your next book.