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Week 7 Larry Bourland Poetry, Poet In Durango Colorado

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 for a journey through the powerful narratives of resilience, power, and transformation.


Allergies to Wind Chimes Larry Bourland Poet Durango Colorado

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!




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


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 Larry Bourland Poetry In Durango Colorado

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!




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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Rated 5 out of 5 stars.

Good gawd yawl. I just can't fathom that these words come out of your brain. I can't wait for your next book.

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