poets lament

After the Bumrush

2010-11-20T21:00:00.000-08:00

~After the Bumrush~

She rallied herself in the a.m.
to see him, tussled and still
reeling from the eve's consumption,
she knew if she didn't arrive he'd be blue.

One shoe on, then two, haranguing
through metro doors and howling
trains. Schlepping stairs. Pressing
hard against cold winter air,

only to see his face and know
he was well-too. She promised
herself their's was but a moments
interlude-a random consideration

in the brink of discussion and
dinner drinks. She had forgotten
her scarf, he thought purposefully,
alas accidentally so. With no

ideal in mind, he returned,
scarf in hand and whispered.
His voice permeated her, it
was reminiscent of a father's

wise counsel in secret impasses.
Thinking, mulling, head wracked,
what not to do, what to do, she
could not decide. Uttered a prayer

skyward-what should she do?
With quickened pace tapping a
short note she thought just to
say thanks. He thought to say hi.

(Copyright © Donna L. Quesinberry-Reprints by Permission. All Rights Reserved.)

Trotskyist Opposition=Ameri.kan Occupation

2010-11-18T14:59:00.000-08:00

horse ties beckon like street lamps in miasma air

2010-11-18T14:51:00.000-08:00

"Our problems are man-made, therefore they may be solved by man. No problem of human destiny is beyond human beings." -John F Kennedy

2010-08-29T09:18:00.001-07:00

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2010-08-27T10:02:00.001-07:00

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We Are Not Alone, D'Niko.avi

2010-06-18T17:00:00.000-07:00

a tally of angelic causes, dana queen

2010-05-19T19:53:00.000-07:00

yes, in retrospect, earmarked
personal bench warrants
may be jottings in memoirs
of angels' tallied careers. heavenly
scorecard keepers render
assignment lists to check off,
and fling their successes toward
some hierarchy of celestialism.

leave occasions for us - to stand
firm - as sojourners of truth,
hearing whispers that proclaim...sitting
may have befitted our moment the best.
So we sit in glazed reverence.
Accolades ensue as to "Why?

Don't we have convictions?" Yet,
storm barricades waving flags

in proclamation on momentous occasions
we are noted pontificators, illogical
amusement seekers. Faith's ascriptions become
blind endeavors, endless questions speak
close-to-the-edge cautionary potential
of cliffed hangings, acceptance is escapist
flagrant irreverence too risky, but elective
humility is ineffectually pompous.

skywary gazes decry over-bearing
anticipations - lowered eyes
self-inflicted mutilations with negative
renderings. Ambivalence an under
achievement, contentment lacking ideals.
Rage unfortunatism of mind that seeks reproach.

In all, our guardian's tallies must result
in some unimportant discourses with God.
failed assignments, where conscripts succumbed.
Leave the curious to wonder... "Are
angels given work related warnings
and then reassigned other social
experiments before termination?"

If so, "Do you think we can learn
who is next in line and then warn them?"

sweet september, vibrasphere

2010-05-19T19:00:00.000-07:00

chambermaid swing, parov stelar

2010-05-19T18:41:00.001-07:00

the art of roses, dana queen (d.l.quesinberry)

2010-05-19T18:23:00.000-07:00

the art of roses

nemesistic bloodlines,

corpuscle to corpuscle,

blue ribbon thornies.

rose bush blossoms

thrive – here to there.

tiny tea hybrids,

climbing grandifloras,

gardeners' surprises.

pasteurized heirlooms,

english blends, and old

garden lore - cultivated

in hard soil vintage pots.

a few ramblers, rugosas,

sweet surrenders, and Grand

Thomas's. even veteran’s honor.

ground cover, a black baccara,

germinations. an ill-formed

original double-red knockout,

removed from iridescent safety.

their well fashioned arboretum.

flourished a rogue non-

thorny. seeded. rooted.

in high-centered, double,

bloomed resonance.

the art of roses.

innocense's immunitive discourse in intrepidation and the iron gate, dana queen (d.l. quesinberry)

2010-03-12T07:02:00.001-08:00

crafted artistry and hewed woods, dana queen - written and read by donna quesinberry

2010-03-07T10:41:00.001-08:00

a perfect orchid, written and read by donna l. quesinberry

2010-03-07T10:33:00.000-08:00

coco, lilja bloom & parov stelar

2010-02-25T05:43:00.001-08:00

shine, lilja bloom & parov stelar

2010-02-25T05:39:00.001-08:00

acres of vanilla hardwood, dana queen (d.l. quesinberry)

2009-02-22T19:39:00.001-08:00

ricky-racked headboard

carries the centurions

history-conception is

that respite between sliding slats

delicately positioned

so as to not scuff vanilla hardwood.

she hates laminate surfaces.

scratching her head

remembers mother

a father - the world

where sex did not exist.

little soldier lifts unsoiled

feet towards a heaven

compares toes-singing piggies

she's demonstrating wrinkles

why they are special

loves expose’ of person.

he chuckles and grabs

picture books. pointing

at plastic photos before

poking silent cheeks

miere…miere, smiling

with her barely lit eye.

century half past the hour

and there's life asking to live again.

he carried his weight, dana queen (d.l. quesinberry)

2008-11-09T19:19:00.000-08:00

~he carried his weight~

-|-

the poet - man of parables

cell block rested

performed spoken words

truth – peace - unuttered by carrion

referred to sons / daughters

of god in a heaven

-|-

friday morning, sky murky,

tinge of grey, potential rain.

rousting giants – jarred him

the poet - he stood.

a not so well respite

left him weary, aching.

-|-

sleepy man eyes with

no opportunity to

brush teeth, comb hair.

through a doorway shoved

awareness | acceptance

torture she is the brutality of love.

-|-

crossing dry ground sandy footed.

Prodded and demeaned.

leather strained flesh struck

bones that lay barely hidden

passerby euphemisms spat as

the poet spoke of laments,

-|-

incongruence, internal messages

truths - reflections

shone from rivers, ponds, or

shiny objects compiled riches

realizations – knowledge - undesirables

drugged with destiny

-|-

carried his weight

over tormented body

through village paths

hills and plateaus - aiding

that burial called death

pierced and watching

-|-

vain repetitions - impalements,

salty quenches of thirst

a poets glance - in wretched pain.

expressions of love, siblings tender,

immortals glances – he uttered

the final physical quatrain.

-|-

it is done.

(Copyright @ Donna L. Quesinberry-2008)

the venetian rowboat after 3002 songs and waterfalls, dana queen (d.l. quesinberry)

2008-11-09T19:15:00.000-08:00

his knock her shake
hands extended

he she shake
he thinking

lift that mask from her face
she holds the mask to her face

what are eyes without masks
there's a collection of masks

she gestures he hands
her fallen words

white kitchen and black tiles
her water whistles

she in a shadow
water runs warm

he notices a waterfall in a painting
she uses big brushes with fine horsehairs

invisible paint
walls white with splatters

he places his jacket on her chair
she takes his jacket

in her mind his jacket her chair
smiles

she turns down her thermostat
a green couch and an orange shawl

red spaghetti with mushrooms green salad
her song is playing

he knows 3000 songs
her song is 3001

her channel changes
song 3002

he hums a red wood table
stains if he asked a question

he would ask where the stains are from
the game board speaks

a child tares his arm
another woman’s child

his arm the child
her child someone else’s
their child a child

wine chips juice
a mystery her rope the maid

he she the child
he she sigh a child sings

old new air cologne
fresh bread

red, black, blonde
hair his head

smoke specters mist
hidden bifocals hands wave

she wipes eyes
yawns with hair that swings

a man looks toward the house
an easter bunny hops in her square village

moist grass under morning glories
baptismal font

he she enter crosses
she a shadow he running water

a priest
a baby

steam and shadows
he she smile

her red dress
his stains

he she talk
whispers in violet blooms

their baby kicks
she stretches out

he turns and their
light enters shadows

(copyright . donna l. quesinberry-2008)

~ a community of avuncular husbands ~

2008-07-21T18:41:00.000-07:00

~ a community of avuncular husbands ~

mulled brain cider
toasting tecolote ranunculus
maiden...backpack...laden

pink, orange,
red

anemones strategize
their flag:
red, white and blue

disambiguous dart.
that swinger, surf
hop brown.

whiskey. bottled
notes, one rose. tops a
manifold, an ocean view.

buzzing. platforms. features.
rubbery beachy mammals.

smells. what if?
just once. they
squeezed. the

wishes 2 squeeze.
notes. unification,
instead of rubs.

water fins for arms
rifled arms for fins

yellow, purple,
scarlet.

kite children~
swing tree crops!
~~he dodges, he hides~~.

onlookers cheer.
Hooray!

~blooms bloom, blooms bloom, blooms bloom~

~this is what happens when the caged bird flees~

(copyright donna l. quesinberry-2008)

a regular prograde moon but less than ten planetary radii

2008-07-15T08:59:00.000-07:00

~ a regular prograde moon but less than ten planetary radii ~

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

packing cigarettes she leans in
cracked tilings cemented together

pinot grigio-no merlot-chilled grigio
water beads drip...i notice...i stop one

a bead of water bleeds over my fingertip
i put it in my mouth...me and the bead

ivy sanctioned metal chairs scrape
the hardwood needs paint, it creaks

designs echo like the darners needle
pink/red line and cellophane

pink/red line and cellophane
pink/red line and cellophane

cigarette smokes, cigarette smoke
the cigarette, the smoke, her lips are moving

i take the cigarette, there's a brand, branded
sticks, i remember rings and designs, cancer...sticks

i remember the first considerations, the filling
of lungs, their angst and horror, blowing billows...designs

four candles line the alley, five candles line the porch
a neighbor puts a ten year younger wife into a limo

there's a fan, there's a fan on the porch, the
child speaks up - a fan on the porch, turn on the porch fan

hearty nighttime flowers - no bee - smart buds
scents and smells...cigarette smokes...it smokes

i'm here, i'm here, i'm here
i'm over here, here, look over here

talky talk, talky talk, talky talk
who, why, when, where, how long

he is 28, he doesn't take me out, he works motors
he is Romanian, he loves to touch my mouth

bats dodge the lamplights
she's thinking of her next question

i left sitting down, i'm weary
she doesn't notice, these chairs are heavy

the pink/red cellophane blows
into her garden...the child runs...she grabs it

she says its late...she hands the cellophane to her
here she says - throw this away

the child shakes the wine bottle, it's empty
let's go...even the bats have gone home.

volvoesque humming over torn leather, gusts of air
blowing, the child says it was a good visit.

<><><><><><><><><><><><>

(copyright © donna l. Quesinberry-2008)

~Marcie's Mouse~

2007-04-27T00:32:00.000-07:00

Gazing at potteries,
marred earthen clays,
polished glasses and crystal
cobwebs find their way.

A mouse sinters by,
we see him.

We sit. Elbows resting hard,
on the wood tiled table.
An off balanced leg resides
atop a neatly folded menu~

placed by Marci.
A repair is needed.

The dancing sun
in vibrant revelry
shoots orange translucent beams;
that pierce glass windows.

Flickers of light arrive,
we bounce their reflections
over the tiles-
a forth and back off buttery knives.

But...menus grow weary,
as this table shakes.

We imagined light sabers
where pain is not allowed.
The sun fades, an overstated
curtain call to a starlit darkness.

We didn't believe in mousetraps.
Mice chided the fact.

(Copyright Donna L. Quesinberry-2006)

~Satisfaction's Lament~

2007-04-26T23:59:00.000-07:00

<><><><><><>

We’ve masticated these bones
To the point they resemble #2 pencils
Warped like the souls who wield them
Flesh in supposition has lost its flair
Providing no new amplifications

Saffron tea leaves shaken in broken cups
Used to carry the images of future lore
They just settle now as unscathed queries
Spirits hear the discontentment
Providing no new redress to poignancy

<><><><><><>

(Copyright © Donna L. Quesinberry)

~the passion is rising taking its own path~

2007-04-10T16:41:00.000-07:00

films on house wares bother her
at the kitchen table
her eggs and bacon are reminiscent of still life

there's a cobweb in the corner
she notices it when she takes her seat
a mental note is planted
the ladder and dust mop are too distant now

the china tea cup houses saffron lemon
with cracks and fissures she loves
it provides a history
all good moments deserve lasting images

thoughts shift to the gardener
with chiseled flesh he resembles
an early dutch painting
she thinks of their last conversation

he was holding a rhododendron
commenting on its heartiness
lines on his eyes gave his age away
they should talk again she thinks

her weight shifts in her chair

(copyright © donna l. quesinberry-2005)

~wrt.ng~

2007-02-11T21:29:00.000-08:00

wrote about myself once
re-read it years later
a pretentious piece
should've been edited
that girl
somewhere inside me
while i may not like her now
i still love her
"poor thing"

~she spoke with aquinias, he told her to go home, to wait~

2007-02-11T19:23:00.000-08:00

she spoke with Aquinas he told her to go home, to wait

she ate persimmons

midst white noise

bared in

mirrored reality

rousing peaks

details clamored, oscillated

high to low

low to high

equalizers balanced

giant birdseeded ledges

garnered breasts

swollen heart

pacing

midst white noise

(Quesinberry-2002)

~she moved mountains then ranges took control ~

2007-02-11T18:45:00.000-08:00

what is it to write ~ dropping consciousness ~ reality in the limelight ~ vessels that deliver hemaglobin's scripts ~ free versettes ~ free versors ~ transcend their own air

<><><><><><>

crossed earth

grabbing dreams

putting them in parcels

to send back home

~~~~~~~~~~~~

opened tabloids

countering ills

packaged them for shelf

images to store forever

~~~~~~~~~~~~

discovered mysteries

escapist visionary renderings

holding auras captive

in every space

saying vacancy filled

~random writers~

2007-02-11T18:22:00.000-08:00

hands play

keys hard

banging

jelly rolls

thighs beat

marmalade rump

tap

beat

di - lay - shun

pupils

focused

on vintage

window

staring

fixated

on crinkly skin

saged harlequin

osmosizes

beat

revelations

in silence

slaps knees

palmy,

creak toes

keeps tune

without motion.

di - lay - shun

hands playing keys

bang hard

jelly rolls rump

marmalade thighs tap

beats

9 hundred 32 dayed

wisdom gatherer

focused dialationed pupil

at vintage window

stares

fixated without motion

on crinkly skin

16 thousand 262 dayed

saged harlequin

osmosizes

visionary revelations

lessons in silence

slaps knees palmy,

creaks toes

keeps tune.

~canvassed naval and he said not to pick lint hairs~

2007-02-11T17:53:00.000-08:00