Posted by Tom Baker in September 11 2001 on September 11, 2012
One Question A Month…
Some of my friends and followers have been on my case to publish a new post. I’m glad that there are those of you who have noticed I have not been posting consistently and those who have missed me. I have been very busy of late and preoccupied. I haven’t checked email, responded to comments or even been involved much at all in socializing with the masses.
I am sorry for that and apologize profusely. Even with this post I don’t really have a solid post idea but I have come up with a new series for Morning Erection. So before I forget it, here it is. I’ve decided to give my life questions to you guys for your help in answering them. What are my life questions. They are thoughts that I have had over the years and either never bothered to ask anyone else or I thought they were too stupid to share. Obviously now I don’t really care what people think of me!
The question for August is about reading. You know we all have an inner voice. When we read quietly to ourselves there is that voice saying the words as we read. When we are reading the inner voice is usually our own voice but what happens when we get a letter or a card from a friend? My question for everyone is when you read a letter from a friend or from someone whose voice you recognize, do you read what they wrote in your inner voice or their voice?
I suppose you never thought of it and now you are wondering what you do… Me too. Let me know in the comment section please.
Poetic License – August 2012
Posted by Tom Baker in Blaga Todorova, Poetic License on August 6, 2012
Welcome to the new Poetic License. Morning Erection’s Poetic License now focuses solely on one poet and four of their new poems. The poems you read today are being featured here and are presented to the world for the first time anywhere. Enjoy these works of verbal art now and then you can find more of at Blaga’s blog, Broken Sparkles.
It takes so long to sneak in my heart,
what an ecstasy against solitude and sour winds.
The first colors, the melody of flowers,
there isn’t agony in the sway under the rain.
And you and I, dire souls in sunset flames,
between white rock-roses and swan feathers,
we honor the rebirth of our bodies.
Together we morn the death of frost and névé,
to savor the warmth in a bed of coals
and entrust the last rays of candled light
with our desires and the taste of kismet.
And when the rainbows lead us to the garden
of bitter- sweet reminiscence, the innocence
of our fairytale only beautifies Spring and this poem.
I long for your touch, for your golden eyelashes.
Mute and absent, I drink in every glimpse of a flame.
A fantasy with lavender fields doesn’t comfort me,
I desire a reality with lilac fragrance on my lips.
I follow a trace to your heart, a blissful grasp,
to your caress, a sense of wild ocean’s lints.
I seek for the origins of your soul through
the whirling sensation of the satin sands on my skin.
I want to be a part of the sunrise luminosity,
a sparkle in the texture of the sultriness in the air,
I dream to inhale your smile of sapphires,
and I walk without a wince through
the blazing green of the majestic grass,
embracing intensely the kiss of Summer.
Lost in a storm of amber leaves, I waste
the last drop of summer to save a whisper
from the climbing roses you laid out for me,
to hold their ruby glow with the risk to blind me.
No butterflies, no blossoms stay behind to see me cry
together with the inevitable mist of clouds.
Over drowned solstice fires, I harvest the seeds of grief,
your face grows dim, consumed by the revenge of Nature.
I wake up, naked, in a naked forest, hazel shadows
sword your message through the wind. And the skies,
a pallet floating in gruesome hue and saturation,
remind me of roads never traveled,
of lands never swept by innocent laughter,
of broken hearts that declare the debut of Autumn.
Brutal love, lonely promises in frigid, velvet gowns,
the sun has turned back on you, on me, on hope.
We all weep, conquered by sable tears,
by javelins of fables and rue, asking why?
Why did he end the passion, the blush of pretty garlands,
merrily pirouetting over the ivory beauty of snow?
Who let him lash out at the gift of fantasy and flowers?
What soul, what consciousness he shares?
And as the freezing nights separate us with blizzards,
with lifeless words of unwritten ballads, I see
how every dawn is secretly charged with fake summers,
but no answer is granted, only thorns and wounds,
cleaving the last sensation left into ruins, guarding
the silent power and the crystal tiara of lady Winter.