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Tim Bovee, Private Trader: The left brain side of my life.
mamabluefoot & the mountain
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A Poet on a Magical Journey Home
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Tina Blue's Beginner's Guide to Prosody, exactly what the title says, and well worth reading.
popomo.net, miniature, minimalist-inspired sculptures created from industrial cereamics, an art project at Lewis and Clark College in Portland, Oregon.
pink.popomo.net, More projects from Portland
oarena.net, Furby, Eliza, Mr_Friss and Miss_Friss.
Save Point 0.8.1, a Portland, Oregon, exhibit, Aug. 13-Sept. 5, 2004, at Disjecta.
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A dozen poems
For todayA version friendly to printer and palmtop
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Slumber Song, by Louis V. Ledoux
Drowsily come the sheep
From the place where the pastures be,
By a dusty lane
To the fold again,
First one, and then two, and three:
Your Blues Ain't Mine, by Sandra E. Morris
Your murky blues ain't mine to bear.
You droop proudly,
bearing your invisible cross and crown of spines,
thinking you've cornered the market on misery.
Your blues ain't mine to fear.
A Summer Day, by Alexander Hume
O PERFECT Light, which shaid away
The darkness from the light,
And set a ruler o'er the day,
Another o'er the night--
Thy glory, when the day forth flies,
A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, by John Dryden
FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
This universal frame began:
When nature underneath a heap
Of jarring atoms lay,
And could not heave her head,
A Little Ghost, by Mary Gilmore
The moonlight flutters from the sky
To meet her at the door,
A little ghost, whose steps have passed
Across the creaking floor.
And rustling vines that lightly tap
The Resolve, by Alexander Brome
TELL me not of a face that 's fair,
Nor lip and cheek that 's red,
Nor of the tresses of her hair,
Nor curls in order laid,
Nor of a rare seraphic voice
The New Life, by Witter Bynner
Perhaps they laughed at Dante in his youth,
Told him that truth
Had unappealably been said
In the great masterpieces of the dead: --
Perhaps he listened and but bowed his head
The Old Whim Horse, by Edward Dyson
He's an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly,
And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft,
With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly,
And he bears all over the brands of graft;
And he lifts his head from the grass to wonder
A Birthday, by Christina Georgina Rossetti
My heart is like an apple-tree
MY heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
A Praise of His Lady, by John Heywood
GIVE place, you ladies, and begone!
Boast not yourselves at all!
For here at hand approacheth one
Whose face will stain you all.
The virtue of her lively looks
An Invitation, by Alfred Domett
Well! if Truth be all welcomed with hardy reliance,
All the lovely unfoldings of luminous Science,
All that Logic can prove or disprove be avowed:
Is there room for no faith -- though such Evil intrude --
In the dominance still of a Spirit of Good?
Asylum, by William Bevill
The buns are moldy
Cat vomit stains smell sour across the halls
The crap is wiped all over bed sheets
Glasses of unsipped milk have curdled
Flesh rots and stinks up the bathtub
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