Art, Poetry, books, novels

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

Bayou T shirt

Bayou T shirt

I stole your t shirt
Search the crossroads
Smell ashes and dirt 
memory causes hurt

Never giving it back
Never looking back
Never givin it back

I'm wearing blues
Not sad - singing again
Nylon bags of booze
Set sail the Bayou

Never givin it back

Poem and images copyright 4/25/2017 Caroline Gerardo

video



Monday, April 17, 2017

Fog

Touch the mountain top 
tell no secrets of your past
today name your star.


Haiku
Caroline Gerardo
copyright April 17, 2017

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Hike Uphill


Hike
up hill
hand makes
easy sing as we
climb my son soar like
a golden eagle with the lyrics 
life's steps makes legs strong
soon you'll carry me



Poem and image copyright Caroline Gerardo 3/22/2017
I hope all UC college students success in their finals!

Thursday, March 9, 2017

Stolen Sonnet



Stolen 

Chicken wires cannot stop
Coyote pays gold unknown
Ship daughter from hilltop
Cash me outside not grown 

Gangs pull pony tail braid
Girl taste passion fruit pink
Cut open inside cactus jade
Glue neon head lamp blink
 
Women huddle in cubicles
Winter hearts rub crackle
Lips swell, share the fables
Wet earthquake tabernacle

Mission bells bleed dread
Maybe white lady spooks
Say you tremble to read
Stolen Art History books

 Care for Etruscan fresco
Curse a Japanese Shinto
Gago never paid Jeanbeau
Catalog the melts in snow
 
Spies get off with grace
Still hands off grid lace
Ha originals wait in place
Scoundrel pinot noir face

Deportation of Dad
Black talent canvad
Dumb ones to be had
Drag eyes to road bad

Copyright Caroline Gerardo 3/9/2017
images and poem


Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Lost Walt Whitman Novella

Want to share link with you to read the found (after 165 years)
Novella by Walt Whitman

total content here:
http://ir.uiowa.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=2251&context=wwqr/ 

You can order print version from the University of Iowa Press
Thank you Zachary Turpin

Excerpt:
"I know few more melancholy sights than these old men present, whom you see here and there about New York; apparently without chick or child, very poor, their lips caved in upon toothless gums, dressed in seedy and greasy clothes, and ending their lives on that just debatable ground between honorable starvation and the poor house. Old Wigglesworth had been well off once. The key to his losses, and his old age of penury, was nothing more nor less than intemperance. He did not get drunk, out and out, but he was never perfectly sober. Covert now employed him at a salary of four dollars a week. Nathaniel, before-mentioned, was a small boy with a boundless ambition; the uttermost end and aim of which was that he might one day drive a fast horse of his own on Third avenue. In the mean time [sic], he smoked cheap cigars, cultivated with tenderness upon his temples, his bright brown hair, in that form denominated “soap-lock,” and swept out the office and ran the errands; occasionally stopping to settle a dispute by tongue or fist. For Nathanie l [sic] was brave, and had a constitutional tendency to thrust his own opinions upon other people by force if necessary. Freed from the presence of the two, Mr. Covert sat meditating and writing alternately; until he had finished a letter, on which he evidently bestowed considerable pains.—He then folded, enveloped, sealed it, and locked it his desk. A tap at the door. “Come in.” Two persons enter. One is a hearty middle-aged man,
"I know few more melancholy sights than these old men present, whom you see here and there about New York; apparently without chick or child, very poor, their lips caved in upon toothless gums, dressed in seedy and greasy clothes, and ending their lives on that just debatable ground between honorable starvation and the poor house. Old Wigglesworth had been well off once. The key to his losses, and his old age of penury, was nothing more nor less than intemperance. He did not get drunk, out and out, but he was never perfectly sober. Covert now employed him at a salary of four dollars a week. Nathaniel, before-mentioned, was a small boy with a boundless ambition; the uttermost end and aim of which was that he might one day drive a fast horse of his own on Third avenue. In the mean time [sic], he smoked cheap cigars, cultivated with tenderness upon his temples, his bright brown hair, in that form denominated “soap-lock,” and swept out the office and ran the errands; occasionally stopping to settle a dispute by tongue or fist. For Nathanie l [sic] was brave, and had a constitutional tendency to thrust his own opinions upon other people by force if necessary. Freed from the presence of the two, Mr. Covert sat meditating and writing alternately; until he had finished a letter, on which he evidently bestowed considerable pains.—He then folded, enveloped, sealed it, and locked it his desk. A tap at the door. “Come in.”