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Thank you Dave and Tony. And even more thanks for all the help and support you give! all the best Phil

The 160 arches of the Segovia aqueduct, like the Mouths of angels all making Different requests to the wishing well sky, perhaps to Become mortal and appreciate local beauty. The moon moves between Rivers, eresma, clamores, A shamen traveling between Dreams, to transfigure the dreams of visitors so they Become briefly the eyes Of angels, winds are the Moving tattoos. The vera Cruz church is a tattooists needle, prayers The ink, will angels paint this Church on the chest of our lord. Their are views from The tower, does the candle Name it's flames. The house of Antonio Machado will guise your Senses towards a new aesthetic, the day will break out Into a shower of glass arrows, perhaps one of them Will land on the castle of alcazar to release the echo of A poets voice. This castle is On the north western tip of The city, it has narrow towers And artesonado ceilings, Scaffolding for the spirit.

Phil, this poem reads so well, has so much rhythm, and the beat goes on. I love it! I agree with Dave that this particular web property was the right choice of venue for publication. Congratulations! Tony

I have always liked this one, Phil. And Autumn Sky Poetry Daily seems like it was made for poems like this. Well done!

winter nights forget stifling heat of summer's sun crystal dreams refresh

Sequestered carbon punctuates closure. Warming winter nights forget.

Nice work on this one, Barry. I like how you carry the church metaphor throughout. The rhetoric is somber and dignified, and the poem reads remarkably well. Tony

Thank you, Phil. I'm glad this one resonated! I'm also excited that you noticed the tropical/mountainous juxtapositioning. For some interesting reading, we have: Golden hour Alpenglow Blue hour ... and let's not overlook the Belt of Venus. Tony 🙂

Thank you, Juris! Evocative is good! Tony 😊

Does the flower summon Thunder, daring It to desecrate its Roots. The church preserves Heritage, custodian Of the library of wounds, amplifying the sound Of the wishing well Whispering to it's Reflection, congregation praying to create a clear Perception about racial Consciousness. The ghosts of Martin and Malcolm call to each Other from empty Watchtowers, Call and response; Spirit-darkness Church - community Conscience-action. Ocean on a map floating On a river, imperceptibly the Church directs souls Back to the source.

Great title Tony. Googling golden/blue hour enlightened my experience of the poem. Like the geographical plays of tropical and mountainous, the meaning of alpenglow' was another jewel.The poem does leave the reader with an afterglow. muchly enjoyed Phil

Very evocative, very good. Absolutely love this

Chardonnay From surf-side golden hour with orchids, aloe, and sea mist all around, it leaves us, cast, like those cold peaks in far-off, stony alpenglow; it’s blue hour now. Now, brag, drag, under- tow, we're all awash in afterglow. __________________________________ IMAGE attribute

Bill, it’s a hit. You can pretend it’s all just in your head, but deep down you know it’s not when you can’t stop obsessing about her. Interesting choice of tense. Too late, too much? Rx: another shot and turn it up. Whats the answer, a poem? A song? Yes, you makes it known, but she makes it hot. No way to control that. Tony

Wastin’ time, sipping’ whiskeysittin’ at a bar on the boardwalk by the seathe jukebox keeps on playin’ image of a girland it takes me back to when I first saw youswayin' to the rhythm of the wavesyour blue eyes deep like the seathe wind in your hairgreen ribbons everywhereI stopped to stareyou did your best to make a boy awareyour swayin’ arms let me in at my worstyour touching hands calmed the storm within meas we set sail together to explore our heart’s treasureThere was so much I didn't knowabout the way love would goYou made it so easythe way you loved memade it so easy with every little thing you didUnconditional, unconditionallyYou loved me unconditionally

I finished the thing a week ago, still making up my mind about what I think of it. At this point I would be inclined to characterize Ulysses a miscarriage of genius. But genius it is. Is there a rhetorical device or method in the English language in which Joyce does not exhibit his mastery? It would be hard to name one. Thanks to Joyce, I know more about the vagaries of protasis and apodosis, if you will indulge me in such a claim. I can now catch on to catechismatisma and licentious word inventionastics. Milton has been praised as augmenting his impeccable implementation of classic models and Christian doctrine by incorporating the most advanced scientific concepts and speculations of his time in Paradise Lost. Joyce matches him, and that in an age when scientific knowledge had already achieved the status of explosion. Politics? Joyce is all over it. History? Same. Medicine and the character of its practitioners? You got it in spades. The majority of character development in the novel is rigorously molded by the latest in Freudian psychology of the time. Religion? Well, most commentators concur that he somewhat misunderstood the Hindu and Buddhist belief systems, but that does not stop him from trying to give both a well-intentioned fair shake in the conversation, so he even gets partial credit there. And I did learn of the existence of some ethical and logical arguments for the existence of Deity with which I was not previously familiar, so thanks for that, too. A few more important facts about the diaspora. And I can now tuck my chin and consider the significance of omphalos in the development of our roots in ancient thought and culture. But Ulysses also has a story. A rather good one, neglecting some outlandish BDSM and a few other Freudian extremes. But Joyce deliberately obfuscates the story line and I honestly don't see why. He is so busy switching between narrative forms and making fun of them, assessing world views and personalities, that he is willing to let those aims predominate while he plays shell games with the reader on what is even happening or what setting we have just been dropped into or even who is speaking for the first three pages of a new chapter. Without the help of some on-line aids, like the ones given previously, there are parts of the novel I simply could not have followed. Other parts I ventured without such consultation and felt like I had achieved something by keeping up. It is a game of Literature Clue: Bloom did it in the bedroom with and without a handkerchief; Lenehan did it in the pub with the help of Samson of Ireland; etc. Having said all that, I consider part III, comprised of "Eumaeus", "Ithaca", and "Penelope", to be a great 20th century novella. Some would complain of Joyce's idea of femininity as archaic, even chauvinistic. Molly does exhibit qualities of vanity, caprice, narcissism, borderline nymphomania. I think one would do well to take the broader view of the diversity of female behavior in the novel before hastily generalizing such a view. Molly is a product of her time and her gifts. The two combine to shape this individual with whom I cannot help sympathizing at the last, as I do with several characters in the piece. And I am deeply moved by her ultimate proclamation of yes I said yes I will Yes. Part I of Ulysses can be enjoyed somewhat if one is willing to invest time and concentration, including an appeal to available commentaries and summaries. With exceptions here and there (e.g. Cyclops), I consider Part II to be hopelessly abtruse, relentlessly perverse and obscene without sufficient cause, and profane to the point of consciously ugly and contemptible. In the end, I find Jimmy clever (unspeakably, unmatchably clever!) rather than profound, wallowing in irony, satire, and outre contempt for practically every world view and human disposition except sexual love between human beings. And even this elicits little more from him than sympathy, though not quite pity. Almost totally absent are the epiphanies that peppered A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Even when he allows himself to wander toward a nobler event horizon, such as in a full page of "Cyclops" and almost so much at times in "Ithaca" and "Penelope", he always catches himself before descending the black hole of affirmation and belief. (Ah, if only Ernie could have spared himself such a gust of redemption before releasing The Old Man and the Sea to his publishers!) Joyce is just another face in the class photograph of the Lost Generation, that so ably paved the way for 20th century disillusionment as the only worthwhile representation of reality in the Arts. Just Another Point of View (yes I know James just be quiet for a moment okay), - Dave

Add me to the list of admirers for this one, Barry. I agree that this is one of your best. Nary a misstep, from this reader's viewpoint. I even like the music-box sun, as being more startling, more in consonance with the poem's sonic themes than some other possible choices, a source of music in the deity's creation, yet set to that deity's pre-expectations. Which begs the old question going back to Materialist philosophies as recent as Logical Positivism and as ancient as Lucretius and Aristotle's Prime Mover. I think Bergson and other thinker's would question this model, as well, but it is within the poet's purview to ask! The only thing I wonder, is if it could be made even more terrific by returning to the persona that initiated all this melody and counterpoint. What does he have to say about French Symbolist romp and the music he was conceived and born to? Very, very nice! - Dave

Hi doc, yes, this piece touches on something elemental in the human experience and the way each human chooses to interpret and internalize that experience. It has a definite quality of irony but veers shy of anything that would feel like rebuke or harangue. The poet simply says, "We have all seen this before, right?" Like Marti, I took particular pleasure in specific epigrammatic lines and phrases, and the way you develop them into well-wrought conceits, as you do with great wit and elan in "outsourcing shamans" - brilliant! And to Ton'ys relevant digression, I would like to recommend a self-critical summary on scientism, a topic of some interest to me. I love science and I love God. Why can't I have both, as well as everything else that makes life so wondrous? Thanks (I think!), - Dave

Thanks, Phil. The ability to comment is a great advantage for this Blog. A PMO feature introduced during a time when I was distracted with many other things, it kind of got past me. I will post my publication notices here, going forward. All the Best, - Dave

Thanks for your kind note of appreciative congratulation, Tony. It very gratifying to know that the poem resonates so well with you. I think somebody on the Tiny Seed editorial board experienced a similar vibe, as indicated by this sentence in the acceptance response: "Your poem feels vast like the night sky seen through trees." It's the second of my poems this journal has published. Maybe there are others out there who will like my work, too. Thanks Again, - Dave

Loved the rhyme on the same line and the assonance in places. As heartfelt as any Glen Campbell or Bonnie Raitt tear-jerker song.

Circle of life. "Lovely in their dying". Your way is better. 🙂

So far, it appears to have just been a ruse. The password IN the email was disconcerting, though. I did learn about: monitor.firefox.com It will tell you if your data (email, password, profile) has been in a "breach". Thanks, as always.

Judi, the poem is concise, succinct. It's more than a still life; your own quote at the end seems to strangely coincide with and contradict Hume's philosophical expression near the beginning. Very nice work. Now, where would you get such a vase, and who's been bringing you flowers? Tony