We're big fans of these underwater creatures when shot by Russian photographer Alexander Semenov.
Wooden Bridges 1,000 Years Old in Rural China
These wooden bridges in the Fuijan and Zhejiang provinces, on the south east coast of China, show a degree of craftsmanship astounding enough for them to still be standing and supporting daily activity and use. And they are gorgeous as well.
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Poetry Sonidos Reading This Sunday March 11 in Los Angeles
Join us this Sunday for Poetry Sonidos at Castelli Art Space this Sunday March 11 from 5pm to 8pm for readings from Peter J. Harris, Andrea Gutierrez, Claudia D. Hernández, Luis Antonio Pichardo and Ryan Scott Nance (me), all hosted by Yago Cura of Hinchas de Poesía as part of Gus Harper's Sojourner's Art exhibit.
POTD - Dire Wolf by Lucie Brock Broido
Dire Wolf
Sorrows, like a gathering of dire wolves, come in packs. To you,
I am not speaking anymore. Whom
Shall I address?
Now that you have gotten these things off
Your barrel chest, it is time for you to merge into the sobbing
Rain, like a one-room scene in Appalachia, smeared
By fog. I adored you as much as an aluminum
Bucket of storm after
A great unlovely silvered thirst. How
Nice for me. In the Pleistocene, the wild wolves roamed
In scattered sorrows over
Everywhere, prodigious in appetite, howling
At the hollow of
Everything empty like a throat coated
With the fabric of a bolt
Of red. There
Are things which can dismantle entirely
A spirit, such as the pathetic maledictive fear
Of loss. Of loss:
You get to speak of it, once
You are its intimate, and not before; it would be
"Appropriation." But in the great white rendezvous, where
I was brooding Just a while, you get to speak of dire love.
I was telling a few friends recently about Lucie's collection of figurines: horses being hatched from eggs.
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POTD - November 7 by Peter J. Harris
November 7
by Peter J. Harris
from a prompt by Beth Marquez
The forecast calls for pain
—Robert Cray
shoulders aching
inches from goodbye
squatting Arroyo Seco boulders
tortured foreheads tilted in
fractured intimacy
a kiss could resurrect me
heal my palsied mouth
hold off epic flood already
misting my view of receding
horizon in her beloved face
keepsake face of so many
nights my name a guitar solo
of pleasure & satisfaction
her name in wailing gratitude
beyond any lyrics I've ever sung
keepsake flood plain
we've skipped across these same boulders
sculpted by galloping waters in rainy seasons
of confessions & sensuality
namesake flood plain
sitting in for all places we've hiked
while savoring touch on narrow pathways
unraveling esoteric conversations sensing family in the wind
daring to glimpse our future on a sunset's horizon
forecast calls for pain
a momentum in opposite directions
a locomotion of unstoppable emptiness
water nowhere
not to sip nor to soften earth
we could muddy & smear on our forgiveness in a ritual of reunion
her mouth a pool of salvation
if we weren't drowning in this final telling
inflamed in our dreaded knowing
hunger too exhausted to wait for rain