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Pris Campbell began writing poetry in the fall
of 1999 and has been published (or has poems pending publication) in such
print and e-zime publications as Limestone Circle, Blackmail Press, Verse
Libre, Niederngasse, The Dakota House, Muses Kiss, Peshekee River Poets,
Verse Libre, Short Stuff, MiPo Weekly and Digital, Lotus Blooms, The Dead
Mule, Women of the Web
Anthology, Best of MiPo Anthology and the yearly International War
Vets Poetry Anthology. She has placed first or second in several
regional and intra-board poetry competitions .Previously a Clinical
Psychologist and sailor/traveler, illness has forced her to temporarily park
her vagabond shoes. She makes her home in the greater West Palm Beach,
Florida , USA.
Pris' poetry is featured in
a Passage through August's main
anthology.
Visit Pris Campbell
at her website Poetic
Inspirations |
Catboat In Blue
Rédon created me,
splashed me, gaff rigged
in proud pomegranate,
across his blue canvas sea.
Waters swirl over my stern
where my name bobs in gold.
An obscure painting,
known only by few.
But Rédon, my love,
my magician with the sensual brushstroke,
the lover who dressed and caressed me,
you vaporized; were called
by sirens to other seas.
You did not take me.
Patrons occasionally shuffle by,
whisper of my rare, windblown beauty,
try to decipher the name on my stern.
Was there a secret love? they wonder.
I sail this sail that will never end,
flutter my pennant to their compliments,
cavort in the dancing waves.
I was his love, his lady, his spark,
my rigging yearns to scream,
but I keep Rédon's secret,
as I slice through the cerulean deep.
© 2003 Pris Campbell
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| Pris Campbell |
A Word With Bukowski
It's no good.
Me doing that
mirror, mirror
on the wall thing,
smearing my
wrinkles with Arden
while you moan
about old chorus girls
and the horrors of
ingrown toenails
in prison.
You always could
out-talk me, you know.
I say that I see
Dorothy's red shoes,
empty on the yellow
brick road, and that
mid-earth volcanoes
will destroy all our
dreams, hoping
to impress with profundity.
You roll bored eyes.
Dust falls from one
pant cuff.
I wish you could have
come when my breasts
burned men's hands
and my laugh chased
away all blackbirds of sorrow.
But those days have been
emptied, like fine wine,
so yes, let us talk
about worn-out furnaces,
overdue mortgages,
liver spots,
and watch the buzzards
draw straws over who
gets the last rib.
© 2003 Pris Campbell
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