Evie Ivy
Evie Ivy, dancer/dance instructor in the NYC poetry circuit. She hosts one of the longest running Poetry venues in NYC, and the longest running in Brooklyn, The Green Pavilion Poetry Event. Also, the Dance of the Word series, which combines poetry with music and dance. Evie has been writing since childhood, and also enjoys artwork. She did the illustrations for her book, “The Platinum Moon,” available on Amazon. She enjoys writing in free verse as well as form. She has books on the Nonet, 12-Tone, “Fib” styles of syllabic verse. She is working on putting out, “Cinquain, My Dear Cinquain,” a full length book all in the cinquain form of poetry.
Ghazal to Hair
It was at some primordial time that the hair
became a source of interest, grooming the hair
on your head, and on the head of others. It was noted
how refined the person looked with neat and styled hair—
well organized into tails and buns and lots of braids,
neatly kept away from the eyes, nose and mouth. Cropped hair
became a fashion. Different ways of styling could
do much to enhance the wearer. They adorned hair
with flowers, pretty stones, shell, bone and wooden combs
left on it. It was braided and curled and the hair
was held with bands of leather, cloth, scarves and fancy pins,
to the upsweeps of the Gibson girl. Tinted hair
styled by “professionals.” Wigs, enjoyed in ancient Egypt
through today. I like it flowing, just long, loose hair.
Names
The moon up there is “all right,” as it performs
an olden nightly routine, watch. Always looked
up to, once worshiped a “god.” Since it was held
by Mother Earth it travels perfect with her
needed light. Now, since most are gullible
there will always be a “crazy,” empowered
by the foolish “masses” who don’t look below
the surface. It’s easier not to. There will
be one coming into prominence somewhere
in the globe. Long ago it was called “Luna.”
And we have the word “lunacy.” There’s nothing
wrong with the moon, it’s the least of man’s problems.
To the moon up there speak the words, “all right.”
Meditation on Green
No monster chase, green has filled me with breath,
the color of okay to “move.” They say
in another planet there might be black grass,
but here we can walk on green, the color
of “new.” Some will say they don’t “look” good in
green. But there are different shades to try; wrap
yourself in spring and summer. Green becomes
the color of “everywhere,” bringing forth
a million smiles. The verdant truths I love.
Nice to walk paths shaded by leafy trees.
Green, the color of hope knows the color of
"love" is red. The color of water is blue.
There’s an angel behind green, I get the most
breath walking on green, the color of “life.”
Breaking into the Silence
As I wait for a train in a nice breezy
afternoon, a man comes in and sits on
a nearby bench. Soon, a slim woman in tight
jeans quickly walks toward him. “Give me my keys!
Give me my keys!” She screams. Words slam into
the air in the open station. “I want
my keys. Give me my keys!” Those waiting seem
to freeze. How some air their business so well.
You can come to the end of composure—and
all seems lost. “Give me my keys! And go to hell
with her!” Some quietly smirk. Did she find out
he had his—extra keys? “My keys!“ The train’s
rattle breaks in. It’s best to be careful
to whom you bestow “key privileges.”
Wayward Mind
It's always time
For another
Break, a wound
In the flesh.
The sun lights.
He drives away -
Unlike birds,
On road to work.
New hours ahead.
He dreams divorce.
But she's
His mind's keeper.
Their laughter –
Icing on bad cake.
More Information Please
(La Llorona)
From so much to take care of, the need to relax
the mind with something is there. I watch a movie
about one-and-a-half hour long. A mother is out
to save her two children from a malignant spirit.
She seeks Information about it from the actor
who looks like Bob Heman. Yes, who usually plays
psychotic types. Now, he’s the gentle, Father Perez.
He shares background information about the evil
entity, who wants her children, and has brought havoc
into her house. She implores him for help. He can’t
be of any assistance, but gives her the name
of a shaman, an ex-priest who might have the needed
information, the “know-how,” to rid forever
her family of this malevolent presence.
A Fantasy
(or, A Perfect World)
When mean decides to be kind (or mean no more)
will the word disappear? When selfish decides
to share, will the word no longer make sense?
War, would be an archaic word, useless—
a word, no more. When jealous realizes
it is one among many, and respect
would be such a common word, it would go
without speaking, would people then just be
able to read each others gentle thoughts?
Everyone would have a pet to care for,
so there would be no homeless animals.
All would be vegetarian, including
the now happy carnivores. And the earth
would move through space in joy, forever fertile . . .
