POG Sound - new!

Hi Everyone,

I've been recording poetry readings for POG and Chax Press here in Tucson for a couple of years now. While I missed a few events due to my medical ordeals I still managed to amass quite a collection. This week Charles Alexander, Tenney Nathanson and I put our heads together and hatched the idea and means to create a web site dedicated to the recordings. As a joint project of POG and Chax Press, Charles set up a new domain and I developed the web site POG Sound. What you'll see is a beginning. Links to other audio-poetry sites will come.

We are all really excited that Tucson, AZ, finally has an online archive of selected events. Please visit POG Sound and let us know what you think.

Cheers,
Frank

83°F / 4:03 am

a peak a narrow window a length of clouds

“it's only a paper moon”

zig zag journeys the sunny south a salsa bar

36 Hours in New Mexico

saddle up a fine cream-colored mule

an unimaginable mystery

eager to be abroad in its

startling white church, its clustered town and its acacia trees

clumps of wild pumpkin

a great colony of gray-green lizards

petrified rock, “yellow as ocher”

ancient juniper trees

jutting upward 700 feet from the sandy plain

Like the full moon filling the birdbath, a perfect circle of ice blunts the sparrows' beaks. The skin on the first knuckle of each finger of my right hand stings with cold. My brittle fingers break small pieces of bread from the slice now half its original size. I laugh out loud at the headlines, "St. Francis of Tucson, Bread Man to the birds, found wanting for nothing ever again, a freeze in the cactus garden of the Tucson basin."

Sunday morning . . .

Christmas card from a friend

the tree we will not share

is in the forest there

free of our ornaments

- Jim Wilson

What matters on any level of human engagement is underscored by this 5,000 to 6,000 year old embrace. As these bones bear witness so do we. Art, in all its forms, is a sacred embrace. Our ancestors speak from the grave even as we go to the mountain. The living stones cry out even as I weep to get hold of. As my days are various, I choose to count my blessings, I choose beauty, I choose wonder.

Happy Holidays