cuando arthur donovan vino del sur
hizo una parva con sus maldades resentimientos tristezas
les prendió fuego en el crepúsculo
para espantar a los mosquitos de paso

quedó solísimo apoyado en bellezas
"y qué va a hacer" decía arthur donovan con luz
o suavidad o dulzura pechonas
contando su poquito

"y qué va a hacer" decía
pero una mirada que le dieron como amparo o amor le sostenía el esqueleto
en esa mirada arthur donovan estaba parado
y hacía señales contra el mundo

"ah mirada" decía arthur donovan el entendido en sombras
"solos estamos por aquí" decía y ya la noche le rebajaba el sufrimiento
a pájaros a tierra
mojada respirando

cuando arthur donovan murió
sacó una mano afuera extendiéndola
como quien pide lluvia o nido o no tanta soledá
olvido si no hay caso

cómo llovió sobre esa mano
no hubo gente que no llorara por allí
pero ni hojita le creció al puro hueso
comido por el aire

"y qué va a hacer" decía arthur donovan
mientras el viento lo limpiaba
y él levantaba su mirada famosa
como calor desobediente a la suerte fatal

bent Hallmark card (for BJ Donovan)

”I'm a bent Hallmark card with no stamp. It won't reach my love”
                   BJ Donovan (HP gone, Gray Dotted, r.i.p.)

at the drug store, loose poems,
no right-sized envelopes left,
loosie cigs, for newly ‘underemployed’
both, thumbed, finger oil anointed-stained,
and
bent

all available for purchase
24/7, in these United States,
in national drugstores jailed,
kept in “chains” till discarded

therein hides the rub-bled best,^^
great verse writings, deadline-
inspired in a Ohio bullpen office,
@ corp. HQ by an Eng. Lit. major

composed, vetted, approved, yet
marked ‘failure,’ by quality control,
third Tuesday of every month, ritualized,
manager freshens display, victims chosen

Hallmark display, pruning the die-marked,
the no-hope cards, consigned, to a green
in-the-back-garbage dumpster resting place,
where you just may see me climbing-in

(and where America safe keeps its treasures)

droning on, as per usual, I’m kicked away by a
rent-a-cop, muttering insurance assurances, just
business, not personal, grab what cards I can, mine,
stolen pleasures, resending via insertion here ‘n there

my resurrection act, a new business, wife thinks
me stinks, but for me, a perfume of saved  words,
an act of rebirthing, god bless America, making it
great by giving Hallmark poems a second chance

gonna send one of those cards in envelope,
addressed to BJ Donovan U.S.A., no stamp,
inside note, your poems were ordinal, small
plates of sardonic pith, human foibles, on being

old, recalling youth, both celebrated, Icarus and Daedalus

pretty sure this poem may not get there but I believe
in poetry and the US Post Office, who delivers
mail to me, marked “Nat”^ and to Santa Claus,
which impresses, cause I’m mythical, he’s real

your compositions were breathtaking, literally,
miss your hallmarked witticisms, criticisms,
glad you escaped that virus nursing home jail,
if needed, write to “Nat, NYC, living somewhere
in a park, scribbling close by the East River”^

I’ll get it, like I got you, they know my special tree,
and the rock nearby, that too, is a known hideout,
no worries buddy good stuff may perish, but somehow
it gets a second wind, can’t keep a good scrip, down forever...

a very humbled admirer...

NaTTy

Brooke hit it off with Edric from the moment they met.

The dangerously ****, tattooed ex-SEAL and always a poet, Detective for the LAPD, remains as one of the best friends she’s ever had, the main star in her wildest fantasies.
When they met he did not see her that way. And she would have died of embarrassment if he found out she was still a ******. And he was about to stake his claim, struggling to keep his attraction to the beautiful, blond dancer a secret.
He was not good enough for her; that is what he thought. On a day when an attacker targeted Brooke, Edric’s protective instincts went into overdrive.
With the attraction between them burning like a torch flame, he would do whatever it took to protect her and tell her they were meant to be together.  
One evening, deciding to express her love for her, Edric waited outside the door, keeping watch over the woman he loved secretly. Then he saw her through the curtain, dressed in her black fur coat.
Not realizing that she was being watched, yet fantasizing about the man of her dreams, Brooke lowered her fur coat standing in front of her mirror.
Her soft ******* protruding out from her black lace bra, in her mind waiting for Edric’s hands to touch her love her, want her like she wanted him... As the coat slipped down her black lace skimpy ******* seemed so inviting. Her dreams of him were getting so vivid. She would imagine him standing over her, kneeling, as he slipped his hand under the cover, exploring her body, wanting her, making her desire so real. Seeing Brooke in her lingerie, he was awestruck by her beauty and wondered what to do next.
Hesitatingly, he moved towards the door and to his shock saw a shadow, moving slowly, stealthily, trying to pry the windows. Failing to open the window, he moved towards the door. He pulled out a bunch of keys trying out one by one. Edric’s first response was to call for backup. He called leading detective Donovan Mallow his partner. Then the shadow opened Brooke’s door and started creeping in, Edric wasting no time, Edric charged to stop him. Suddenly he heard a shot that rang out into the night. There was Brooke standing in her black lace bra and *******, holding a gun and the intruder lay dead on the floor.

“Brooke drop the gun, please Brooke drop the gun.” Brooke was shaking… “Brooke, sweetheart, drop the gun. “She looked at Edric and let the gun fall to the floor softly.  On the verge of tears, petrified out of her wits since she had never used a gun before,  and to **** a man, she shook violently. Edric walked over to her and picks her and covered her half naked body with his coat.
When Detective Donovan showed up, Edric held her close while the former checked  the body and called for the paramedics and further back up. When the police came, CIS took finger prints, investigating the crime scene.
Edric found Brooke some clothes and dressed her, escorting her to the precinct for recording of her statement. She was questioned and released.
With Edric’s story and Detective Donovan backing her up, she was released. Not wanting to disturb the crime scene, Edric escorted her to his home and put her in bed. Brooke, I need to tell you something, is what he said.
“I am listening”…Brooke was shivering after having gone through the trauma, yet attentive listening to the man that she had secretly admired. “I want you to know, I love you”.  “You love me? I love you too. I always have.” Brooke looked at Edric with an adulation emanating from her very soul.
As an instinctive response, shivering, she let her head lean on his shoulder. “Edric then please make love to me. I have yearned for you so long”.
As the sun slipped from its perch in the sky slowly, drawing well into the darkness, the shores where the waves would roll and sigh, Edric slowly undressed Brooke, one piece at a time. As he took off her blouse admiring her beautiful soft protruding ******* with each moment her ******* getting hard. Taking  off her pants and there were the black lace ******* he had seen from the window. Her firm and tight stomach and legs, she looked so delectably **** and beautiful. She was lying with a look of anticipation on her face. He enveloped her with his arms and kissed her softly, passionately. He didn’t want to scare her.
“Edric, I have to tell you.” Brooke whispered in his ear. “Later Brooke, you can tell me later.” He was so aroused and was getting so hard. “No, Edric now.. I have to tell you now.” Edric stopped and looked at her, “What is it darling?”
“Edric I am a ******. You are my first man. I have never been with another man.” Edric sat there and couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He knew then that he had to be gentle. A wrong step and he would scare Brooke. He held her hand and kissed it.
"I kind of suspected but am surprised. You always had a naïve gentleness and girlishness about you. You always seemed so vulnerable that I always wanted to protect. You always had affected me in a way that I couldn't explain; no other woman has ever done that to me.”

Saying that he helped her dress and holding her hand led her towards the ****** beach outside his cottage. Wrapping her in his arms, they watched the beautiful glow of the stars, eyes aglow with passion of locked hands. Edric spoke his favorite lyrics, into her mouth as he started kissing her.
What a poet was he!! Impatience getting the better of her, “Edric, please make love to me… Oh! how I want you.”
His kisses were soft but passionate; they started at her lips to the base of her neck sliding down to her *******. When they got to her stomach her breath trembled, yearning for more.
Electric shocks ran down her spine. She almost screamed. The winds gently swirled, dancing to their rhythm of their passion. A girl, morphed that sweet evening, as Edric make sweet passionate love to her and made her into a blossoming woman.
Guess, there is nothing in the world that matched the feeling of eclectic emotions that were born that night. When a tired sun finally arose as a grim reminder of the end of an ethereal night, it sighed endlessly, spreading a gentle caress across Brooke’s cheek, pledging that she was bound to Eric for eternity.

Debbie Brooks 2014 -

Politics is a shame
Two Donalds to blame
So if the name is black listed
Please don't get it twisted
I'm not one of em
Named after Donovan
Let me clarify
Spell my name with a Y
Let me testify
So you can't deny
I'm not one of em
Named after Donovan

"Colours" by Donovan.                         
“Colors” by a False Poet.

Yellow is the color of my true love's hair    
sun dapples her gold shadings
In the mornin', when we rise                        
sun searching for the truest color
in the mornin', when we rise                      
peaking, she’s peeking, we waking, uprising
That's the time, that's the time.                  
her best time, sleepy doe eyed, all yellow,
I love the best                                                
bangs tickling eyes, I write of sun sparks

Blue's the color of the sky                          
blue is the primary, the selected color,
In the mornin', when we rise                        
that’s chosen to be a lovers greeting,
In the mornin', when we rise
a cloudy white pastel of blue,
That's the time, that's the time
that’s the days first part, our best parting
I love the best

Green's the color of the sparklin' corn
green Granny Smith apples, ****
In the mornin', when we rise
our mouths pucker, drool, chin juices
In the mornin', when we rise
that’s the days first part, a best parting
That's the time, that's the time
that’s the days first part, a best joining
I love the best

Mellow is the feelin' that I get
mellow is with me, all de day
When I see her, mm hmm
seeing her first eye blinking smile
When I see her, uh huh
the feeling infused, all de day,
That's the time, that's the time
she grants me loves freedom
I love the best

Freedom is a word I rarely use
except when I look upon her
Without thinkin', mm hmm
with knowing, full complete
Without thinkin', uh huh
with knowing, fully, completely
Of the time, of the time
of every time our morning glances meet
When I've been loved

Axel, who never had a rocking horse, once rode a bright blue tricycle. He called it his ‘Athenian Rhapsody’. He loved to play the tuba in bed, and when he was feeling particularly happy, would sit on the loo in the outside shed, pants around his ankles oompa-pa’ing till the cows came home.

That was quite a while ago; the tuba and the tricycle have gone, yet he can still hear the triangle sound the bell made on his tricycle, and still remembers the scraping of the old keys on the ancient tuba.

Axel listens to old sounds very well (all the time): he loves Bach, Mendelssohn and Donovan. He loves to eat crumpets with honey and drink a large white mug of milky tea; it reminds him of summer fishing trips to Lake Eucumbine, mushrooms and gnats in the full-sun morning air, (he loves to talk fishing when he’s playing chess with Carl the orderly, often quoting from his favourite magazine, ‘Modern Fly Fishing’).

Axel was once an expert at fly fishing; tying the ‘super moonshadow’ to perfection (he named the fly after what he thought was a Donovan song, written by Cat Stevens).

When the hospital staff remember to buy him a new box, Axel loves to drink Lady Grey tea made from tea bags, he prefers tea bags, he feels that somehow they bring clearer definition to tea making.

Axel thinks a lot about definition, noting how the edges of his bed are very clearly defined by the clean-blue hospital blankets that drop suddenly to the ocean of the grey linoleum floor. He likes the smell of cleanblue, it’s somehow a new sea to sail and sometimes the feel of his favourite jumper when he was a boy: a definite edge of beginning and end. He knows that soon he’ll cross the floor-grey ocean, sailing under a white sheet. But this is not a thing Axel dwells on for very long, he prefers to think of such things as his next chess move and flirting with Miriam the night nurse.

—

Axel has just beaten Carl in a game of chess. He’s said goodnight to Miriam, a long quiet goodnight, a good long, good night. He won’t wake again, he senses this  –  and is peaceful.

When his last breath comes he hears; a faint scraping sound and a single precious note from a triangle bell on a bright blue tricycle.

They’re good sounds.

They are old sounds.

They bring him…

In a strange mood - see/write art



in a strange way, disorganized but straight on,
light tinted magenta, issuing, in frothy large pours, from my mouth,
knowing what to say, and the meaning too,
I can more than walk, can write, on water,
where all can read weeping, Mary-miracles of seeing, living words,
themselves, on light waves lapping in a
shifting rotunda vision, color reorienting spatial senses.^

in a strange, strange stitch, seasonal spirits and witches,
Chagall, Baez, Dylan Thomas, Donovan, Richie Havens
doing their knitting in my brain, from Montmartre to the Midwest to Monterey,
painters and poets in lockstep head-messing with me,
imperfect clarity but still one voice,
see/write art,
so went and caught the wind, going gently into night
to banish the hodgepodge of uncertainty from inside out.

knowing well you don't understand fully, but jumbling tumbling
verses are sliding off my rusted tongue as fiddlers fly above,
roughened words, hewn from a paper cup, spilling diamonds uncut, imported from Sarajevo, Montparnasse, the Lower East Side.
wretched me, in the hour I first believed, this amalgamated conception conceded,
seceded from my mind into your palate for a tasting,
tho neither drugged, nor deaf and dumb, just slammed poetical-like, this write is
all I have to portend is your affections, your attentions, to yours, am beholden.

a *****, well respected man in daylight,
the hidden references accuse,
woke up to see Wednes-day Caesarian born,
askance glanced at the prior passages of the night before,
when my palate clefted,
when eyes chose not to distinguish
between right and lefted,
in the nightlight,
a ***** man disrespects language convection/convention,
and lays before you activating stanzas and his mind, prone,
but always the truth, speaking,
the visions, leaking, mind to eye,
recombinant, into our minds eye.




^ http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell


Rather than write extensive notes on the many references, inspirations in this poem, if there is a line that intrigues, ask me

throw some ****** coal in this steam locomotive
fueled by drugs, fame, money, *******, and notierity
all them girls know its me,
and some think its Reid,
but they not in the game
muhfuckas know my name (Charlie Sheen)

all these ****** uppers in my nasal passages
can't handle this
parents goin through my phone and they check my text messages
they like - "riddle me this
all you do is talk about drugs and spittin game on *******
when you gon make us proud son
you sling dope but we aint seen one
penny - and we gettin sick of it
not because your raps are ill
but because you're selfish
clean your room, do your homework, and get a job
or you'll be homeless
suckin **** for crack
and you don't want that
then you won't be able to attack and conquer
Make some change - cause you're drivin me and your father bonkers
and your ****** moniker is Reid Donovan not Charlie Sheen"

Uh...

And i be like...
"don't fret Mom, urrbody love me
i'm a terrorist droppin bombs on these rap songs
and one day
i'ma be rich as ****
all because i'm a genius
ballin, swag my *** out like Josef Stalin
and i dictate, reiterating as I weave my words so great
too late, to stop my hostile take over
i'll show her, how to ****** peddle and be stellar
mean smokin green
well up, runnin these streets
watch me take over the world
cause the name I sign my checks with is Charlie Sheen
I be, conducting
noxious, fallout as I spit
cause my saliva is toxic
white *** *******
but i'm still hood rich

We gon take over the world
while I'm on my Charlie Sheen ****
watch me stand tall
high above all the rest
see me on national TV
believe they'll remember me as the best
stick me with a knife
and watch me bleed liquid gold
nationwide tours, sold out shows
winning - throw my fastball
three strikes - all the oppositions out
wolf gang **** them all

and you know I be on those strikes
cause I aint about them ***** - no
I'm Charlie Sheen *****

I'm gon take over the world
while Mac Miller's getting mad
you're only seventeen kid,
how you write **** like that
Its because
the only present I ever got for christmas
was a big box of swag
just messin take some lessons

man i'm jonesin
8 am, gotta hankerin for a fixin
call the operator cause i'm on a ****** mission
big dave answers my call
and I reach those outer limits,
all he says is press pound and i'll connect you to the mooooon

When girls ask me if I be on that Charlie Sheen ****,
I just tell em no - I AM CHARLIE SHEEN *****

(I seldom publish anyone else's poetry, but this one is so exceptional on so many levels, I had to reproduce it here. Hillary Clinton reposted it, so why not me?)

“Education then, beyond all other devices of human origin,
Is a great equalizer of the conditions of men.” – Horace Mann, 1848.
At the time of his remarks I couldn’t read — couldn’t write.
Any attempt to do so, punishable by death.
For generations we have known of knowledge’s infinite power.
Yet somehow, we’ve never questioned the keeper of the keys —
The guardians of information.

Unfortunately, I’ve seen more dividing and conquering
In this order of operations — a heinous miscalculation of reality.
For some, the only difference between a classroom and a plantation is time.
How many times must we be made to feel like quotas —
Like tokens in coined phrases? —
“Diversity. Inclusion”
There are days I feel like one, like only —
A lonely blossom in a briar patch of broken promises.
But I’ve always been a thorn in the side of injustice.

Disruptive. Talkative. A distraction.
With a passion that transcends the confines of my consciousness —
Beyond your curriculum, beyond your standards.
I stand here, a manifestation of love and pain,
With veins pumping revolution.
I am the strange fruit that grew too ripe for the poplar tree.
I am a DREAM Act, Dream Deferred incarnate.
I am a movement – an amalgam of memories America would care to forget
My past, alone won’t allow me to sit still.
So my body, like the mind
Cannot be contained.

As educators, rather than raising your voices
Over the rustling of our chains,
Take them off. Un-cuff us.
Unencumbered by the lumbering weight
Of poverty and privilege,
Policy and ignorance.

I was in the 7th grade, when Ms. Parker told me,
“Donovan, we can put your excess energy to good use!”
And she introduced me to the sound of my own voice.
She gave me a stage. A platform.
She told me that our stories are ladders
That make it easier for us to touch the stars.
So climb and grab them.
Keep climbing. Grab them.
Spill your emotions in the big dipper and pour out your soul.
Light up the world with your luminous allure.

To educate requires Galileo-like patience.
Today, when I look my students in the eyes, all I see are constellations.
If you take the time to connect the dots,
You can plot the true shape of their genius —
Shining in their darkest hour.

I look each of my students in the eyes,
And see the same light that aligned Orion’s Belt
And the pyramids of Giza.
I see the same twinkle
That guided Harriet to freedom.
I see them. Beneath their masks and mischief,
Exists an authentic frustration;
An enslavement to your standardized assessments.

At the core, none of us were meant to be common.
We were born to be comets,
Darting across space and time —
Leaving our mark as we crash into everything.
A crater is a reminder that something amazing happened here —
An indelible impact that shook up the world.
Are we not astronomers — looking for the next shooting star?
I teach in hopes of turning content, into rocket ships —
Tribulations into telescopes,
So a child can see their potential from right where they stand.
An injustice is telling them they are stars
Without acknowledging night that surrounds them.
Injustice is telling them education is the key
While you continue to change the locks.

Education is no equalizer —
Rather, it is the sleep that precedes the American Dream.
So wake up — wake up! Lift your voices
Until you’ve patched every hole in a child’s broken sky.
Wake up every child so they know of their celestial potential.
I’ve been a Black hole in the classroom for far too long;
Absorbing everything, without allowing my light escape.
But those days are done. I belong among the stars.
And so do you. And so do they.
Together, we can inspire galaxies of greatness
For generations to come.
No, sky is not the limit. It is only the beginning.
Lift off.

Donovan Livingston
Harvard Commencement 2016

Fashion and beauty retailers from across Hull are uniting to celebrate the region's independent shops.

The sixth annual Hull Business Improvement District (BID) Fashion Week is in full swing, with more than 70 retailers taking part. During the festival, business owners will showcase their best products and offer prospective shopkeepers an insight into how they have made their companies successful. Organiser Adam Clark said the celebration offered a platform for Hull's retail sector to demonstrate its strengths.
He said: "Hull Fashion Week celebrates and promotes independent retailers in Hull city centre.

"They are one of the driving forces to what makes our retail offer unique, along with our three city centre shopping centres and department stores."
Gillian Long opened her bespoke tailoring service, **** Of The Walk, in Hull two years ago.

The Savile Row-trained tailor will be opening up her studio to give prospective customers and fellow retailers a look behind the scenes.

She said: "I enjoyed Hull Fashion Week last year, but I did think there weren't that many men's fashion retailers or designers taking part, so I wanted to get more involved to show people what is out there.

"I think the event is a great thing to raise awareness about all the different independent shops out there.

"People might not realise we are here, but if you scratch under the service you will see there are actually lots of us who are doing really well."

Family-run jewellery firm Hugh Rice is another Hull company getting involved, with a meeting at its branch in St Stephen's shopping centre today.

Sales and marketing director James Rice said it would give fellow shopkeepers a chance to learn about the latest jewellery trends and let customers try on the latest pieces.

He said: "For us, it's just great to be involved in an event on this scale.

"We are a Hull company and we want to be as involved as possible in events like this, which promote the city and promote Hull businesses."
Mr Rice said it was an exciting time to be a city centre retailer in Hull.

"Around the marina in particular, there are lots of young, trendy shops emerging in an area that has probably been a bit neglected in the past year or so," he said.

"As we move towards the UK City of Culture in 2017, it's great to see more businesses thriving and I think it has given the rest of us something to aim for."

The week will culminate with a grand finale on Saturday, hosted by BBC Look North weather presenter Keeley Donovan.

Source: http://www.sheindressau.com

Sherlock is indebted, forever;
To Mike,
For he made it possible for Holmes,
To meet the (only) friend of his life.
Oh look at John,
How baffled he was,
For he had just met a man,
About him, who knew all.
The army doctor thing, the Afghanistan war,
And that his sibling was alcoholic,
About this Sherlock was sure.

Without a word about himself,
Just the name and address,
Holmes went away,
Leaving John, with many questions,
And their answers for him to guess.

A queer flat mate, he was, a bit rude
Sherlock, you know;
Mrs. Hudson was nicer,
But not their housekeeper!
Apparently, SH would play violin to think,
Knew it was DI Lestrade at the door,
And there was another ******,
Including this one, counting to four,
Without a hint.

The crime scene was sealed,
Under supervision of Donovan,
And according to Sherlock,
There was something going on,
Between her,
And Anderson.

A woman was dead,
Wore everything in pink,
Holmes deduced her marriage state,
Just by her ring!
He slammed the door at Anderson,
For he (SH) found him irritating.
“Rache is not for revenge”, Holmes said,
“She was writing Rachel, obviously”.
Left-handed she was,
And was carrying a suitcase,
But as Lestrade said,
There was never a case.

Mr. Holmes was so excited then,
He teased others to be stupid,
Watson helped him make a point,
In order to find the criminal,
But Holmes believed,
The pink case was the cupid.