Poetry Givings

Not so long ago, I sent out a call for support. I asked members of The Living Poetry Project to send me something (anything) to help sustain the well-being of the project. I was amazed by the response.  People kindly gave both financially and artistically–for example, Maureen Alsop sent me a box. This box contained the artifacts of a persona–a poem so alive it picked flowers, wrote postcards, made art, and reached into the universe to make contact

This is the dream of The Living Poetry Project–to make contact. To continue with this goal, I’ve created a Kickstarter to help fund new projects. Those of you who already sent money, I will apply it to reaching our Kickstarter goal of $500. Those of you would like to give to the promotion of poetry, please consider giving to The Living Poetry Project.

Ultimately, I would like to give poems strange alternative homes, such as bus stop benches, art shows, and bill-broads; but this will require your support. I would love to more poetry in the world; I think the worlds needs it.  We need it (maybe even more than the products normally advertised.)

Please visit and share this site: http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/2013949248/help-the-living-poetry-project

Great Blessings to All,

Nicelle Davis

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3 thoughts on “Poetry Givings

  1. My Desert Camp

    Along the damp tent seam,
    my finger feels the nylon stitches,
    dew hits my forehead.

    Dawn appears, nighttime shadow threats
    are my own backpack and coat.
    The morning brings no warmth.

    Last night’s coals, twigs,
    dry grass— I blow,
    and make a gray-morning fire.

    The sun glows over the desert valley,
    a red ochre temple floor.

    A shadow obstructs the sun,
    like Diogenes,
    I look up.

    Shoulder-touching-shoulder,
    three men cast their shadow.
    One speaks: “Abe.”

    “Abe, fold your tent,
    pack your camp, load your truck,
    return home.”

    I fold my tent,
    I pack my camp,
    I load my truck.

    I lay down— exhausted,
    I wait and watch my red ochre
    valley. It turns tan.
    I return, to my father’s home.

    By Robert Mäder-Kammer
    22 Dec 2012

    My Desert Camp

    Along the damp tent seam,
    my finger feels the nylon stitches,
    dew hits my forehead.

    Dawn appears, nighttime shadow threats
    are my own backpack and coat.
    The morning brings no warmth.

    Last night’s coals, twigs,
    dry grass— I blow,
    and make a gray-morning fire.

    The sun glows over the desert valley,
    a red ochre temple floor.

    A shadow obstructs the sun,
    like Diogenes,
    I look up.

    Shoulder-touching-shoulder,
    three men cast their shadow.
    One speaks: “Abe.”

    “Abe, fold your tent,
    pack your camp, load your truck,
    return home.”

    I fold my tent,
    I pack my camp,
    I load my truck.

    I lay down— exhausted,
    I wait and watch my red ochre
    valley. It turns tan.
    I return, to my father’s home.

    By Robert Mäder-Kammer
    22 Dec 2012

    My Desert Camp

    Along the damp tent seam,
    my finger feels the nylon stitches,
    dew hits my forehead.

    Dawn appears, nighttime shadow threats
    are my own backpack and coat.
    The morning brings no warmth.

    Last night’s coals, twigs,
    dry grass— I blow,
    and make a gray-morning fire.

    The sun glows over the desert valley,
    a red ochre temple floor.

    A shadow obstructs the sun,
    like Diogenes,
    I look up.

    Shoulder-touching-shoulder,
    three men cast their shadow.
    One speaks: “Abe.”

    “Abe, fold your tent,
    pack your camp, load your truck,
    return home.”

    I fold my tent,
    I pack my camp,
    I load my truck.

    I lay down— exhausted,
    I wait and watch my red ochre
    valley. It turns tan.
    I return, to my father’s home.

    By Robert Mäder-Kammer
    22 Dec 2012

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