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Free Bird

July 22, 2017

SELFIE7212017.SUSANKIRSCHBAUM.JPGSelfie shot this eve 7/21/2017 **WORDS part of an upcoming collection by Susan Kirschbaum

In a year my heart broke open like  an egg

While he played in the chicken coop.

Bored with chicks who pecked and blindly followed his cock call.

He now craves my yolk,

Which slipped past the talons.

Far from the barn door.

Reabsorbed back into the earth,

Where a wildflower sprouts.

**Original verse by (copyrighted) by Susan Kirschbaum

E.S.P. (Especially you…)

July 21, 2017


Don’t talk. So I may listen.  I heard you once.  I hear you again.  In the quiet hours in between, while your demon naps.

~ MY #EYES  & #WORDS both by Susan Kirschbaum





July 17, 2017


She greeted me this morn. This flower on my path.  The wake up call from my deep slumber.  Her petals laughed in Midsummer wisdom.  That’s when I heard Titania.  “My Oberon!  What visions have I seen!  Methought I was enamored of an ass.”  (**Riddle, all mine.  Photo #nofilter on the path to truth.)

LEMONADE (my version)

July 14, 2017

LIMONCELLO.jpg(Photo: My `READY MADE’ #art and corresponding #poem, below both — words copyrighted–  Susan Kirschbaum)

Behold.  A poor substitute for memories of an Italian summer. Bella Italia.  Boys. Barely there bikinis.  Not understanding the curves.  Of my body.  Of his body.   La Strada.  L’Onda.  Swimming to the white slab of rock.  On a spare stretch of Adriatic Sea.  Where we baked until sunset.  Drowning in immature emotions.  Of something that was almost lust.  Pure splendor.  Masquerading as LOVE.  — by Susan Kirschbaum

My Orb

April 2, 2017



Original Text and photo by Susan M. Kirschbaum

I want to be Golden

Like an Angel

Or Persephone

More likely, Persephone

I spend half my time in Hell

And I survive it

I thrive and create from it


Ode to Jack…

March 29, 2017


Original text by Susan M. Kirschbaum

Gimme a Beat

Yeah, baby, you’re driving us down Route 66

And we’re writing poetry along the way

And we drink till we drop on top of one another each night,

at a new Motel 6 that we call “kitsch”

And we self indulge as long as we need to nurse these illusions

to boost our shaky self esteem(s)

And, and, and and, and and….

 (*Photo & memories, flashbacks.)

Memories of Brussels

March 28, 2016

puggy_live_concert_ancienne_belgique_bruxelles-9370_-_kmeron-_-_by-nc-ndAncienne Belgique, a place I’d frequented often as a student, to see bands– the Charlatans, the Stone Roses, etc.– in Brussels, Belgium


by Susan Kirschbaum

FALSTAFF raspberry tarts
at 4 plus a.m.
Bourse outside, closed
But club kids
Aah, OUI C’est COOL
Black box, playing
Today, a sad day
The Mannequin Pis
The British boyfriend
Tight on his shillings
But, yes, mussels and fries
And weirdly spiced beers
And chocolates and
Synagogues on the outskirts
of town, where
Guards stand with Uzis outside
The Turkish baths
The vintage stores
The lace
The Moroccan restaurants
So much food
So good
So exotic
NATO office idiots
How can they rep the States?
The long bureaucratic lunches
Meats wrapped in puff pastries
Cappuccinos and champagnes
The heady weekend on the lake
When we broke into the wine cellar
Snowed in
Pricey bit of grape
Drinking at all hours
And a rickety oven
So, the chicken, when finally cooked
So slow
Fell off the bone
He sang to me, “She wore a raspberry beret”
With his punk blonde curls
Hanging over one bold blue eye
He skipped in Converse high tops
Till we giggled
From the ridiculousness of it all
The innocence of it all
Of which there is
No more
In these times of surveillance
And invading hell.