Monday, September 8, 2014

something like that...

storm as  memory
wet, a condition cured
thunder as a feeling
plunge, a deep inside.

harvesting 2014

talking with the boy whose name
would be mine were I not born a girl
about the moon.

days and weeks and years;

"passages" says the older
to the younger. its all related.

this madness
"gunna be crazy" says the younger
to the older; forgetting

the weight of words
the weight of produce
the weight of commerce
the weight of lineage.

an invocation and birthright.

fragments of remembered time- 1 through 3

the chimes ignored the wind,
just for a moment the trees bowed;
Kore, low in the fresh cut grass
trying to catch a whiff of the lilies
in the mist of mold and skinned knees.

the waters cooperation maintains the space between vertical and horizontal.
breathing uninterrupted, 
reserving the gasp for where our bodies conjoin.

a proposition
a country crossroads covered in wildflowers.

name every one.

a patch of goldenrod and chicory
drop the last lock

covered in thistledown
the key is safe.

oh nurse

eyes open enough to see that sleep comes
dressed in deep blue,
almost black.

nurse, she's out of her room again
alone, feet planted in mud tail in
moist greens alongside a white poppy one hand swinging from Orion's belt.

nurse, she's out of her room again.
that quest to quench the thirst as smoke escapes
her lips like legs parted begging you to inhale
the last bastions of moisture.

nurse, she's out of her room again,
swimming alone against the current of what's right
and what's to be at the end.

the daft collection

Dearest, here is

A book

For when

The power goes out.



When they tell you to bear down, hold your breath like the time you did when you first learned it would cure your hiccups.


~ where pen touches paper is not a loving kiss.~

                                 yet it is.

                                 I have never missed a kiss

                                 Until I met your mouth.


A long term lease (of this moment) has less chance for a break-in

than sleeping in my mind

or squatting amidst the flame and ash of my heart.


i dare to accept

a truth. a muffled whimper.
a stifled moan in the musk of the cobweb being more tremendous
than a legion of wolves running through the fall forest.
and the presence of your embrace is enough to stop any heart
and your silence can be more frightening then a lions roar
and there are always choices even if they are the same.

i always come undone by our same.



Converging (two voices)

in the rain,
under the moonflowers

what was the question?

it started with an epiphany. i held in my hand a pencil and thought of....
the harbinger

autumnal heat
youthful patterning,
the abstract and absolute. this time
i am wild in the season of death,
as primitive cells wake from their slumber on a quest for fire.

Lethargic bees swim in the dregs of summers dresses,
disobedient to the wind.
Waiting for coffee and death and a fissure in the wall.
Night is better than toasted pound cake and peach preserves;
the last bite presents its presence.

present, those damp hands unwrapped Springs packages,
penetrating the fascia of earth in anticipating her adornment.

Earth tasting of figs, with a hint of salt.

as if waiting for a spark, the late orchestra of summer plays a matinee',
the trees sound a blusterous applause releasing their adornments.
replayed in Technicolor for the color blind.
"ooh oh my oh my" echoes,

instead of waiting for depth and suspension.

It passes faster than a minute in darkness,
flickering across the pages of time.
Where do we rove, together in silent ecstasy?

the answer
encapsulated in a bead of sweat,
reflected in a tear. traveling the bell jars curve


What a flower feels when a bee rests upon its ovary.

Her golden agony

Would sit

In between

Always swollen, beauty pumps;

I crack like slow breath.
through every
Exquisite passion





Rib 2.

Once upon a time there was a crooked descendent of eve who had a crooked rib.

To those brave enough to take a knee and kiss it,

she offers salivation and fruit of her love.

The fruit, eternally ripe, unlike canned cherries or apple pie filling, has no expiration date.



The silence falls,

blanketing the chairs.

Warm, the midnights fire memory.









Wondering Star

Is it strange that I only wish upon one star
(and know its name) and what if I’ve filled it with wishes
Should I spread them out among other stars?

Beetle juice

The runaway.
The shoulder bearing the weight.

A wish fulfilled.


[I’m changing the story,]

We are all a bit like Icarus before the launch, standing at the abyss
Of freedom with a caveat,
(“Don’t fly to close to the sun”)
An echo that gets cut off
(“don’t fly”)
prior to jumping.

We dare still, only to find the weather so warm the wings melt,
Before learning if madness is disguised as sanity
A dashed hope is sculpted into a formless mass
still alive.


The intricacies of my mind
And the framing of flowers made of delicately knotted hair.








Happy Birthday Anne Sexton, Fire Fragments

i have a involves tears.

the words
written on leaves
freshly fallen fly before the ink can dry;
or a breath caught before being held upright
in an embrace
trying to catch the sun's reflection in the pursing of lips
and a blinking eye.

i am i am i am i am
as always, barefoot in the garden
tending under your gentle eye
held weightless in the warmth of your hand.

assuming your fire i wear your scars
the red badge
a scarlet letter
unfettered and proud
within the shadow of your acquiescence.

The diary of our hurly-burly years
goes to these pages waiting for my age to pass
motionless in reflections of the nothingness in everything.

Everyone in me is a bird of wayward migration
following the corrupt compass of time as mobile.

once there was a witch...
the weather guardian who loved the wanderer and the dew
amongst the grey areas of variance.





Just in a moment, supported by a warm hand
grasping hold.

an uncertain yet
consistent conviction that oxidizes the blood.
allowing lungs to fill and cries to be heard,
our feet to be nimble, gliding through the mist,
to dare to be hope
and dare to be here;
casting aside time,
not to behave- or react, but honestly say-

I love, to you.

in this current we are unwrapped.
a finger, within the silent scream of pleasure;
resonating, louder than the wailing wall of collective pains.


The trouble with February.

The grayness is not like the sweater gray of May or early September
Wrapping itself smoothly around you
Just warm enough.
This gray is textured
Like a course wool scarf on bare skin
That steals your breath to fuel the sun
Which tricks you into believing the day will not
Pain the cracks in between your knuckles

Or the tender split on your lip.


~I dreamed, or pulse with no blood.~

The month, history
and love quilted with sadness holding hope.

I cried.

Like a child by day,
Under nights cover
A master of the silent wail.


The many ways one can interpret
Thank you love.

No inflection.

Thank you love.

Little punctuation.
Thank you love.


Breath 1 & 2


The other night.

Laying in bed.
Below the crook of your arm.
Looking upwards.

Your face, at that moment.
Awake and asleep.

Casting aside practical mysticism.
Believing completely.

I’ve looked upon you in the moonlight.
Since times first sunrise.




The roar of the wind
Sounds like you
Between dreams.

a river

At its source pausing,
the stars light

Trembling trunks
bowing branches

Open armed.






To unsex time

The slow eruption
knitted in the space
tangled limbs
languid in the morning sun.


The river loses its name when it joins with the sea


The kiss that is not just a kiss but a door;
a threshold of truth trapped in passing time.



Falling Nights

held in the hand of early autumn
and the fire in between the metaphors
i could use to describe your lips

A wave
along the banks of memory,
blanketed by stars along a wall;
silence is breath and a kiss











State of Grace

Amazing grace has silenced her song.

struck mute manifesting salvation;

infected by the unrepentant expectations of abject forgiveness.

The warmth of redemption is nothing more than a tattered sail

bound to an anchors melody.

While a fools compromise flies upon the wind:

Let us all now meet half way on the silent road,

at the intersection of longevity and daring

if only for a minute to plant the seeds of forgiveness.

With their forget-me-not blooms



pregnant with hurt,

muted time, and the understanding;

“even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.”




I should, presently, be holding court rather than in bed contemplating poetry or prose.

You see dear muse, I'm fearful of the words that may flow from my brain to my pencil

(I've given up on pens, their permanence of scratching marks, and the faux lead comes in black wood and marks with little pressure, there exists a safety in sharpening)

I am, I am, I am,

you see, adorned with an invisible scarlet letter.

not for adultery

but the other "A",

think, it will come to you unexpectedly, without warning;

and it will be guarded like chastity in mixed conversation,

here it is, omniscient and burdensome; like slow dancing with strangers.

alone measuring my age and youth I want nothing more than to be greeted with a quiet solitude dressed in fog under a heating pad that never quite gets hot enough;

a harbinger of age and the chill of years have settled in my bones while the silver peeks through the darkness and reaches out to touch grace.