ABYSS
i keep my weight under lock and key,
safe guarding each precious ounce. within every pound
a trapped poem resides.
the logos, in a holding pattern.
like the garden, saturated by twenty days of rain.
demanding the suns warmth to liberate the petals; the chrysalis of buds.
two red lilies in an ocean of orange
unseen ready to take flight.
a pea lost in a sea of tendrils
holding on as the siren speaks for truth.
we are at the half way marker without an ark.
LUMINIOUS
box is damaged, but i don't care
sing with me skipping stones among the flood.
having to choose between watching bats and fireflies is a fine quandary;
as is finding oneself stuck in the same spot following the moon
across the darkness. still as sleep,with open eyes watching
the tremble of flora shooting up. forever up.
everything is new again;
the keeper is on holiday.
TIME
is told by the rivers reflection upon the trees.
trapped by walls the jumping mimics the big-bang
and Atlas holds holds my burden. Love.
sleeps later than most days, hiding soft lips and acrid kisses.
the wind decides our placement in the pile of embraces, leaves, and memory.
under the weight of children, pressed like the last seasons flower
believing in life, as giggles become rain.
LOVE
tames the night in the garden. revealing its beauty only when the fireflies sting
the greenery like holiday lights. the moon hangs in a gallery of stars
framed by branches as the chorus of bats falsettos rise swoop like lovers
knotted in sheets.
the mortar of mud trying to swallow toes,
turning lustful maids into flowers.
first with petals erect, showing their wares to the sun.
dropping petticoats, yet always baring chests to showers
at sunset and rainbows.
she tendrils up a mulberry tree on the road to redemption.
her leaves eat only the fruit of life's pie. breathing rain
like fire, due west.
ready to come again into the layers and secrets.
back to the garden to find fate and destiny holding hands,
shielded behind a peacock fan in a bed of asphodel.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
a flower deep in the valley
wine stained lips rush for rain;
trees growin' in gutters
morning glories climbing the beans.
fat bone fingers scrapping thru her gardens interlopers
a stain ,so natural in the center
something so personal;
the blue boogie in the nothingness of the event horizon,
everything collapses
into a breath.
the night sky and its travelling moon shower light
across the dew soaked new grass;
baptizing bare feet, their rustle rules the sound of darkness.
like spots on leopards, sun on rivers dancing
in the heavy-metal free rain.
children giggle thru possibilities of lost rail promises:
wine puddle memories, searching for excuses...
bruises on cotton calves,
and the idea of daddy died young on rolling knees
and heels,that dug too far in the mud,
and butterflies stuck in her mouth
and the dirty stained fingers with the stench of thyme,
almost trembling
toes mingle as tongues let loose
geckos wiggle in the river beds
legs up skin ripped apart
tawny from decay -dead
dead
deer lay decapitated
head near by, old crow
corn beak pecks at the eyes.
the scent, rotting flesh carried through rose thickets
transforming the wind;
sour to sweet...
the wanderer pauses, feet sinking
in the moment,
wondering if this deception will ground the winds roving ways.
sweet to sour
and in bitter rain
petals bathe in mud to disguise their beauty-
irony contracts and signifies
the horror of irrelevance.
as temperance challenges the integrity of the wall,
condensation honors the folds...
(her lips) as sweat eases the sweet immortal
melon of death and penetrates our weathered skin of mortality.
salvaging for scraps of an other amongst the pedals
and toys
and toil of her seeds.
amongst the dreams of many
and the cherished soften;
the moon now comes to collect her children.
trees growin' in gutters
morning glories climbing the beans.
fat bone fingers scrapping thru her gardens interlopers
a stain ,so natural in the center
something so personal;
the blue boogie in the nothingness of the event horizon,
everything collapses
into a breath.
the night sky and its travelling moon shower light
across the dew soaked new grass;
baptizing bare feet, their rustle rules the sound of darkness.
like spots on leopards, sun on rivers dancing
in the heavy-metal free rain.
children giggle thru possibilities of lost rail promises:
wine puddle memories, searching for excuses...
bruises on cotton calves,
and the idea of daddy died young on rolling knees
and heels,that dug too far in the mud,
and butterflies stuck in her mouth
and the dirty stained fingers with the stench of thyme,
almost trembling
toes mingle as tongues let loose
geckos wiggle in the river beds
legs up skin ripped apart
tawny from decay -dead
dead
deer lay decapitated
head near by, old crow
corn beak pecks at the eyes.
the scent, rotting flesh carried through rose thickets
transforming the wind;
sour to sweet...
the wanderer pauses, feet sinking
in the moment,
wondering if this deception will ground the winds roving ways.
sweet to sour
and in bitter rain
petals bathe in mud to disguise their beauty-
irony contracts and signifies
the horror of irrelevance.
as temperance challenges the integrity of the wall,
condensation honors the folds...
(her lips) as sweat eases the sweet immortal
melon of death and penetrates our weathered skin of mortality.
salvaging for scraps of an other amongst the pedals
and toys
and toil of her seeds.
amongst the dreams of many
and the cherished soften;
the moon now comes to collect her children.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
challenge me...i dare you
the wall i discussed earlier is tricky, one brick at a time reconstructing its form. it appears stronger, as if it has learned from its previous deconstruction to create distractions allowing the mortar time to set. those distractions weave themselves into the cracks left behind furthering its stronghold.
Eric issued the challenge: write a children's story before the end of July, it does not have to be long and he will illustrate it. i agree and with the following breath inhaled resentment, pride, and fear.
there are times i choose the wall. i even, after trying to wage war against it come to a certain acceptance of its existence and relevance in my current station as mother and wife. at the moment before the challenge was issued i had been out with Atticus laying on the damp evening grass watching with amazement the volume of fireflies that flew among my garden. i wanted to write about the fireflies, i wanted to construct stanzas with flippant rhyme & meter, void of reason and now was tormented by the countless echos of 'once upon a time...' !
a few days later Circe was asleep as i sat with Atticus, his eyes fighting sleep and voice little looked up and said "Momma tell me a story". i have waited for this moment for his whole life. why now after the reconstruction, i don't have a default story...breathe, don't forget to breathe.
ONCE UPON A TIME...(that is how all stories that children ask you to tell them begins isn't it, or at least a launching line) unfolded into "The Tunnel in the Tree that was Laying Down" and that night it was told three times and for a week after. there have been three or four others that have been requested, told, changed by the respective parent, but more importantly remembered and soon to be written down.
i saw his challenge and raised the stakes. i realized in the breath before 'Once Upon a Time' that i have misplaced the ability to focus on nothing but the cohesive (or not) flow of words, abandoning any order of operations and trust the _______. i forget to begin in the middle or even the end to get to the beginning.
Eric issued the challenge: write a children's story before the end of July, it does not have to be long and he will illustrate it. i agree and with the following breath inhaled resentment, pride, and fear.
there are times i choose the wall. i even, after trying to wage war against it come to a certain acceptance of its existence and relevance in my current station as mother and wife. at the moment before the challenge was issued i had been out with Atticus laying on the damp evening grass watching with amazement the volume of fireflies that flew among my garden. i wanted to write about the fireflies, i wanted to construct stanzas with flippant rhyme & meter, void of reason and now was tormented by the countless echos of 'once upon a time...' !
a few days later Circe was asleep as i sat with Atticus, his eyes fighting sleep and voice little looked up and said "Momma tell me a story". i have waited for this moment for his whole life. why now after the reconstruction, i don't have a default story...breathe, don't forget to breathe.
ONCE UPON A TIME...(that is how all stories that children ask you to tell them begins isn't it, or at least a launching line) unfolded into "The Tunnel in the Tree that was Laying Down" and that night it was told three times and for a week after. there have been three or four others that have been requested, told, changed by the respective parent, but more importantly remembered and soon to be written down.
i saw his challenge and raised the stakes. i realized in the breath before 'Once Upon a Time' that i have misplaced the ability to focus on nothing but the cohesive (or not) flow of words, abandoning any order of operations and trust the _______. i forget to begin in the middle or even the end to get to the beginning.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
the little one
she is her mothers daughter,
feverish and full of angst her only solace being held under a darkening sky,
the wind of the impending storm tickling their flushed and exhausted faces.
feverish and full of angst her only solace being held under a darkening sky,
the wind of the impending storm tickling their flushed and exhausted faces.
Friday, April 18, 2008
labor, delivered
the cord was cut, half remained kept
in the freezer for a year and a day.
the internal pulse toked and ticked, the telltale
of forgetting time.
in the freezer for a year and a day.
the internal pulse toked and ticked, the telltale
of forgetting time.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
easter visitings
the following is a glimpse at my day with the family...both good and bad...
i miss potato salad
atticus enjoyed hunting for eggs, and the fact that the easter bunny brought him a transformer, he ignored the fact that there was a chocolate bunny...we could have just put the transformer. "that was a good easter bunny, he brought me a transformer"
circe does not like the fact that the plastic eggs are not in fact shaky (musical) eggs as they appear to be.
the kids looked cute in their easter clothes.
if you are 3, chocolate and jelly beans are an acceptable breakfast, oatmeal be damned!
now for the shit.....
why would you get a lollipop for a 1 year old? the ingredients read as follows "sugar, corn syrup, corn starch, less than 2% of: dextrose, EGG WHITES, mono calcium, food coloring etc. ALLERGY INFORMATION MAY CONTAIN TRACES OF PEANUTS, SOYBEANS, TREE NUTS, MILK AND WHEAT" a one year old that is allergic to 80% of that list, ok benefit of the doubt, we'd give it to atticus anyway but i doubt that was the thought.
even after i told her how to make the sweet potato's they still SUCKED
atticus was "difficult" at the dinner table, and they pressure, pressure, pressure, guilt, pressure, "leave him alone and just let him walk away, he won't have any pie if he doesn't eat. perhaps he'll eat some of the cheese" i say, dirty look, silence. he returned to eat the cheese and some ham (overcooked and dry), and later some pie.
the dog was barking from her crate and she brought atticus into their bedroom to give the dog treats and she started playing a musical catholic liturgy...i imagined she was regaling him with tales of christ on a cross, that he has risen and even with that heathen bitch of a mother he will save you, i save you. i in fact saved him with the transformer and promises of pie and chocolate.
i am, as i have suspected an afterthought (i also include circe in the afterthought). i made a lemon meringue pie, expecting as the last few visits have unfolded at dessert time that there would be something vegan (it would suck but at least there was an effort), she made pizza duche (eggs, sugar, ricotta), kristookies (cookies with eggs & cream) and coffee. as they are sitting down circe and i are in the living room playing with a bus and she asks if i maybe wanted some grapes or an apple. the verbal tyrade i wish to unloose upon her weighs as much as an actual bus if it were sitting on my tongue, i reply that i am fine, no thank you.
she pouts when we have to leave, and sends us home with all of the dessert, cheese potato's and ham.
hollow easter bunnies are not worth the mold they are formed in.
i miss potato salad
atticus enjoyed hunting for eggs, and the fact that the easter bunny brought him a transformer, he ignored the fact that there was a chocolate bunny...we could have just put the transformer. "that was a good easter bunny, he brought me a transformer"
circe does not like the fact that the plastic eggs are not in fact shaky (musical) eggs as they appear to be.
the kids looked cute in their easter clothes.
if you are 3, chocolate and jelly beans are an acceptable breakfast, oatmeal be damned!
now for the shit.....
why would you get a lollipop for a 1 year old? the ingredients read as follows "sugar, corn syrup, corn starch, less than 2% of: dextrose, EGG WHITES, mono calcium, food coloring etc. ALLERGY INFORMATION MAY CONTAIN TRACES OF PEANUTS, SOYBEANS, TREE NUTS, MILK AND WHEAT" a one year old that is allergic to 80% of that list, ok benefit of the doubt, we'd give it to atticus anyway but i doubt that was the thought.
even after i told her how to make the sweet potato's they still SUCKED
atticus was "difficult" at the dinner table, and they pressure, pressure, pressure, guilt, pressure, "leave him alone and just let him walk away, he won't have any pie if he doesn't eat. perhaps he'll eat some of the cheese" i say, dirty look, silence. he returned to eat the cheese and some ham (overcooked and dry), and later some pie.
the dog was barking from her crate and she brought atticus into their bedroom to give the dog treats and she started playing a musical catholic liturgy...i imagined she was regaling him with tales of christ on a cross, that he has risen and even with that heathen bitch of a mother he will save you, i save you. i in fact saved him with the transformer and promises of pie and chocolate.
i am, as i have suspected an afterthought (i also include circe in the afterthought). i made a lemon meringue pie, expecting as the last few visits have unfolded at dessert time that there would be something vegan (it would suck but at least there was an effort), she made pizza duche (eggs, sugar, ricotta), kristookies (cookies with eggs & cream) and coffee. as they are sitting down circe and i are in the living room playing with a bus and she asks if i maybe wanted some grapes or an apple. the verbal tyrade i wish to unloose upon her weighs as much as an actual bus if it were sitting on my tongue, i reply that i am fine, no thank you.
she pouts when we have to leave, and sends us home with all of the dessert, cheese potato's and ham.
hollow easter bunnies are not worth the mold they are formed in.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
dreams undone
ensnared by a lullaby,
slowly the stasis of the subtle snowfalls gentle rhythm calling forth
the STILLNESS
that place between death and light; a purgatory
of possibilities thought and not spoken unfold as time
standing, still waiting for the reflection
of _____; returning yet again, perennial as grass.
coursing our journey the stars tell lies;
the unknown ,with its beckoning call of echos
land ideas, stoned and martyred bound like Prometheus,
teetering on an existential ledge awaiting the Sirens call
of true loves last kiss before light,
the resurrected laborer unloosed upon the day.
slowly the stasis of the subtle snowfalls gentle rhythm calling forth
the STILLNESS
that place between death and light; a purgatory
of possibilities thought and not spoken unfold as time
standing, still waiting for the reflection
of _____; returning yet again, perennial as grass.
coursing our journey the stars tell lies;
the unknown ,with its beckoning call of echos
land ideas, stoned and martyred bound like Prometheus,
teetering on an existential ledge awaiting the Sirens call
of true loves last kiss before light,
the resurrected laborer unloosed upon the day.
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