Friday, March 20, 2015

deterministic causality


lucid
skirted crinoline of days ...
scarlet teeming
teeter-totter brimming
no one thing more vital than another
dressed temperance of a mythic storyline
telling of waking fields & water
reaching
yearning
being
light … 
Pin It

Sunday, March 15, 2015

to return



in the doldrums of late winter 
there are no words
tricky illusive basterds .... 
they are nowhere
well, of course ... 
they're somewhere 
but not 
here
.... falling from these fingertips 
in a threaded tumble 
fluid & tangible 
as breath 
or rain
no 
there is no stream of tale or poem 
no manic observation 
or sensation to document 
upon a back of a magazine or captured whiteness 
my words have taken a holiday 
caught the two in the morning train 
hopped a flight 
to a secluded island off the Scottish coast 
of sea & cliff
heather &  heath 
here .... 
they are at peace 
in a quaint white cottage with a good fire, tea & cozy beds 
night skies are domed with the stars of a thousand songs 
and the sun teases warmth 
but delivers ease away from my hubristic juggled use 
away from the liquid pour & crafted will of my ordinary hours 
but ...
Spring is waking 
bringing green to the red bark of the japanese maple 
as hyancynith & crocus peek up from 
the dried straw-colored winter debris 
cranes are returning to the river 
today in the garden, 
Raised beds were cleaned 
dust & whiteness raked across the earth 
tidying & bending 
reaching & striving 
as the sun shone 
bright & brilliant upon my face 




Pin It

Friday, March 13, 2015

removed to blue 1962



everyday ....
everyday i would fly to school
everyday i would eat my captain crunch & cinnamon toast
walk out my front door
watching the toes of my saddle shoes, i would walk down
the sidewalk to school
the lines metronoming my stride like
playing cards on my bicycle spokes
walking along
suddenly
i would be
flying
flying high up .....
everyday i would fly to school and then home again ,,,,
above the sidewalk of my cedarberry street
fall, winter, spring ... grey days or blue
clouds of elephants & rivers of current amuse
flying
effortless glide removed from
the lonely, the ache of the knowing
the wounds of goodbye
the wind never cares if your knee socks stay up
flying ...
everyday
until i turned 15 ....
and discovered
skirts and
seals & crofts & boys & kisses
and the cut of the knowing & the bruise of goodbye
and
i walked to school
everyday ....
but wanted to fly ...
Pin It

Sunday, March 8, 2015

fresh-squeezed-morning

trust me .....
of what lies beyond that space
a cut so deep it does not bleed
but swells and
changes the structure of soul
allowing me my insignificance
and
in that there is freedom
a sense of purpose
resolute & strong
passionate awareness streams out from every every cell
painting moments in
something unknown, undiscovered,  unnamed
sureness rests upon my hips & heart
fierceness finds my bones
yet confidence alludes me still
scars are but badges that mark our journey
slicing out our primitive course
highlighted in blues & greens
trails of light beckon as
robins sing in sweet-deer-sunshine
a breath is taken & trust of self is restored
ego-less & stripped of desire
risk
new
scarred
knowing
healing ,,,,,
Pin It

Tuesday, March 3, 2015

shadow love


I am not the right person for you to talk to today as you drive east across roads that ache from the sun I am not the right person for you to talk to because I have known sad as in blue as in I don't mind if sleep folds me into forever because my dreams sing I don't mind if I succumb to the gray water rising tepid over my head and under my soul I am not the right person to talk to because I don't know what went wrong that one day in band camp above the treeline I have known sad and it is not weak it is not cowardly a place for the uninitiated no it is replete with fullness and green and has its own set of towels and my senses run full tilt into wicker baskets of oranges and white terry cloth bath robes  that place you call weak is just to the left of my sternum it smells of 1962 and my mothers perfume it is real and it swallows hours and days and desires and my hand and my heart without breaking a sweat am not the right person for you to talk to today 

Pin It

Monday, March 2, 2015

tacitly .....









on her back flat and still between the cool sheets staring up at the ceiling fan and the ceiling painted a grass green ...... her thoughts went round & round and it was like spinning round & round the way she used to do when she was young, upon her back, staring up through the trees to the clouds. she could not focus or stop. stop & hold onto a thought for very long. she watched things blur past while now and then a blinding bright light flickered like the sun thru the leaves. she saw the river as luminous ribbons weaving amongst the tall golden grass and a face stoically masked with intense laughing dark eyes and he was asking her how much she was willing to risk ....  
( patterns of moonlight on blue snow  ) 
a doe with 3 fawn wading across a creek bed, her mother's legs starkly tan crossed beneath an orange sun-dress, the full-length sensation of prickly grass underneath her as she lay imagining a tender miniature world there in the roots & earth .... all of it floating by random & transparent. the smell of  baby pristine skin and the peach-fuzz feel of her hair against her lips, smells of tabu blended with cigarettes and pine. 
how the smell of fresh mown grass & starlight enticed release, a sensual surrender . . . 
these dangling stirrings would not hold still and be counted - no. the textured fabric on the palm of her hand from the sofa as she lay there letting him taste her ,,,, and a surprising
bolt of thunder and lightening as it played outside the window, allowing his voice back in to infiltrate her bones & fear, fleeting gusts of electric sexuality. his weight upon her
hand slipped underneath his thigh in his car..... the sudden blade of pain, sharp & resolute making it's home nestled in the bones & sinews of her soul.
welcome pain.
the kiss, the taste of him a swirl of honey & heat
his hands
hands ....
vivid and distinct - each memory encased in gossamer yet rendered in wire and bound up with a fragile reflection that resembled the configuration & rhythm of  heart .......













Pin It

Thursday, February 26, 2015

inepta caeruluem caru volta

how was the world before our skin met?
was there glimmer? butterscotch .... the linger of mint? 
did licorice pour from your veins into flannel pockets of mirth?
did icicles recite tales of the battle of Dunkirk?
did energy collide to form thundersnow?
did children laugh as they swung high to low? 
however it works
wherever you go 
the place where you are is home for my soul 
whatever it means 
across fields of time
the place where you are is home for my kind 
so somewhere in California 
beneath a sun with tongues of blue 
I know that you love me 
and my truth is you 


Pin It