Thursday, May 14, 2015

cooling



Come
turn me younger
paint the inside of
my mouth with ink clementines & diamonds
drip sunshine blonde upon these lips 
come
sit it down
in morning's sweet marigold mist 
viola velvet sorrow'd taste 
come 
turn me inside out 
abide beside me fluid and awake 
allow the cut of joy's remembrance 
to close the wound 
halt the spin 
staunch the blood 
turn 
me 
to 
June 

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Monday, May 11, 2015

passenger

saw grass leaned south-east from
north-westerly winds unrelenting 
gray clouds thunder swollen 
smell of rain rising 
storm pending 


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Thursday, May 7, 2015

unveiling green

Three o'clock in the afternoon is a bewitching hour. The neighborhood lies silent, expectant. Robins do their robin thing, goldfinches light upon late March branches in search of food...and gold. Perhaps. Why I'm drawn to the atmosphere outside these ancient windows I have idea. Maybe because like the goldfinches, I'm in search of gold too. 
This June I turn fifty-seven. Fifty-seven to a woman is remarkably unremarkable. Some quantum rule applies to aging for woman; 'wear this not that, want this not that. Emote when appropriate, eat smart, balance everything, respect the inner journey and be kind to yourself' and well, there's the whole change the world drive. Which is about legacy more than effecting change. But that's just my anarchist bent. The world is a much different place than I knew it in my childhood. 
Oh how convenient! I've landed upon 'My Childhood'. What a clever and circular route to begin a story. A story born out of today's disregard for the illusive perfect moment to begin a story. 
When is that exactly? I have been waiting to write this story for as long as I can remember. 
No, seriously. From my crib, I dreamed of being a writer. Ok, well first I was sort of a dreamer, but the writing was etched in the grain of wood floors, captured in the enfolded warmth of my father and the smokey-feline light of my mother. Someone should have stuck a #2 in my mouth in lieu of a pacifier. 
My
earliest recollection is of a dream - I was in my crib, a standard flimsy 1950's variety crib, with rounded fluffy cut-out lambs & clouds on the wall .... blanket, pink and white gingham ... the window was right of my crib, from which I could see the family station wagon ... a low-slung Pontiac station wagon with faux wood insets. I slipped over my crib, and out the front door, down the sidewalk and opened the drivers door of the wagon. Adjusting myself in the seat, I turned the key and began backing out of the driveway. Suddenly my father tore out the front door, flinging my drivers door wide, and throwing the gear shift into park, as some unidentifiable car pulled in behind me. I was vaulted into my fathers arms, suddenly realizing I was dreaming, or maybe a dream if dreaming
 ... dreaming of adventure, or escape. That's still the question.
The bewitching hour has given way to pre-twilight. Six twenty-two. Awake from a nap that left me disoriented and moody. Craving something unnamed as the energy shifts in the neighborhood to a steady thrum thrum thrum. Folks returning home from work; here's Betsy across the way pulling into her circular drive, Chris and Kevin rolling up their drive next door. 
Birds are cautious and quiet. I'm disoriented and moody - remember? My days are more of an observation like this than engagement these days. It wasn't always like that. 
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Tuesday, May 5, 2015

patchouli room





laying in wait
for the potion to take 
a light tender hold of your heart 

at six thousand feet 
the atmosphere's weak 
and the lover abandons his part  

all this grey morning gloom 
all the pain in this room 
all this high country fragile fresh start 

patchouli room 
ghosts autumn tomb 
the fire fails to spark
love, please come to bed 
get naked instead
of eviscerating our fractured cold stars 
masks are just futile 
but 
the surrender is beautiful 
this room will treasure our scars 

what should have been ours 
dissolved to salt stars 
no embers spark to fire

on tongues sharp with dust
our demons breathe rust
expectations brier

thru iced windows glaze
deer come out to graze 
and 
we surrender all bricked desire 

patchouli room 
'neath silvered frost moon
trust tumbles & falls to bed 
fear slips to the side 
solace abides
the potion was ours for the taking

golden day dawns
intimacy bonds
pine wraps around crisp bones
stolen locket of time
partings solitary rhymes
with words 
... the spell is breaking 





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chrysos anthos melting . .











i can hear the slight
electric-buzz-rumbling of blood pulsing steadily past the
the petrified tautness of whatever the hell that muscle is called ...
ears thrumming
thrumming
in this black quiet train-whistle-of-a-night
40% chance of something coming down ....
while
 i

stand          here

desiring

melt
an all-system-shut-down-melt
an isabella chrysanthemum melt
puddled there beneath these mock legs
petaling out towards light & rest
tendrils of something smelling of rain & destiny sweep past my focus
as
i
dream
of
melt
surrendered acceptance
if your arms encircled me now, would my body respond ?
is this calling weariness but a memory of you
riding the storm cusp
closing eyes ....
breathing slows and time wavers in lines of mint amethyst
pulse slows
and
i
require
melt ::

magic-fingers-motel-bed-melt cotton-mouthed-wet-orgasic-gasping-melt
holding your hand melt sunshine-melt blazing fire & jamieson melt
a moonlight-knowing-melt

yes
there is no such thing as mistake
there is no control here, only release & forgiveness
untie the bandage & open wide arms . .
melt into story ...
flowered blossom thunder
and
a 40% chance of something coming down
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may basket


it comes as a shock
that soft beating heart
pansy petaled 
fragility inclined 
stark contrast to rain 
tender unfurling 
subject to pain 
erect sentinel of spring's soil 
perked awake  
turned towards 
hidden sun 
in day's gloaming break

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Friday, May 1, 2015

Lament to the passing cow






cattle truck passing
on a late afternoon
east of somewhere 
one brief silver moment passing
eye to eye with a bovine soul
whose fate is sealed with in a midwest tomb 
fortunes casting
knowing lies in those brown windows patches
knowing captivity & pain
solace laces across the divide
empathy waves thru the grain
go with my knowing kindred beast
go with Spring's warmth easing your bones
your eyes are a kind & gentle reminder
that Gaia's love will see you to home 
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