pluto in capricorn. . .

This must be the afterglow of intent . .
ringed-rosy & flooded soft
against the fading light of day
soft
yielding to a voice
a pull
lessons learned . . .
outlined in the hallucination of a jet-stream-wish
somnolent in the cooling,
warm in wrapped surrender
light softens yet further to earth & plain
pierced fire a prerequisite to understanding
as the soul reflects
tyrian purple, vermillion & alice blue frailty
softly, softly . . .
become the afterglow . . .

ohh holy wonderful listeners . .

HeLLo . . !! Along with writing & posting new stuff dear readers, I will be re-posting some older pieces that are some of my favorite . . Deepest apologies if you find this silly, boorish & irrelevant. I kinda like to take them out, shake off the dust & see what echoes still . . thank you for being out there & coming along for the ride. .
best wishes in the coming new year to you all. . .

I wouldn't know. . .

( this comes from a notebook dated 9/77. . . an example of when I first started writing words down, recapping, observing & listening. . . )

How sad it must be to grow up and realize it is not important anymore :
How many marbles you have,
How bright the stars are,
What time you all are to meet to play Cowboys & Indians,
And how much it will snow. . .
What is important is how much money you have in the bank
How sad it must to grow up and realize you no longer rise
Every morning sparkly & new, to run outside
To catch butterflies & grasshoppers, play in the sunshine and
Eat flowers for breakfast
Thatnyou must rise for a job you hate with a hangover from too much,
To eat carnation breakfast squares between the backdoor and the driveway to
A car that will never be a Jaguar
How sad it must be to grow up and realize that all people are not from Atlantis
And no one lives down the alley from a graceful old lady
With a fossilized Mermaid in her basement
No,
When you grow up you have pool tables, bars & tv's in your basement
How sad it is to grow up and realize you are gown up
Of course, I wouldn't know !!!!

gemini moon

folded & feather-hollowed
still . . .
pressed & slumbered golden
awakened to the crystal of the amber surrender
rising open & poured-warm
across forgiveness & scar tissue
to
discover a warriors heart & a cinnamon quest
awake now
kneeling to the edge :
ivory-pink & needing lingering whispers of truth & fragility
and the take & give of a crimson thread knotted & held
hold & linger in the sharpness until sharpness fades to soft
pressed & open-golden
softly captive
In your hands . . .
there is no risk
there is only breath and tame presence
life & skin illuminated
by
surrender
winged & willing

portrait

. . . still that girl who gets picked last
too tall, too skinny to be good or fast
 at anything
she listens to led zeppelin & csn&y"
too much of a perfectionist
to swing the bat
to take a shot
to discover a way
to untie indigo knots
deep inside
perfection had to be instant
too blond & too weird
so much fear
knowing i had landed on the wrong fucking planet
cat stevens, heart & james taylor were my companions
all the while peering over the edge of souls canyon
playing at sex & seduction
 . . dressing up as a playboy bunny in pink lace & a fuzzy-white earmuff bra
i served kings & polar bears, little joe & yogi bear
i heard the silent desperation of the lost & terrified
wrapping my heart in thorns & glass armor
but it was there on my sleeve for all to see
silent,  everyone assumes apathy
& emptiness
ice coolness
but it is a feeling pounding & profound that trembles the earth  - paralyzing
tapped into something bigger, brighter, grand
is there ever a master plan ?
too much of everything
perfection becomes the mask, the game
and it's not about who gets picked at all
but who finally stands alone with pink lace, heart & a white earmuff bra

dreamtale

A train platform
It's cold
Early evening, antiqued & sepia
Movement, noise--a hurried pace
Movement
Left & right down, to & fro on this platform
Suddenly.... in one snapshot moment
We pass by one another
From my dreaming place it is :
Jack & Louise, Laura & Yuri
and
Yes, Bracken & Rebecca : serendipity falling
It's lightly snowing now,
Big, surreal flakes
We stop, turn & enfold
You wore a dark blue uniform
There were silver medals & it was simple but refined, elegant.
We were younger
Our arms entwine, treasuring tender hungry kisses, touching
Slowly, we walk in the direction you were heading,
People and trains,
Steam engines and bright colors,
Sounds & smells ; jarring & constant... food vendors, magazine stands,
shouts & whistles, people with dogs, birdcages ....
Findings & losings, large trunks & suitcases everywhere
Movement & cacophony
Rather hazy & no longer vital
There was this window--long & infinite above us
Aquarium-like from inside the large, ornate train station
Black & mahogany woods, glass, gold & reflections.
We paused to linger in a kiss; laughing , your eyes shining
When
suddenly
thru the window
I could see 3 young children. They continually shifted or morphed ;first 3 boys, then 2 boys and a girl, 2 girls and one wonder-eyed boy
Pressed against the glass
Their faces concerned, their clothing odd; shades of brown, yellow, beige, loose and layered with sweaters & heavy boots & stockings
I pulled away slightly & held your face
knowing I had to let you go on
without me.
Such a brief, bright respite,
That time & space of reaching home.
Hanging in that together-space, sure & rooted, all longing & desire lit & knowing
Parting - intense, private.
I was swallowed whole by your love
I held on to your hand until my steps forced us apart
Heavy snow swirled in cold & dense
swallowing everything
A train whistle sounds...

of green holes & things ,,,,

there is no sign that he was here 

no faded band of white where the ring encircled
no token

no locket or braid of silver 

( unless you count that initial carved on my upper left arm when i was 17 .....)

( but it is an indistinguishable secret )
( well, and now ....  that other thing ... ) 

no welts or bruises of indigo blue & purple-black
though, there is this bruised heaviness sometimes 

there is no box of memorabilia stashed under the bed, in the closet

or at the cedar-bottom of a drawer

no outward trace 

exactly ....

but

as you peel back the folds

of peach, pink & bone around my heart ...

you will find a blossoming infinite hole that remains

marking - defining

the sureness ...

steeped in music, words, yearning & years

smelling of honeyed-moist-earth & green growing things

you can still feel the imprint of his finger-tip tracings

that followed the path of my blood & moonlight

i've grown accustomed to that shadow weight and you can stand in it's thundered fire 

and you will know.

holes

are

loves token

a perseid august-falling . . .

at a young age, I knew that scars were
best
kept
on the outside  . . rather than on the inside
it felt peaceful & ordained somehow
to bare a badge of injury - pain
to bruise
to bleed
to ultimately form thickened stretched skin
pale across that badge
webbed & tatter-woven
inside scars suffocated - binding tight to the hollow spaces
ringing with infinite sharpness
scar me up & lay me down
etch the line morel-black & paint resplendent
to elude the phantomn pursuit
THEN, we find
love ....
and the teeter-totter balancing act begins
love is discovered under bridges
-  the balm to our scars; inside & out
ending the requirement to bleed. . .
shining during the passage
Love :
the unbridled joy-love heard in a meadowlarks song,
the love of a grandmothers hand upon your back coupled by the smell of oatmeal
as captain kangaroo ping-pongs, the smell of summer coming from your mothers skin, the presence of a father sitting for hours at the foot of your bed watching as you slowly breathe yourself to sleep under his quiet vigilance, the soft ginger prickle of a baby's just-hatched hair beneath your lips, the easy comfort of a friend & the companionable love of men , , yes, men. where laughter, glory and the sky become tamed, and the rockem-sockem ghost-love of a man with sparkling walnut eyes that asks a willing surrender, a tacit understanding and to trust it's intimate quantum-rising.
the mark it leaves, the pain endured, the story told . . .
scars ride shot-gun on the outlaw love-trail
coloring us in aqua-forgiveness under a perseid night that lights the path home
Fehu
Love is the scar-divine.

moon in virgo

radiant pulse . . .
throbbing against skin
inside-out, yes
folded
yes
travelling sideways with no map
NO MAP !!
committed to finding action in a subtle flutter
soft
sometimes the movement is weak - fractured . . stored behind a
blue door locked with the weaved-golden-wound of twilight
locked tight in the perfection of turquoise love
open & believe
believe . .
light-cast out
cast out - trailing embers of possibility, passion & connection
the fire is lit
solitude is sought
and the noise & rustling of others is clearly marked by the grey thick-crayon-outline of wait
mercury retrograde . . .
sweetest nest hold me ;
swallow-feathered with nine-inch nails & frankinsense,
first-snow & lavendar : the ruby-boxed-ribboned-memory of the smell of your skin,
the surrender found in a kiss, your kiss honey-delicate, wet & warm
turn
shift
splash & be . . .
intellectually walking in love
emotions hot - fatigued - distant
action, non-action . . . the beating pulse of summer sun in leo
i will make my home between three planets trine
swallow-feathered & waiting

basil & dill

this culinary corner of shadows & light
retro mystique
tired, warm, beautiful
music drifts across stainless bowls
pinchings of herbs
hand-carved spoon measures
gathering in ...
" and we'll learn, learn, learn ... wait your turn , turn, turn "
yellow-finch-bluejay-white-birch sun shines thru the window
open to pressure & heat ..
heat .
cooking
boiling sweet baby potatoes
golden & red
slicing, dicing
present
intently being ...
celery
garden warm ;
basil
dill
parsley &
chives
adding
blending
absorbed in this simple measure
( it's a summer salad for fuck-sake! )
and
suddenly you are behind me
breaking into my now. .
solid yet veiled
strong & just
heat rolling
eyes close,
leaning into the smell of basil & dill
garden & green
I fall
deeper
against the between
breathing in, breathing out
basil & dill
melt my moon & tend this sun
blended with the shadows of this day
once more tired and beautiful
and mine
basil & dill

96% full

fireflies spark past my window

like forgotten falling stars

or, is it shooting stars?

remember that night in june when you

were there for me?

found always in june--the labyrinth weaves the path

back to you

always summer

when heat & starlight paint the pages of of our lives in

the muted colors of the plains

golden bleached to white ...

meadowlarks sing to a dawn ripe with 

raspberry hope 

&

the smell of sun-kissed skin lingers in the '69 mustang

along with a bottle of dime-store wine

kiss me & hold me fast

as this moment will not last

and fireflies leave their psychedelic trail of tears behind for you & i

blindfolded by fear & regret

hear the trucks from the interstate singing of wanderlust & tomorrow?

tell me a tale steeped in story & family & loss

and i will love you thru to the other side ...

this side

that smells of mountain pine & wild iris

scarred

but true

fireflies & shooting stars

yes

always in june 

wow

i didn't know how hard i try not to remember you
and how successful i've become
adept really , , ,
quite stellar
i didn't know how hard i try not to remember you
not to remember your voice
reassuring, smooth & over-easy-brown from the 5237.2 miles away
i try not to remember the happiness . .  crystal pure-poppy happiness
drop me to my knees happiness
that came with the surrender
the sureness
i try hard to not remember
the playlist of our connection
every month of our being
the soundtrack of relationship
sophomoric & erotic
how funny is that ?
giddily ridiculous & orange-pekoe-wise
collide ;
whispers of gods & lovers, hemingway & guinness  & gaga
sweat & anal beads
sweet baby james & beowulf
dragons & orbs
contrast of age against habit habit habit
thrill against routine & the expected
in acknowledgement of the hardness, lies the recognition of the missing ,,,,
the hole has changed  - no longer jagged & sharp
it it cold
devoid of canterbury bells & lichen
along it's scar
it does not smell of honeyed sunshine man-skin
but
ice
it smells of ice
polar ice, like where-nobody-can-live-ice
i haven't even thought of that hole for some time now
felt that fracture
and i almost miss the sharpness
the sting of the wound
the keening of the sorrow
almost .....
has my heart grown harder ? smaller ?  more fragile ?
no, it has actually grown brighter . rounder . fuller.
fragile - yes.
which is why
i try hard to not remember you

A Sunday kind of missing ....

 thinking of you today
on this Sunday after CBS Sunday Morning  & Meet the Press

Sunday

Sundays were pot roast & golf-on-tv-days
sleepy nappy days ..
when I was very little
I would steal away to your bedroom with some treasured book &  fall asleep  -
my cheek waffle-printed from that nubby white bedspread
that smelled of Canoe
sleepy nappy days ....
and yet today, I am thinking about all the things you saw in your lifetime ...
things beyond pot roast & Sundays :
your childhood, illness & fishing and that big brother you idolized ...
the complete wrapping love of your mother, and the brutal Irish-Love of your father, fishing, school, excelling in every sport you tried your hand at , poverty,  and going to war,
your love of New Orleans, fishing, how you extended your hand & your friendship across lines of color, fishing,  crossword puzzles & reading ,
golf & fishing, the lives you touched, the stories you unfolded, the generosity of your heart.
I miss you Dad ... not just  a Sunday-kind-of-missing
but an every day kind of Missing
however ....
it is still a  sleepy-nappy-Sunday-kind of Missing
that leaves it's nubby-white-waffle-print forever pressed upon my cheek & heart

room #106

forgive me for wearing the black lace stockings
with the pink men's dress shirt ... it was too cliche
too obvious the image i wanted to burn into your marrow ...
forgive me the openness & adaigo of intimacy
we
were
made for one another
we were cut from the same-smooth-cosmic-pebble
( it is a carmel-topaz-color )
downwind
we reek of sex & solitude
forgive me the surrender as it pierced your steel skin
and your heart
( ahhh , we are so fucked )...
bowing into the risk of the moment
we are easy . .  and
we talked of faith, forgiveness, love & lady gaga
the bones of your head, the contours of your face
now lie where once my fingerprints existed
transformed by your fragility & sorrow
transformed by tracing the shadows & light of you
your scars sing to me of heavy woolen blankets,  fire & silver
lying in your arms is called belonging
and today rain wets the longing .. .
making it immediate & pungent
forgive me for awakening

grief

this is where sorrow resides

here

between hours & light

this hour where the only sound is the

morning dove's lament

hollow & transported

maple seeds whirl to the ground

in direct ratio

to the swift rolling of the cumulus clouds

closing that sky-blue window

of daylight

the bottom is not

really the bottom

it is found here in the sideways portion of our show

tilted & lonely

stripped of expectation & heart

hold

your breath

and bear that weight

as

suddenly

the wind shifts

and

the air is heavy with basil & peonies

and it smells of rain & stillness

inspired by hope & #19 . . .

gypsy calling
white-washed walls
elephants & tattered halls
step with me down into the canvas dark
step with me down & guard the spark
come, listen to my story
and paint the lies
listen to my heart
and bury the cry
trust the key
though silent & ethereal
awash in grey with a trace of the material
pick a brush of the finest bamboo-silk
layered with basiled  honeyed-milk
we follow the trail of something more ...
we follow the trail to open doors ....
hidden by bowers, thorns & deception
we travel down in rose-colored perception
shaking off shadows soaked in rye
shaking off fear laced with sighs
unlace the mirth & tackle the adventure
open wide the glass & comfort the pretenders
gypsy calling
white-washed walls
elephants & tattered halls . . .

now 2:17 ...

1:10 AM
quiet here
except for the clock
ticking
ticking rather incessantly
but that's the nature of clocks isn't it ?
to tick tick tick .....
regardless of the ratio of quiet stillness to the passing of time
ticking
ticking rather incessantly
suddenly i am chilled
i glance outside to the darkness where no clock ticks
but a train whistles & the wind blows
still ...
and I know that it is time for bed
no great poem will be written tonight
no profound thought or game changer
no extraordinary breakthrough
just an ordinary late of night
chilled, quiet & tired
still
the clock ticks

April 1st

as you walk there along the broken, cobbled sidewalk

close your eyes .

close your eyes and feel ...

feel that ?!?

the wind against your face

slowing your gait

caressing your contours

close your eyes

and listen ....

listen with every every infinitesimal particle of self

listen with very the essence of your being

listen & feel ....

feel that sun piercingly bright, pressing upon the folds of your eyelids

feel & listen

as in this moment you are

timeless

white bones strengthen against the warm rhythm of air

wind shimmers boldly thru the trees

moving you into a place & space

capable & free

golden and

timeless

youth straddles the currents of april's wind

hold out your arms

and as you feel the weight of the world & the wind

suddenly it lifts you to a place & space

that smells of dreams & lilacs & yesterdays possibility ....

trust it

go now ...

close your eyes