Sunday, May 31, 2015


there is this fugitive quality to my hours
thru webs of mortal fiber & prism fire
my scent raw & wet
upon the palate of creatures buzzed with steel'd will & death
fate sealed in a chinese-cherry-puzzle-box
thrown to fate on a bluejay"s wing
there … 
nestled between the light & fragile feather bones
lies tucked
.... the scent of mown grass in june
the coolness of cotton sheets
the wonder of beauty
the scratchy pleasure of wool socks
the fine roughness of you
the walnut-salt-home smell of you
honey'd lemonade on my tongue
poems & prose
words looped & rhymed & measured by wit & thunderous swelling
fancy clothes
words ancient & music eternally pressed along the rings of saturn
childish de-light ever-present, ever-there
in the space between
every minute, every hour
the blessed secret softening of the sorrow of all things
leaning in ...
leaning in ...
to heart
to soul-space
discovery & secrets i carry nestled between
fragile feather bones 

Thursday, May 28, 2015

notes for pieces

There is this fragment
that wants torn love in this house
clapboards birch bone bare
shuttered windows of flag and fabric

cinatown cadillac
beeswax vapors
be gentle
show mercy

table of chance and crackers
pop pop popping
felted dreams and stories 
drawn from old quilts and trolls
wonderland lined
weighted with want and hours
pop pop popping
light upon black need

ease joy bliss

sometimes the sounds that call us home are not melodious


once dreamt of arms sure of the embrace of arms
sure of self shining fast
down hallways varnished with peonies
brair'd in spring's promise unfolding
is winter's prose of farewell
full light 

Wednesday, May 27, 2015


looking out the front windows to the south
 tossing words carelessly around as I try and come up with something worthy. 
Worthy of myself, worthy of your time & attention. 
My interior landscape is bleak, not cooperating in the least ... words pinball thru mind;
carnal love, familia love, intimacy, knowing, trust, ease ... truth.
The wind shifts
suddenly lifts one of the dark motley gray branches of the oak tree,
raising it from its resting place into a patchwork section of the sky's palest blue, 
and I see it.
In the contrast of this smooth alice-blue sky against the tattered & mottled feldgrau of the oak.
electric alchemy of two things:
the colliding line where energy brings like energy
cosmic ouroboros completed
humans believe in their whole & their true
when myth & grace teach us blue
fragmented little beasties 
the shiny ones break 
glass upon stone 
as lovers
as intimate pirates
 ... and when the chains & pulsing tributaries of our soul recognize a smell, a song, a taste of another ... to 'sing the body electric' is home, where kisses taste of mandarin oranges & lavender and sex smells of smoke & lightening .... well. 
Contrast. Alchemy. 
There is no inch of skin too sacred, no word too tender or too wicked. It is the narration of a very individual story, told in the contrast & collide of open hands upon warm waiting skin, 
it is the give & take, 
the surrender of self to take in, 
to fuck stars and dazzle your own soul with peace and presence and the unchartered understanding of another exhausted transcendence follows as one steps back to self, to earth, where separation can be another set of contrasts; full to empty, happy to void, fractured to circled wholeness the closer to the fire one stands, the more insane the remainder feels ... 
and that becomes a rub pull the alchemy into your soul
allow it to shift awareness 
to lean towards life with more of everything, 
Ah ...  that thread .... becomes the axis. 
Holding the thread becomes your being ...  
to carry the connection thru to the ordinary hours becomes your religion. 
If you falter, let go ... 
(which surely happens)
well that is a dark companion that is hard to fight, hard to quell its stench and temper. 
So hold on. 
Let the silver and mercury 
mix with sulfur and gold ... allow the richness of knowing to temper against the dark
guard against the cold 
staunch the flow of blood from the gaping wound 
the collide. 
That rugged line of gray against the smooth alice-blue .... Alchemy love. 

Heavy black heart


frost to honeybee
rain on flood waters 
queen of hearts
         turned upon the southwesterly wind 
wind & water
          weight & welter 
hearts ransomed by love's tale 
corvids & covairs collide in skies 
   prism'd by clementines & cooling 
getting ...
sometimes it falls to the bee in the frost 
to the heart in the wind 
sometimes it falls 
                it rises as feathers 
                from the passenger seat 
hand tucked beneath your blueness 

Tuesday, May 26, 2015


thin blue line 
upon a yellow field 
pain's resonating rhythm 
tethered to the bending 
pulsing joy 
traced in the rise 

Thursday, May 14, 2015


turn me younger
paint the inside of
my mouth with ink clementines & diamonds
drip sunshine blonde upon these lips 
sit it down
in morning's sweet marigold mist 
viola velvet sorrow'd taste 
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 

Monday, May 11, 2015


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

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. 
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. 

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 
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 
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 

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
in this black quiet train-whistle-of-a-night
40% chance of something coming down ....

stand          here


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
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
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

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
a 40% chance of something coming down

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

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