Friday, September 22, 2006


Girl watching
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

upon my finger
your wings
by charcoal's fragile lines
paint so tenderly
soft night’s air
in waves of
flawless silence

you an impish gift
sent from smitten twilight
for his beloved moon

you delicately taste
my tea and honeyed fingers
wash your tiny face
and taste again

your profound ebony eyes
affirm me
in prismic layers

we, together
in midnight’s garden
eavesdropping on
parceled harmonies from
unseen lovers

you, refreshed
take wing
into your lovers’ darkness
your silent flight
disappearing into
the garden's symphonies

and I

breathe in
night's perfumes

our brimming moon
with empathic eyes

the lover's songs
with knees under my chin

and I
know faith


crystal ball flowers
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

My love dresses me
in diffusing gowns
of deep earth
rooting me
to richest loam,
then flings me to heaven
in ancient oak's newest leaves.

My love twirls me
in echoing mirth
infusing my eyes
with seas' tempests
and her depths
pour brine
upon my sunlit face,
trailing radiant shells
within my waving hair.

My love
tastes of exquisite desire
sustains small faiths
and expectations,

the palette of skies
embraced in
a small
jeweled jar.

My love
is all
I own

I wear it
as freely
as sunshine.


crystal ball abstract
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

A Marvelous Roller Coaster
once flew
on a picturesque
patch of farmland

Everyone would come
from miles
(and miles) around
to ride it
(that’s what The Papers said)

until the day it
C r A s H e D

all who were on
were SnaPPeD in HalF
and DieD

(this was recreated using
Computer Animation in a

all but Three

all but Three
(SnaPPeD in HalF,
I saw the Program)

Three from One
family, but
they were so badly Bent
no one could bear
to Look-Upon-Them
ever (ever ever Ever)

and so it happened
(as these things do)
they were made to
live under
a tunnel, very
full of Shadows and
dirty water
and the occasional mushroom

once, they were beautiful
(I had seen the Before Pictures)
a mother, father, and a lovely
little girl
now hiding their Bent forms
in the dirt and water

I came across them
in my wanderings, because
I had been taken
from my home
and I too,
was Abandoned
no longer Permitted to return
(not that I could remember
Where to go,
or Who to ask for,
or Why -
the Why bothered me)

I no longer
could wear shoes, no longer
was Allowed
to grow My Own Flowers

I shared their Shadows
awhile, and placed the last
of my brittle faded
bouquet within
the little bent girl’s
Matted Filthy hair

walked along the stony
road to town

and became
SomeThing Else.

fish hooks

barn window
Originally uploaded by Callooh.


I have not known this face

reborn in palest newborn skin
translucent, and
tissue thin
all my nerves unclothed
disgraced, at their own nakedness

I do not know how to use these hands

a flesh of weeping grief
from savage shredded tracks

of grief and joy and hate and fear of love

and of despair
the tiny fish hooks sliced
and pierced
with their
sharpened razor points

I have never heard my voice

still I must dig
grasping into
my unprotected soul
wrenching out my
for all to see
tearing open my
so I must look

at the person I do not know.

cat lady

Originally uploaded by Callooh.

Mainly she is kind.

spreading bird seed
in the feeder

hanging in the maple
that shades the front
so completely
that grass cannot see to grow, and whose
keys litter bare ground each year in
twirling fetal hopes

her hand
is smaller than you thought
reaches out from a too big
faded grey and fuzzy sweater
it has tissue paper lines that
you wait to crinkle as
she opens and lets go the seed

her step
is small, as she shuffles
back inside

Mostly she is alone.

except for her cats, who
rub her tiny legs – and
usually - will sit
with her
to watch the shaded yard
for birds.


dancer's mask
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

with this ending

it will be the raw beauty
I'll recall

when fear comes for me
with his open deep and
soulless mouth
forever screaming
out his blackness

I am so small and
I am afraid

afraid of the seductive edges
of his mouth
his embracing kiss
his captivating darkness

tonight as
his chill infuses me
I compose my goodbye
gripping my own soul
with ruined hands

it’s his night now,
sprinkled with the same stars
illuminated by the same moon
I knew before
when I trusted
in raw beauty

still, tonight I will
write these aching lines
crawl through them
rubbing jagged truth under
my cold skin
within my eyes
into my still heart

this letting go is so long
and this living
so short

a woman

clouds - lots of willow branches
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

she struggles
not to desire
so very much

not to love

and more elusive still
she labours
not to love
so very much

not to inhale too deeply
so when that first breath
does come
her inspiration
will not be
small whisps of clouds
that danced upon tall summits

if it comes at all

to love so much
she trusts
that even
with closed eyes
on her darkest nights
a radiant red light
will softly dwell
upon her sleeping eyes
and enfold itself
all around her

that she may embrace
and abandon
herself in
the exquisite pain
of her
wide open soul

she seeks to shield
herself away
from this love
but she cannot
remember how

and so
she goes from
day to day
with heart exposed
gracious trees,
gazing on
her radiant moon,
understanding the passions
of the sea,
and loving her earth,
with a joy that makes her ache

and loving a man

for all that he is
for all that he will never be

and some days

it all away


Originally uploaded by Callooh.

a diving spotted loon
to which the surging waves arouse no wonder,
a soaring mateless seagull beneath
grave misting clouds,
a pair of blackest crows
in deliberate and dark discourse,
and the early morning chorus of birds
I have not met,
here are my early morning companions

this morning,
my last morning here.

and this I ponder wrapped in heavy woolen
drinking strong coffee
made stronger still with Jamison’s

I ponder these birds
the burden of their sky
the profundity of their black waves
their universal harmony

and when the drizzle mixes with the rising surge
the loon dives again and does not return for me
the crows take their argument to distant trees
and the seagull glides so low under
the weeping
clouds - I cannot breathe to watch

and I am alone
with their water and thoughtful stones
the unspoken rain
and within my silence
with the blunt smell of cold
and the raw touch of
grey horizon light

the untraveled blackened depths
under which
I will always lie.

Sunday, September 10, 2006

a letter about Catherine

Catherine sometimes
seems to be more spirit than she is flesh
or perhaps
she has more felicity than
the instrument that is her body
will contain
for it may appear
she is akin to sunshine
refusing to be restrained
streaming out and through
all afforded spaces
brilliantly expanding
reflecting over
everything within her grasp.

resonating from just under
her brave skin is
joy, exuberance, dance and laughter
together and all at once.

she swallows the earth
in a fierce embrace, and
steps boldly out into its
and its brightness
arms open
mouth spilling laughter
to mingle and weave
with the world’s voice.

she is liquid speed and
profound stillness
side by side
kaleidoscopically dancing
to music she composes
with handfuls of willow leaves and
brightly woven yarn
tossed into the air.

I hear her between the
soft rasping of a page turned
and the persistent rasp of
pencils across paper.

she is my teacher
my guide
my joy
my daughter.

Friday, September 08, 2006

even so

I am not a metaphor. neither am I these typed words. a telephoned voice, or a photograph. I am a woman. my heart has no charcoal markings, no burning internal fires, or broken glass scarring it. cannot fly, or break. it is merely made of muscle measuring about the size of my left hand closed into a fist. it beats for no man, but to pass blood. my lungs have never breathed saltwater, only air, almost always when necessary air - for my voice air - for my blood. blood that has no gracious qualities, only a fluid, essentially water, some salt, too much sugar sometimes and occasionally, it bleeds outside my skin. skin that bears actual scars, a frequent and great variety of bruises, skin that sags where I don’t want it to, is wrinkled more than I would like. skin - simply physical protection for my body. I hang bracelets on it, and for vanity rub makeup on it, but this cannot change that it is plain skin. if you could look into my eyes there is no broken glass twinkling, no universes to transverse, only hazel, that can appear tired. my eyes - cry saline tears more than I expected. my hands and feet are not beautiful, neither are they ugly. they are useful. functional for for cleaning, cooking walking, maybe dancing. raising children, feeding pets. my hands write, paint and with my eyes take many photos. no timber exists in my hair, no scent of jasmine or honey. it is dead, and usually unruly in the wind and rain. I paint it colours, again for vanity my children play with it while I tell them stories. I am only made of blood and bone, valuable for walking through this world the best that I am able. I am not these typed words. neither am I great metaphors. I only am a woman.

even so
that is enough.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

for david whyte

I am too frail.

in silence
it may be
that I am treasured.

but, as yet I cannot walk alone.

my essence
neither is
the candle flame's
soft flickerings, nor
is it the flitting moth’s

sweet flight - but is occasionally
illuminated within
their whispered
sensual dancing.

my present burnt into amethyst
upon my fingertips
by my past’s pure incomprehension
of the flame’s searing cognition.

in translucent layers I unmask myself -
my silent intuition
in wordless discourse
with my soul
burning my rawest flesh.

with the questions
that never had forsaken me.

within my bones
the ancient wisdom
surviving -
carving a path a foundation
forged in anguish
suffused with ignorance

leading to the world.

where I could return from my own exile.

walking on my own. walking towards love.

arriving to where all is absolutely - and unapologetically itself.

and was only waiting, waiting, for this my restoration.

words words words

(for the fishmongers)

the words!
the ones that
I should say
(to you)
I found them

the showerhead
streaming them over all of me
in slippery and in hot
drops -
arousing me
frightening me
and thrilling every part of

then they just
desserted me
within the steam.

later -
my whisk grasped hold
of them
glistening with them
tauntingly me
with them
in its shining flowing
metal curves of them

alas, they were felled
among the yellowed yolks
in dumbest foam.


firmly grasped at last
they shattered
spitting at me in
blood and
glass and

leaving stains and scars
on my hands and
on my arms.

oh, fuck the words.

likely I was
talking only to

. . .

" 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so: " ~ Hamlet II, ii"


Originally uploaded by Callooh.

you know those
the kind we always hated
they've brought you back
from where
tucked away

and now ~
I hear again
your guitar fingers
lazy on those strings ~
in my 70's hand-me-down-chair

your guitar fingers
that made me -
just made me
~ sit ~
to get ready
all the while
my eyes closed,
~ listening ~
as your strumming
drifted into me...
becoming me

I never told you that.
you must have
I took
f o r e v e r
to get dressed

It didn't last
but for those years
I was alive

and sometimes
when I’m
getting dressed
I’ll just sit
and close my eyes
so I can hear
your lazy
one more time…

oh, damn
those lost love poems