forgive me

moon
by Callooh.

last night
I made you my hero.

you,
my protective lover,
to walk with,
to care for.

last night
I made myself, safe
in your strength, trust
in your love.

forgive me. my dreams
they approach me, unbidden
please,
forgive me. I will never
speak them to you.

still life

jack of clubs
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

pencil stub, eraser erased

a life spent for

middle school math

unacknowledged,

forgotten,

waiting for the impending

dog teeth, the

slow and splintered death.

he finds temporary solace

in the company of an

odd forgotten mitten

whose mate's

been left frozen beside

the half melted snowman

on the lawn.

alone, she is not touched,

her mate lost
to her.

the dime, slightly dulled

and dirty, but remembering

always remembering the

shinier days, anxiously awaits

his rediscovery,

his return to his musical,
and magic kin.

neglected and discarded

little plastic game

once in a brightly coloured

birthday bag, briefly treasured

quickly broken

now abandoned

prays not to be discovered

and placed in the black bags

that leave and never return.

sitting up, I drink my tea

and return to my book.

truth

I am not of your truth,
(you may not understand this).

the stones
have begun their grinding
beneath my skin.

you may imagine you recognize
the sound they make,
their raw grating, or
the answering resonance
within my bones.

do you realize
their deliberate refining
will not abandon me,
making absolute my flesh,
ethereal my muscle?

I wait.

the rasping timbre
transforms,
reshapes my marrow.

none of this is certain;
all is belief.

my mouth is full
with honey bees,
my lips their petals,
their hum my song,
- pure fidelity -
or is it innocence?
five thousand drops of faith

decanted
from my bones
upon your flesh.

do barbs taste tears?

needles jab skin.
six for my neck
ten for my hands;
I wait.

my cry tastes
amniotic - salty
living.
electrodes, waves,
none find it.

press the needles
to my soul,
then the keening
could begin.

pierce the twisted babe
sucking salty waters,
I nourish
with tears.
hear its bellow?
its wail of agony?
send the needle through me,
till the poison spouts from
frozen flesh; and let
my soul scream begin.

release me.

til
I am raw
and unafraid.

Ode to a Man on a Harley

Guitar Player
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

Shall we dance?
just you and I?
take a ride to our horizon’s end…

shall I wrap my thighs
-tight-
round yours?
grasp
your leather hips -
lean into you
as black ribboned road’s vibrations
consume us -
combine me with
your heat.

can I close my eyes -
and feel your lashing hair
lick
my cheeks,
my eyes
into my mouth?
will it taste
of you?
of road-and-wind-and-sweat.

myself, machine and man -
wide open to the sky
as we blister sunny fields of flowers
their faces turned in awe.

chrome keeps flashing
sunlight briefly
while rubber treaded miles are
~melting~
into asphalt,
with our blended beads
of sweat
pressing-in-between-us,
as we race
to
-every-
-heated-
-swaying-
wave~on
our
horizon.

faded

dock
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

This is a place of faded flowers
gently worn onto age softened sheets
that caress the cots in corners
where an ancient dresser rests quietly
against a slanted wall
where the water whispers
and dappled maple light
dances on your face
before you wake
from sleep
deeper than the lake
full of more dreams
than the playful window leaves
sleep
you have long wished for
where the water
knows you
before you open your eyes
and remembers

coddled cream

Originally uploaded by Callooh.

cultivated by

the coddled cream

of bitterness

clutched, and nurtured

in dire devotion

on ample breasts
while sung

grasping lullabies

these he now
perfectly imparts

to me - as my

never ending,

never ever ending

love's bondage.

Watercolours

I want to write about sadness

about falling
inside – never sensing
bottom

about cold numbness
comforting
and beckoning

sleep that
calls
tugs gently
on my hair
pulls it down

but I am drowning

crying out
with silence
into empty air.

crying

open
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

I cry for what I cannot save

for the dying roadside bird
bloodied under blackened wheels

for the frightened child
held down
learning how a secret's kept

I cry for
young veins punctured
with poisoned needles

I cry for pain
I feel screaming inside you
that fills all of me
that I cannot take away

for the sickness
that I comfort
but cannot heal

I cry for all that’s broken
that I cannot fix

and some days

I cry

for me.

I Have Gone Marking

black water
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

By Pablo Neruda

I have gone marking the atlas of your body
with crosses of fire.
My mouth went across: a spider, trying to hide.
In you, behind you, timid, driven by thirst.

Stories to tell you on the shore of evening,
sad and gentle doll, so that you should not be sad.
A swan, a tree, something far away and happy.
The season of grapes, the ripe and fruitful season.

I who lived in a harbor from which I loved you.
The solitude crossed with dream and with silence.
Penned up between the sea and sadness.
Soundless, delirious, between two motionless gondoliers.

Between the lips and the voice something goes dying.
Something with the wings of a bird, something of anguish and oblivion.
The way nets cannot hold water.
My toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.
Even so, something sings in these fugitive words.
Something sings, something climbs to my ravenous mouth.
Oh to be able to celebrate you with all the words of joy.

Sing, burn, flee, like a belfry at the hands of a madman.
My sad tenderness, what comes over you all at once?
When I have reached the most awesome and the coldest summit
my heart closes like a nocturnal flower.

Elizabeth

Lizzie
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

she carries my heart

in a bucket of sand

she uses to make

sandcastltes,

and collects water from

the ocean

and shells

for its walls

the fight

locked
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

I

boys’ toy
blades made jagged

notched swords
made from BBQ tools
rusted
from sleeping too long
in mud puddles

sharpened stick swords
edged with brown teeth

the echoing laughter
of lawn chaired men

inside
with newly
washed hair

I make beds
and my own boy
I must send
out
to play

the antiqued white sheets
are smelling of freshly
boxed sunshine
- perfectly folded -
pillows placed
diagonally

I wait
till I am called forth
to heal


II

until I
stepped out
of the prim and pretty little box
of freshly laundered inside sunshine
I had prepared
for me
to the world
I had flung my boy.
into a humanity where
cheap sex is gendered
inflated.
coveted.
and where 'love'
is fought for
till it is expended
and then, not-required
-redundant-
-distained-
here are the world’s lessons
for my son.
first to Demean,
and then to
Debase.


III

and so
I am named
Melodrama
for daring to tread
inside of
their fight, my only blade
a small and inadequate
knife.

encircled
in attempts to disgrace

first, my face
slashed
my hair hacked at
my fingers, then
my hands,
are incised - bloodied

for a cause
I can no longer distinguish
done by hands in which I once
felt secure.


IV

until
falling open my hands
and dropping the knife
I reject the fight
absolutely, and
all external definitions
of me

no longer an item for outside blade’s
vivisections, not
a subject for trite objectifications
not to be known by feeble
attempts to pigeon-hole

I discard completely and
no longer conform to
the world’s definition
of me.
the earth is my own, my
home, and my arms, I
now fling open

I am rooted
as myself
unequivocally.

s M i L e S

crystal ball whirley
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

-
-
-

CloWNs SMilE

to TeRRiFy

(me)

- - -

tHAt iS wHAt thEy’RE TauGHt

iN CloWNinG SchOOl

tHAt, aND othER

ThiNGs

- - -

I tHInK - ONly I

cAn heAR thEIr SCReaMinGS

tHE MetaLLiC GLintiNG EdgES

oN thEIr tOO-PiNK clOWn tonGUes –

(I’vE sEEn THeM rIGhT-uP-clOSe)

tHEy SPArklE – lIKe stePPed oN glaSS

thEY sOUnD - liKe tHE TRIcycLe riMS

(tHe ONes TAKen frOm smaLL losT childreN)

scrEEchiNG tOGethER

bEFore tHE hEAds maDE

tHE hoLLoW SmaCK

- - -

aND evERYboDY LauGHs

ANd ClaPs iN

~ s ~ L ~ o ~ W ~ m ~O ~ t ~ I ~ o ~ N ~

(INsiDe mY hEaD)

- - -

tHIs iS ClOWninG

(INsiDe mY hEAd)

-
-
-

reading poetry

hammock
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

What sound is this
his shadows make
that brushes 'cross my thighs
sighs borrowed from wind
as love he makes
through inclined willow's branches
dropping diamonded leaves
as question marks
green breezes wove in wooden chimes
lifting lightly gilded wings
before caressing
with lovers hands
my restless hair
my waiting face
eclipsing all of me
leaving
within me
hushed emerald light
as his gentle soul
stains softly
the edges
of my heart
spreading out
his zephyred ripples
to the very ends
of me.

moth

Girl watching
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

upon my finger
your wings
etched
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
exist
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

wordlessly
breathe in
night's perfumes

ponder
our brimming moon
with empathic eyes

hear
the lover's songs
with knees under my chin

and I
know faith

love

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.

bent

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
Made-For-TV-Special)

all but Three

all but Three
DeaD
(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)
again

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.

sober,

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
heart
for all to see
tearing open my
eyes
so I must look

at the person I do not know.

cat lady

gate
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.

night

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.

sometimes
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
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
again

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
embracing
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
she
wishes

wishes
it all away

blackness

flight
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.

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
darkness
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.

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.

restoration
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
spittling
them
streaming them over all of me
in slippery and in hot
drops -
arousing me
frightening me
and thrilling every part of
me.

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.

served.
chewed.
digested.
gone.

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

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

oh, fuck the words.

likely I was
talking only to
myself.

. . .

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

Guitar

Guitar
Originally uploaded by Callooh.

strumming

you know those
lost-love-poems
the kind we always hated
well
they've brought you back
again
from where
you-were-oh-so-carefully,
tucked away

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

your guitar fingers
that made me -
just made me
~ sit ~
pretending
pretending
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
thought
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
strumming
just
one more time…

oh, damn
those lost love poems
damn

spun


my sole concept
my only breath prayer - is
not to drown like this
in these swirling shards
of shattered glass

distances are too long
in a world turned sideways

pounding, my heart
begs for liberty
and I, even now
plead for it to remain

I did not intend to die like this -
face beneath these churning waters

choking on my own fears
from a life of breathing
without air

above, billowing in the
blurred and beveled light

the curtains –
slashed with knives;

the stairs - that naked
I crashed down
faint from the
savage truth their hands
thrusted and struck me with;

the shoes that
would not fit me, and
now sustain my salted tears.

spinning, my form,
my rawest flesh exposed -
their human piñata.

when
I wanted only
only, just to
sleep.

floating
for peter

I had closed me
and floating – slept adrift
between oceans’ haze -when
you stumbled upon
my spirit - and within
your words,
unfolded it
spoke with a voice
that whispered
inside me
in rhythms caressing
the tides
till I conceived of
home and
drifting, rested.
in your safe arms
eyes slowly gazing
on a distant
blue moon, reaching
your voice, understanding
your stories
and now, brushing
land

Ode to a Beautiful Nude


With chaste heart,
and pure eyes,
I celebrate you, my beauty,
restraining my blood
so that the line
surges and follows
your contour,
and you bed yourself in my verse,
as in woodland, or wave-spume:
earth's perfume,
sea's music.

Nakedly beautiful,
whether it is your feet, arching
at a primal touch
of sound or breeze,
or your ears,
tiny spiral shells
from the splendour of America's oceans.
Your breasts also,
of equal fullness, overflowing
with the living light
and, yes,
winged
your eyelids of silken corn
that disclose
or enclose
the deep twin landscapes of your eyes.

The line of your back
separating you
falls away into paler regions
then surges
to the smooth hemispheres
of an apple,
and goes splitting
your loveliness
into two pillars
of burnt gold, pure alabaster,
to be lost in the twin clusters of your feet,
from which, once more, lifts and takes fire
the double tree of your symmetry:
flower of fire, open circle of candles,
swollen fruit raised
over the meeting of earth and ocean.

Your body - from what substances
agate, quartz, ears of wheat,
did it flow, was it gathered,
rising like bread
in the warmth,
and signalling hills
silvered,
valleys of a single petal, sweetnesses
of velvet depth,
until the pure, fine, form of woman
thickened
and rested there?

It is not so much light that falls
over the world
extended by your body
its suffocating snow,
as brightness, pouring itself out of you,
as if you were
burning inside.

Under your skin the moon is alive.


~ Pablo Neruda

Dance

In the pretty house
Wrath waited
on his knife – balancing,
Festering.
Demanding Release

inside
children played;

rehearsing their

faint pirouettes, their
silent dance steps - on daggers -
polishing pain into love
tenderly tucking away scars
in between breaths,
and nurturing gardens
through tears.

Till the dance steps went wrong
and Rage came to play
seized Fistfuls of hair
Hurled Venom
Grinned Razors
Cackled Disgrace
and slipped back on his knife
satiated
for now

Quietly,

quietly
they tuck away scars
watered gardens

with tears
and polished the pain
till it shone

then borrowing a cloud from the sky
enveloping themselves
until it was time
to dancing again.

night
for past remembrances

It will be the raw beauty
I'll recall

when fear comes for me
with his deep open 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
his chill infuses me - as
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

I cannot hear
my own words
to write this
I have only his cold embrace

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

not to touch
for Christain who made me beautiful

I read Neruda with you
in a dream that was
worthy of your untamed mouth,
your heavy eyes, that
hold the deep night's velvet;
your roughened hands, impossible
not to touch

I woke, with you
my eyelids,
draped by May’s first dew, then
opened to cold solitude
a emptiness caressed
by dawn’s orange fingers
your touch fleeing on chaste butterfly wings
I become crumpled,
a weary memory
steeped in bleeding rainbows
imbued with my fear

my love, a transparent child
cries soft round tears
that float up and leave my
tender kisses in the
pure whiteness of clouds

I disappear
on this blank page
shattering in silence.

My Poem

~ for Sean, my dear friend ~

I had a poem the other day
wove with daisy chains and stars
and dulcet moon-gilt sighs
that breathed upon and in-between
crossed lover’s tumbling hearts

It bubbled o’er with hopeful pansies
and spilled with lemon lilies’ laughs
held sweet smiles of ever-ever-afters
freshly painted on wee buttercups
that I tossed in for good measure

but its left me now
being much too delicate
to be held by quill's light strokes
upwards it floated bubble like
verses spirited from me
into a giggled pirouette
within the teasing winks of sunbeams
it did look very beautiful

I watched it for a time
blithely billowing
in Zephyr’s twists
pausing very briefly
to brush my face
for the gentlest
of parting kisses

sound

Do not think
you may know me
for I am only
one heart
beating
in a world
too full
with Sound

My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell

I hold my honey and I store my bread In little jars and cabinets of my will. I label clearly, and each latch and lid I bid, Be firm till I return from hell. I am very hungry. I am incomplete. And none can tell me when I may dine again. No man can give me any word but Wait, The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in; Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt Drag out to their last dregs and I resume On such legs as are left me, in such heart As I can manage, remember to go home, My taste will not have turned insensitive To honey and bread old purity could love. Gwendolyn Brooks

love poem

I do not love you
for gentle words
or for a whispered touch

nor do I love
for clever wit or games
of intellect.

I love you essentially
from where my passions
are stripped raw and
then caressed by
callused hands

I love you with as much
Pain as Joy.

I love from the
darkness in which
Innocence lives.
for the fathomless plunge into
blackness of your eyes
and the shelter within.

I love without knowing why;
I love without caring.

I love for
the taste of your lips,
the fragrance of your skin,
the weight of your body.

I love completely
with all of myself,
I love for what
you have carved
from my soul
by loving me.

the water poet

the water poet sits
his words are -
eternally old, and
tenderly young
together;
unfolding truths pouring
from a heart caught
unaware - and shed
upon the textured page
drifting in whitest swan feathers.

the water poet dreams
in amethyst,
of intuitions dropping
as reflections upon
the silver lake,
of faces
turning in,
toward a muse.

the water poet smiles,
surrenders to the wind
and light -
freeing,
his barest word -

the essence of this moment.

which is his life.

My Muse (the bastard)

Your whisper teases through
these billowed drapes
to dangle whimsied dreams
in front of me - that delightful longing
softly strokes my mood
so velvet
is your touch, again to you
myself I offer - I am yours
helpless
to resist that voice
in blissful abandon
I happily surrender
imagination swirling,
cascading as you spill from me
all my colours
my passions
my dreams
all of my beauty
my soul - my love
in wondrous ecstasy.

too soon you require more
pull too hard
wrapping 'round me - wrenching from me
and forcing to harsh lights
my heart's secrets
ripping open doors long since
locked and bared
and holding up harsh mirrors
then laughing as you smash them
on my paper
stained with bloodied words
scrawled by my dampened hands

as I lie helpless
the click of the door
echoes
as you abandon me
I am alone
with only our words
and I long for your soft whispers
once again

random thoughts on men, pets and my mother


banging your head against the wall
will burn 150 calories an hour
but is not an effective diet strategy

eating a box of meringue cookies is not
an effective coping or diet strategy
(even though they are "fat-free")


banging your head against folded fluffy
white towels while your husband tells you
on the phone at least HIS first priority
is the children burns 0 calories an hour
and is not an effective coping mechanism

there are no effective coping mechanisms
for conversations with my mother after
she helpfully tells me I am too easy
on my kids and she's worried about
"how they will turn out"

my mother emails my soon to be ex-husband,
to let him know she still loves him

divorce lawyers are expensive

I know way too little about men
and way too much about rats

rats can't vomit (see above).

however men CAN vomit -
and were put on this earth to crush my heart into
a small pile of pulp

I don't vomit often,
which is handy because I don't get access to the privy
for more than 1 minute at a time.

my children and pets, however,
vomit, poop, pee, expel snot,
fling all forms of excrement on
a rotating schedule that would impress
The Marines – mostly on articles of
freshly laundered clothing that
I am presently wearing.

this is something I can depend on.

men in their 20's & 40's cannot be depended on.
(holding judgment on 30's & 50's)
this may be unwise since

my judgment with men is not to be depended on.

however, my judgment with flying excrement
is becoming excellent.

there is an obvious conclusion to this,
however, I have no idea what it could be.

Raining

I stopped today -
in my purple-soccermom-mini-van
complete with wrappers,
apple cores,
water bottles,
and enough sports equipment to outfit
several teams
in a marvelous
never-to-be-seen-again-sport


it was raining
no,
it was
~ R A I N I N G ~
the cloudbursting-raindrops-size-of-your-fist kind of
~ Raining ~
rain that makes you
- clean -
washes the air
~ fresh ~
with the - lightning flash - and the - thunder crash -
righttogether
and the sky, that amazing heavy
I'm-gonna-squash-you-like-a-bug
colour

I love that colour

there I was,
loving the sky
theallatonce
thunderandlightning -
and these guys pull up,
on motorcycles
-motorcycles!-
in the rain
and
they're laughing,
mouth open head back laughing,
raindrops dancing down their faces
to their
soaking wet T-shirts
their drenched hair flinging
more water back to the
delge

maybe it was
because
I've been dry
for far too many weeks
or perhaps,
the music was playing
just Loud enough
inside my soccer-van
it could have been
the motorcycles....

I rolled my window down,
let the rain paint
rolling prisms
over my bare skin,
invited wind to dance
with drops within my curling hair;
and laughed -
a mouth open,
head back kind of laugh
and thanked the wind and rain
for remembering me today.

The Yellow Poem


Golden curls
of heads close together
softly tickle the
orbs of dandelion laughter
as they bubble up to
honeyed sunbeams ~
unfurling to circle
their light innocence.

Honeysuckle cubes
wink and they prattle
in extra cool lemonades
sipped by gilt hummingbirds
soothed underneath
forsythia’s saffronic tones.

Proud lemon cream sunflowers
entwined with fond yarrow
are trifled and teased by
gamboge butterflies.


Daffodils dally sweetly
in amber waltzes for warblers
with bumble bees abuzz with delight,
while sunny canaries charm
the chartreuse petals
of lilies
with frolicking, jubilant songs.

And the coquettish buttercups
the sweet glowing buttercups
are elated
are rapturous
at today’s
bright yellow mirth.

highway

I cannot die today

Not in a world where
coquettish cattails sway
teased with glorious goldenrods
speckled in and out
by morning’s laughing dew

not when tree trunks
grey washed
stand guard in swamps
while heron’s sharpened eyes
are searching
always searching
and in a moment
will
lift into a flight
stopping time
breaking my heart
and fill my eyes
with tears
I never let escape

I cannot not leave this world
today

No, not when the
Inukshuks
point my way
built by patient human hands
on enormous jagged stone
to guide me
on this road

not when the blackest crows
leave their broken trees to
fly with me
carefully watching
me
with their souls
so much older
than my own
with eyes
deeper than my
love or hate
than emotion
or than my time

and no I can not go
not while I still love

not while this bright moon
shines her soul o’er my
Blackest lake

not while the bats begin
their evening’s dance
their joyous precious flight
that holds me in a
humble wonder

I cannot die today

not with the trees
Whispering
their long kept secrets
once again to me

when I am here
I can live awhile

learning

I do not learn

all that I do
is try and
remember

my addictions
recovered from, almost

my scars
my loving fingers
caress
their textured surface
each earned
their pain hidden
Deeply
but remembered
well enough

my cold hand
still clutched round
my fluttered heart

from these things
I do remember
but I can not learn

I’ll keep my face
hidden always
for I cannot bear
my own reflection
Now

I am nothing
like this

There is a moment of night
just before the coming
Black
I have become
this moment

The moment
behind shadows

and I will
not
learn

blackness

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

here this morning,
my last morning.

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 the 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 thoughful stones
the unspoken rain
and within my silence
with the blunt smell of cold
and the raw touch of
grey horizon light

where under lies untraveled blackened depths
where under
I will always lie.

Rant in Free Verse

Ok, here’s the deal
-Free-versers-
we get no respect

That’s

-R- E- S- P- E- C- T-
like the song

we ARE
the Rodney Dangerfield’s of poetry

you think this isn’t
HARD WORK?

think just because
we
don’t
rhyme
everytime
that’s its not
POETRY?

don’t think we know
our iambs
from our
pentameters?
(okay -
so I look them up)

that we
“should try harder”

knowing when
to put in
--C l e v e r--
--Line--
--Breaks--

…or when to let the line run on a little bit longer…
or when
to use
eclipse instead of caress
takes
timeandeffort

so the next time
you see a
worn down
free-verser
give ‘em
some of that

-R- E- S- P- E- C- T-

or at least
slip a
fiver
in their
hat

transitory

can we own
the pieces of
our world -stand on
this spot and say
It is Mine
this is My space
of green
My view
of sky - I have
seen this done -
and myself stolen
moments
with a certainty that
they were mine
to keep - but

as I pass warm
soup into cold pale
hands, cold
money into hollow
cups, I see nothing

is absolute
not my words, my joy,
my pain,
my next breath or
heartbeat, or bowl
of soup. who

owns who? my sky, my
worn and mossy
rocks, my precious
sea? - for
when skies scream
for blood in rage, and
water heaves her blackened
crushing weight
devouring – this is not

absolute, and will
pass – my
existence, all
existences

precious and transitory
will pass

I hold another cold
hand
“I will say a prayer
for you” - and for his
prayer I thank
him, then gaze

at a blue
and cloudless
sky

Stunning

precious and transitory
and this too
will pass

a poem for boris

no metaphors were harmed in the making of this poem

I hate elevators.
small boxes that squeeze-you-sort-of-trap-you–in. With
p e o p l e
who you would normally never-
never, spend time with, and never, ever would touch. With
p e o p l e
who generally - Smell too much;
either bad, or who do not understand -
the concept of restraint,
with aftershave. With
p e o p l e
on cell phones talking endlessly, 'looking important'
with farting
p e o p l e
who pretend it wasn’t
Them.

and The Music.

I help moms with kids,
and old people
when I can
then I find a corner at
The Back, head down,
and wait,

and Wait.

My Spot at The Back
I’m always Waiting from that Spot at the Back
elevators – school - parties – life
all for me, its where you
can-just-lean-against-the-wall
Not Be
snuck up on, and then have 'look important'
and
the farters -
are usually near the food.

Boris Pasternak once inferred -
that a metaphor
is
the shorthand of the gods,
those with overfull mental plates must move in leaps
rather than walk like other mortals


Me,
I walk in mortal steps,
carefully placed ones
outside when I can.
its not like I have anything,
against metaphors,
some of my closest friends,
were metaphors
but my mental plate is not-
what you would call
o v e r f l o w i n g.

The Back.

Boris was likely the sort of
p e r s o n
who liked to be-
at The Front of the elevator,
Pushing Everyone’s Buttons
for them;
asking them Which Floor and such,
all the while
h e a p i n g
things onto his Mental Plate.

and that’s great,
everyone needs
a Spot
on the elevator,
if everyone wanted to
Push Buttons, or
Talk
on the phone, or
I shudder to think,
Fart,
elevator society as we know it
would collapse
and we’d all be on the stairs.

speaking of stairs
I think that’s where
I’m going
now.

see you later
Boris.

faded

this is a place of faded flowers
gently worn onto age softened sheets
that caress the cots in corners
where an ancient dresser rests quietly
against a slanted wall
where the water whispers
its tales to you
and dappled maple light
dances on your face
before you wake
from sleep
deeper than the lake
full of more dreams
than the playful window leaves
sleep
you have long wished for
where the water
knows and
remembers
you
even before
you open your eyes.

fish hooks

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

of grief and joy and hate and fear of love

and of despair

I have never heard my voice

still they dig
minute barbs grasping
my unprotected soul
wrenching out my
heart
for all to see
tearing open my
eyes
so I must look

at the person I do not know