devastation in my stomach
regret in my mouth
eyes open to find
I didn’t actually annihilate the universe
by fleeing to Bali to sleep with the shaman
who seduced me in my dream
realizing too late
the fatality of idiocy
of impulse
of id
my most treasured love shattered
a star exploded
bleeding light for centuries
nothing left where love once lived
night terror melds into daybreak relief
gravity pulls me down into bed
I wind around your broad back
slip into the quiet curve of your legs
you twist and open
to embrace the receding vapor of my sin
welcoming me home again
holding nothing against me and nothing back
as my limbs weave apologies and promises
restaking my claim
and renewing my vows
finding reprieve in the generous blessing
of your hands
and the faithful absolution
of your lips
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
spirit rock
I placed my cell phone on a high rock
in the middle of the stream.
it glimmered there, silver and white, with a blinking red beacon
calling for attention like an audacious insect.
eyes closed, I focused my breathing
surrounded by the music of the running water
until the electronic device became
a kaleidoscope of butterflies and rose up from the rock
to take flight in all directions.
I placed my laptop on a low rock
in the middle of the stream,
its sunken silver case gently passing
for water molecules and sunlight.
eyes open, I watched
surrounded by the music of the running water
until the electronic device became
a shoal of shimmering, twitching fish and swam away
to take cover in the reedy shallows
I placed my heart on an ancient rock
in the middle of the stream.
its rhythmic cadence creating coronas of light,
sparking the silver and gold in the altar’s granite face.
eyes everywhere, I prayed
surrounded by the music of the running water
until the aortic device became
a choir of meadowlarks spreading their wings,
singing oratorios to the divine in everything.
in the middle of the stream.
it glimmered there, silver and white, with a blinking red beacon
calling for attention like an audacious insect.
eyes closed, I focused my breathing
surrounded by the music of the running water
until the electronic device became
a kaleidoscope of butterflies and rose up from the rock
to take flight in all directions.
I placed my laptop on a low rock
in the middle of the stream,
its sunken silver case gently passing
for water molecules and sunlight.
eyes open, I watched
surrounded by the music of the running water
until the electronic device became
a shoal of shimmering, twitching fish and swam away
to take cover in the reedy shallows
I placed my heart on an ancient rock
in the middle of the stream.
its rhythmic cadence creating coronas of light,
sparking the silver and gold in the altar’s granite face.
eyes everywhere, I prayed
surrounded by the music of the running water
until the aortic device became
a choir of meadowlarks spreading their wings,
singing oratorios to the divine in everything.
Friday, July 01, 2011
June
The roses are opening. Within minutes
there will be a deafening cacophony of roses
on every block. The dust from the road
is no match for the rose noise. And
I could weep for the absence of snow.
So tragic and profoundly sad.
The simple sadness of this undoes me utterly.
Two women knit and talk in the corner,
unconcerned with the rose canes that
threaten to tangle their wool.
After hours of counting stitches and chuckling
over their private yarns, they pull on mittens
and scarves and peer out at the cloudless sky,
then bend their heads against the cold
and depart the shop, leaving a hailstorm
of rose petals hollering all the way to the ground.
there will be a deafening cacophony of roses
on every block. The dust from the road
is no match for the rose noise. And
I could weep for the absence of snow.
So tragic and profoundly sad.
The simple sadness of this undoes me utterly.
Two women knit and talk in the corner,
unconcerned with the rose canes that
threaten to tangle their wool.
After hours of counting stitches and chuckling
over their private yarns, they pull on mittens
and scarves and peer out at the cloudless sky,
then bend their heads against the cold
and depart the shop, leaving a hailstorm
of rose petals hollering all the way to the ground.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Cassandra Dream
In this story I am Cassandra and you are deaf.
I agonize over gestures, the sand dripping mockingly
through the waist of the hourglass. Time rushes ahead
in direct proportion to the urgency of my message.
I try to breathe and slow down, but there’s no fooling
Apollo, so naturally, tragedy ensues.
And you smile and laugh in merry silence,
raising your drink to the innkeeper,
reveling even as Troy begins to burn.
I agonize over gestures, the sand dripping mockingly
through the waist of the hourglass. Time rushes ahead
in direct proportion to the urgency of my message.
I try to breathe and slow down, but there’s no fooling
Apollo, so naturally, tragedy ensues.
And you smile and laugh in merry silence,
raising your drink to the innkeeper,
reveling even as Troy begins to burn.
Self Improvement
the jeep trails we force the Subaru up and over
are rutted out
and threaten axle damage.
the butch woman at the chalet (when we finally arrive)
takes control of the situation, calling down rules
for word choice and boundaries.
the walls give.
my body lodges in the lathe and plaster, half on each side.
I am dissected.
you are nowhere to be found.
I remain, limbs dangling, immobile.
such is the arbitrary nature of the world.
are rutted out
and threaten axle damage.
the butch woman at the chalet (when we finally arrive)
takes control of the situation, calling down rules
for word choice and boundaries.
the walls give.
my body lodges in the lathe and plaster, half on each side.
I am dissected.
you are nowhere to be found.
I remain, limbs dangling, immobile.
such is the arbitrary nature of the world.
meditation on rock and moss
the man watering the bonsai tree
moves quietly through the room where we write
smiling
moves quietly through the room where we write
smiling
Simple Gift
running and reaching
muscles lengthening in response
halos of evening light
behind each leaf
laughter from across the court
a moment of clarity
in the rush toward death
I will remember this miracle
of cells and oxygen
I will not take for granted
this perfect day
or my ability to play
muscles lengthening in response
halos of evening light
behind each leaf
laughter from across the court
a moment of clarity
in the rush toward death
I will remember this miracle
of cells and oxygen
I will not take for granted
this perfect day
or my ability to play
Monday, January 17, 2011
Reflection
there are children wading
in the fountain
down the hill
someday they too
may stand in a distant decade
to remember a moment
and reflect their own
half an image
onto their father’s face
in my scrapbook
of twenty years at your knee
you welcomed every face
that ever peered
around your office door
no matter what we’d interrupted
you were always
delighted to see us
and introduced
the person seated opposite
with the enthusiastic pleasure
of someone entirely certain
that we would all adore each other
as much as you adored each of us
and that’s saying something
professor-father figure to many but
father-professor to me
I got the best of both of you
five o’clock family suppers
before heading back down the hill
to rehearsal
lucky Saturday
when we’re off to Samuel French
and I am the companion on the journey
shall we have
an intellectual discussion?
sex?money?politics?art?religion?
or off to the Mark Taper
for the first half
of a disappointing play
and then – oh joy – out for pie, analysis
and deconstruction
the evening redeemed by cocoa and conversation
does anyone else remember their childhoods
only in terms of summer times?
a few Nortons, perhaps, or a Paxson here and there?
company meetings at midnight
coffee, popcorn and Junior Mints
patter songs bouncing off Oxy Hill
verses from Shakespeare and phrases from Shaw
weaving through trusses
and up to the owl at the top of the bowl
eucalyptus trees that even now,
even still, stand tall
and graceful in the wings
listening for the cue
that will bring the curtain down
on this third act
raise the houselights just beyond
and fling wide the doors
on the waiting world
in the fountain
down the hill
someday they too
may stand in a distant decade
to remember a moment
and reflect their own
half an image
onto their father’s face
in my scrapbook
of twenty years at your knee
you welcomed every face
that ever peered
around your office door
no matter what we’d interrupted
you were always
delighted to see us
and introduced
the person seated opposite
with the enthusiastic pleasure
of someone entirely certain
that we would all adore each other
as much as you adored each of us
and that’s saying something
professor-father figure to many but
father-professor to me
I got the best of both of you
five o’clock family suppers
before heading back down the hill
to rehearsal
lucky Saturday
when we’re off to Samuel French
and I am the companion on the journey
shall we have
an intellectual discussion?
sex?money?politics?art?religion?
or off to the Mark Taper
for the first half
of a disappointing play
and then – oh joy – out for pie, analysis
and deconstruction
the evening redeemed by cocoa and conversation
does anyone else remember their childhoods
only in terms of summer times?
a few Nortons, perhaps, or a Paxson here and there?
company meetings at midnight
coffee, popcorn and Junior Mints
patter songs bouncing off Oxy Hill
verses from Shakespeare and phrases from Shaw
weaving through trusses
and up to the owl at the top of the bowl
eucalyptus trees that even now,
even still, stand tall
and graceful in the wings
listening for the cue
that will bring the curtain down
on this third act
raise the houselights just beyond
and fling wide the doors
on the waiting world
Friday, October 15, 2010
Lying in the Bed You Built
I love that I can lounge
on cappuccino mornings
and watch you
in the kitchen
strutting in your
stolen pink bathrobe
from cupboard to sink
crafting the perfect pull
with just a hint of hazelnut
smiling across hardwood floors
all the way back to our bed
where I needn’t do anything
but nest in the down
one leg flirting
with the edge of the sheet
still humming from where you
last kissed me
on cappuccino mornings
and watch you
in the kitchen
strutting in your
stolen pink bathrobe
from cupboard to sink
crafting the perfect pull
with just a hint of hazelnut
smiling across hardwood floors
all the way back to our bed
where I needn’t do anything
but nest in the down
one leg flirting
with the edge of the sheet
still humming from where you
last kissed me
Why I Read Fiction
You’ve no interest
in things that never happened
to folks who don’t exist
but every time
I turn the final page
(The End)
a timber bar
across a castle door
lifts up
the drawbridge
of a slightly broken heart
slides down
inviting you across
a brackish moat
into
my fortress of non-fiction
love
where I live and breathe and wait
only what’s true
only for you
in things that never happened
to folks who don’t exist
but every time
I turn the final page
(The End)
a timber bar
across a castle door
lifts up
the drawbridge
of a slightly broken heart
slides down
inviting you across
a brackish moat
into
my fortress of non-fiction
love
where I live and breathe and wait
only what’s true
only for you
a musing
When I read the daily post
from The Writer’s Almanac,
I often think to myself –
‘well, there’s a poem that someone actually bothered to write’
and it’s never about much:
a t-shirt on a clothesline, a misunderstanding,
a child who died,
and it’s easily as mundane and insignificant
as all the scraps of nonsense
that crowd my brain and choke my tongue
except that these poets
were moved beyond thought to actually
transpose the image into ink
to inhale an ordinary moment
and exhale a small slice of meaning
or pain
unlike me
who feels the synapse fire
and simply notes
the possibility of a poem
fleeting phrases that hover
and shimmer around the edges of a thought
like the veiled threat of a future migraine
too lazy to reach for a pen
too close to asleep to recognize the folly of
‘you’ll remember in the morning’
from The Writer’s Almanac,
I often think to myself –
‘well, there’s a poem that someone actually bothered to write’
and it’s never about much:
a t-shirt on a clothesline, a misunderstanding,
a child who died,
and it’s easily as mundane and insignificant
as all the scraps of nonsense
that crowd my brain and choke my tongue
except that these poets
were moved beyond thought to actually
transpose the image into ink
to inhale an ordinary moment
and exhale a small slice of meaning
or pain
unlike me
who feels the synapse fire
and simply notes
the possibility of a poem
fleeting phrases that hover
and shimmer around the edges of a thought
like the veiled threat of a future migraine
too lazy to reach for a pen
too close to asleep to recognize the folly of
‘you’ll remember in the morning’
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Wow
Wow. Hello.
Come over and love me
or just call to say hi
to seduce with low erotic syllables
that slide across the tightrope of the phone line
I lie in bed in the dark
listening to them vibrate
purring like my neighbor’s cat
thinking
Wow. Hello.
Come over and love me
or just call to say hi
to seduce with low erotic syllables
that slide across the tightrope of the phone line
I lie in bed in the dark
listening to them vibrate
purring like my neighbor’s cat
thinking
Wow. Hello.
Driving Past Autumn Aspen Groves
the uphill splash of tangerine
bursts out of the darker evergreen
to shimmer and pose
like the most audacious dancers
in a ballet of such grand scale
even truckers with their
tins of chew are rendered dumb
and forget the details of the road
as we are all brought closer to whole
closer to absolved
slightly more full of grace
than we were at summer’s end
bursts out of the darker evergreen
to shimmer and pose
like the most audacious dancers
in a ballet of such grand scale
even truckers with their
tins of chew are rendered dumb
and forget the details of the road
as we are all brought closer to whole
closer to absolved
slightly more full of grace
than we were at summer’s end
lotus position
every morning
breath and heart chakra
picture of Zen serenity
cranial symphony of mismatched voices
inside soundproofed head
abandoned to chaos
fluency and ego
squiggles and dots make
sense and nonsense
stillness and surrender
breath and heart chakra
picture of Zen serenity
cranial symphony of mismatched voices
inside soundproofed head
abandoned to chaos
fluency and ego
squiggles and dots make
sense and nonsense
stillness and surrender
Parking Lot Dance
We each place an arm
across the backs
of our passenger seats.
In perfect unison
we glide backwards
out of our places
and into the aisle
between the others.
Headlights mirror headlights
as we pause face to face
slide the gear shift into first
and rotate slowly
a graceful promenade
with small pliƩs
and gentle accelerations
passing each other
into the opposite directions
of the rest of our nights.
across the backs
of our passenger seats.
In perfect unison
we glide backwards
out of our places
and into the aisle
between the others.
Headlights mirror headlights
as we pause face to face
slide the gear shift into first
and rotate slowly
a graceful promenade
with small pliƩs
and gentle accelerations
passing each other
into the opposite directions
of the rest of our nights.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
in the name of harmony and conciliation
in the space between the marriages
in an effort to respect the stories other people
invent and then believe
the fictional fiction
the manufactured manifestation
of a million grains of rice
scattered like these words
left out for everyone to see and judge
or ignore and think not of
but the vanity and challenges of breaking open hearts
and the fields of boulders over which we scramble
away from each other
shift
(the little poem’s been packed away to Poland
crammed in cattle cars and denied all food and drink)
we are done
in the space between the marriages
in an effort to respect the stories other people
invent and then believe
the fictional fiction
the manufactured manifestation
of a million grains of rice
scattered like these words
left out for everyone to see and judge
or ignore and think not of
but the vanity and challenges of breaking open hearts
and the fields of boulders over which we scramble
away from each other
shift
(the little poem’s been packed away to Poland
crammed in cattle cars and denied all food and drink)
we are done
and all the ways
and all the ways in which
you cannot see
and do not know
and cannot be
you flail your little fists
and stomp your little feet
you try to grab my hair and twist
and so I cut it free
and take the bastard down
you cannot see
and do not know
and cannot be
you flail your little fists
and stomp your little feet
you try to grab my hair and twist
and so I cut it free
and take the bastard down
Monday, July 05, 2010
a fierce, uncomplicated love...
a fierce, uncomplicated love
fueled first by the intensity
of shared blood and oxygen
and uterine real estate
and then by the added miracles
of profound regard and common joys
(this love is unrivaled–
free from issues of power or sex,
finances or careers)
and now
(as we sit in the ballpark
and eat our soft serve cones
and scream when the ball flies
over the centerfield wall,
stomping our feet with the contagious fervor
of the true fanatics that surround us)
my ribs swell and expand
against the context of my skin
stretched this time to contain
the softest, most ferocious tenderness
reflected in the golden moon of your face
your chin raised for a sticky kiss
your devotion crystallized
in your sturdy arms as you wrap me
in the ecstatic squeeze of camaraderie
knowing and being known
loving and being loved
fueled first by the intensity
of shared blood and oxygen
and uterine real estate
and then by the added miracles
of profound regard and common joys
(this love is unrivaled–
free from issues of power or sex,
finances or careers)
and now
(as we sit in the ballpark
and eat our soft serve cones
and scream when the ball flies
over the centerfield wall,
stomping our feet with the contagious fervor
of the true fanatics that surround us)
my ribs swell and expand
against the context of my skin
stretched this time to contain
the softest, most ferocious tenderness
reflected in the golden moon of your face
your chin raised for a sticky kiss
your devotion crystallized
in your sturdy arms as you wrap me
in the ecstatic squeeze of camaraderie
knowing and being known
loving and being loved
Thursday, July 01, 2010
so tired
head leaden on weary neck
eyelids suffer
stretching from rim to red rim
dark bags of tender skin
migrate south
into cheekbone territory
shoulders cave
under the weight
of twisted bra straps
ribs fold and collapse
like cheap
Chinatown fans
pelvis tips forward
a too-heavy pitcher
in the hands of a too-small child
arthritic knees stiffen
and surrender
abdicating the throne of responsibility
ankles curl around chair legs
like the gloved hands
of a drunken debutante
and feet dangle inertly
trapped in shoes against their will
powerless to flee
eyelids suffer
stretching from rim to red rim
dark bags of tender skin
migrate south
into cheekbone territory
shoulders cave
under the weight
of twisted bra straps
ribs fold and collapse
like cheap
Chinatown fans
pelvis tips forward
a too-heavy pitcher
in the hands of a too-small child
arthritic knees stiffen
and surrender
abdicating the throne of responsibility
ankles curl around chair legs
like the gloved hands
of a drunken debutante
and feet dangle inertly
trapped in shoes against their will
powerless to flee
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
memorial day
entrenched in your arms
safe to briefly remember
the battle begun in the Subaru hatchback
turning the corner at 95th and Arapahoe
gauntlets thrown and troops advanced
the Seven Day’s War
that encamped me in the guest room
alert to the smell of danger
and afraid of snipers after midnight
we sought the triage tent
to try to staunch the loss of faith
but came out soaked instead
impossible to tell whose blood was who’s
reduced in our panic to solitary soldiers
shell shocked and scarred
abandoned to face defeat alone
in the jungles of middle-aged failure
now we make commemorative gestures
placing flowers on the graves of the fallen
and crossing grassy battlefields
whose dandelions belie the former violence
we walk both hand in hand
and shed our separate tears
for the loss of life and innocence
and the horror of our wars
safe to briefly remember
the battle begun in the Subaru hatchback
turning the corner at 95th and Arapahoe
gauntlets thrown and troops advanced
that encamped me in the guest room
alert to the smell of danger
and afraid of snipers after midnight
to try to staunch the loss of faith
but came out soaked instead
impossible to tell whose blood was who’s
shell shocked and scarred
abandoned to face defeat alone
in the jungles of middle-aged failure
placing flowers on the graves of the fallen
and crossing grassy battlefields
whose dandelions belie the former violence
and shed our separate tears
for the loss of life and innocence
and the horror of our wars
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Sad Wife
I grew melancholy after my first marriage, too.
But I attributed that to post grad school blues
and funerals
and identity crises.
It got us into therapy, which was good.
(I wonder how much money we spent
sitting on couches over the next fifteen years.
Clearly not enough.)
That first time, I sat in the rented house
on Fourth Street in Columbus
and sewed curtains
and watched reruns of Mary Tyler Moore
and cried.
I wonder if that scared you.
That first therapist wanted to make your childhood
into something sinister
but there was nothing lurking behind the facade.
The Myers-Briggs was helpful, though.
Things made more sense after that.
And then fifteen years passed
and we were someone’s parents
with mortgages and debt
and I stopped wearing all five earrings all at once.
And the melancholy must have been lost in New Orleans
or packed away with all the baby things
or forgotten in the apartment on Williams Fork Trail.
After that, sorrow always had a cause
and the effects were always tragically obvious.
Not this mysterious weight that has no name
and sits behind my breasts
frightening you, brave husband number two.
You who wake up joyful every day,
who has such utter faith in me
and proffers all your love without a string in sight.
How impossible I am, how wrong to live
in my magical life
and yet confess this gentle sadness in my eyes
and stuffed up in my throat.
I have no explanation.
except divorce and death and fear
and loss and love and lack of follow-through
and laziness and self-esteem
and loneliness and fraud and grief.
But then so do you, too,
yet you are fine to jump right up each day
and celebrate the sunshine or the storm.
My grandmother was mad.
Perhaps this is her legacy to me
and I should simply pin it to my collar
like a brooch
and wear it without fear or shame or guilt.
I think that I would rather ride a bike.
Or walk along the boardwalk holding hands.
I’d rather sleep in late or read a book
or make sweet love to you or draw a bath.
I’d rather bake a pie or make a cake
or take you out to lunch and sit outside
watching the people walking through their lives
on their way to the therapist’s or their OB appointments.
Watching the rotating blooms of flowers on the mall
and the various hats on the cart by the courthouse.
Watching the sad girls and the gentle boys
loving each other the best that they can.
But I attributed that to post grad school blues
and funerals
and identity crises.
It got us into therapy, which was good.
(I wonder how much money we spent
sitting on couches over the next fifteen years.
Clearly not enough.)
That first time, I sat in the rented house
on Fourth Street in Columbus
and sewed curtains
and watched reruns of Mary Tyler Moore
and cried.
I wonder if that scared you.
That first therapist wanted to make your childhood
into something sinister
but there was nothing lurking behind the facade.
The Myers-Briggs was helpful, though.
Things made more sense after that.
And then fifteen years passed
and we were someone’s parents
with mortgages and debt
and I stopped wearing all five earrings all at once.
And the melancholy must have been lost in New Orleans
or packed away with all the baby things
or forgotten in the apartment on Williams Fork Trail.
After that, sorrow always had a cause
and the effects were always tragically obvious.
Not this mysterious weight that has no name
and sits behind my breasts
frightening you, brave husband number two.
You who wake up joyful every day,
who has such utter faith in me
and proffers all your love without a string in sight.
How impossible I am, how wrong to live
in my magical life
and yet confess this gentle sadness in my eyes
and stuffed up in my throat.
I have no explanation.
except divorce and death and fear
and loss and love and lack of follow-through
and laziness and self-esteem
and loneliness and fraud and grief.
But then so do you, too,
yet you are fine to jump right up each day
and celebrate the sunshine or the storm.
My grandmother was mad.
Perhaps this is her legacy to me
and I should simply pin it to my collar
like a brooch
and wear it without fear or shame or guilt.
I think that I would rather ride a bike.
Or walk along the boardwalk holding hands.
I’d rather sleep in late or read a book
or make sweet love to you or draw a bath.
I’d rather bake a pie or make a cake
or take you out to lunch and sit outside
watching the people walking through their lives
on their way to the therapist’s or their OB appointments.
Watching the rotating blooms of flowers on the mall
and the various hats on the cart by the courthouse.
Watching the sad girls and the gentle boys
loving each other the best that they can.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Trumpet Voluntary
within the cupboard
of my chest
a trumpet lives
the herald of my song
and master of my breast
celebratory marches
together or alone
t’was strange inside
the child
stranger still
inside the crone
but heavenly sounds
of God’s own laughter
when it would play
me home
of my chest
a trumpet lives
the herald of my song
and master of my breast
celebratory marches
together or alone
t’was strange inside
the child
stranger still
inside the crone
but heavenly sounds
of God’s own laughter
when it would play
me home
the complete package
papers filed
novel simmering
house painted
lawn boy mowing
furniture polished
flowers blooming
wardrobe revamped
widow waiting
novel simmering
house painted
lawn boy mowing
furniture polished
flowers blooming
wardrobe revamped
widow waiting
primary source
you can do all the reading you want
but until they write the book on me
you are wasting your fucking time
there isn’t an expert sitting on my head
taking notes and faxing them
to the local library for your edification
so that you can more quickly reconcile
your dick’s social life
with the product of its fidelities
she’s not ready and neither am I
how many assholes does it take
to spin the earth off its axis?
but until they write the book on me
you are wasting your fucking time
there isn’t an expert sitting on my head
taking notes and faxing them
to the local library for your edification
so that you can more quickly reconcile
your dick’s social life
with the product of its fidelities
she’s not ready and neither am I
how many assholes does it take
to spin the earth off its axis?
New Rules
no clocks in the bedroom
from now on insomnia shall go
uncontextualized by time
laundry shall be a manageable pleasure
sweet smelling and warm
completed in less than an afternoon
flowers shall adorn the home
a tribute to the seasons, to the planets
to the virgins and harlots who live here
from now on insomnia shall go
uncontextualized by time
laundry shall be a manageable pleasure
sweet smelling and warm
completed in less than an afternoon
flowers shall adorn the home
a tribute to the seasons, to the planets
to the virgins and harlots who live here
Thursday, October 29, 2009
my best fiction
the madwoman in my attic
keeps pasting poison-pen letters
to the insides of my eyeballs
halting information to the brain
and
requiring a mirror to read them
from out front
narcissistic reflection combined
with fumes
from wallpaper paste
all of which result in promises
to restrain myself
(homicidal
only in my best fiction)
keeps pasting poison-pen letters
to the insides of my eyeballs
halting information to the brain
and
requiring a mirror to read them
from out front
narcissistic reflection combined
with fumes
from wallpaper paste
all of which result in promises
to restrain myself
(homicidal
only in my best fiction)
On Sundays
There is no room for me next to you
you push me over slowly
You start over.
You slowly ooze over onto me throughout
the hour and I
turn and adjust and show you my back
and feel you pushing me
Your chair is not enough for you
you take mine too
Your air is not enough for you
you breathe mine too
Your song is not enough for you
you sing mine too
and leave me voiceless mouthing words
gasping for breath
and at the end you feel Renewed
Rejuvenated
Fulfilled
Affirmed
and I am coiled in a knot under
my chair (yours now)
on the floor
between the feet of the faithful.
you push me over slowly
You start over.
You slowly ooze over onto me throughout
the hour and I
turn and adjust and show you my back
and feel you pushing me
Your chair is not enough for you
you take mine too
Your air is not enough for you
you breathe mine too
Your song is not enough for you
you sing mine too
and leave me voiceless mouthing words
gasping for breath
and at the end you feel Renewed
Rejuvenated
Fulfilled
Affirmed
and I am coiled in a knot under
my chair (yours now)
on the floor
between the feet of the faithful.
When the pen lies...
When
the pen lies
like a dead seagull on the shores of the page
there
is nothing left to do
but head back up the beach, toward the defunct lighthouse,
noticing
the empty shells scattered on the sand.
the pen lies
like a dead seagull on the shores of the page
there
is nothing left to do
but head back up the beach, toward the defunct lighthouse,
noticing
the empty shells scattered on the sand.
Thanksgiving
you standing on a chair
next to me at the counter
our four arms
in synch
our four hands
on the pie crust
fork between your little fingers
pressing birds' feet around
the edges that will contain
the farm-grown pumpkin
faces of the grannies
peeking over our shoulders
like visions
in a mother-daughter
country-western duet
next to me at the counter
our four arms
in synch
our four hands
on the pie crust
fork between your little fingers
pressing birds' feet around
the edges that will contain
the farm-grown pumpkin
faces of the grannies
peeking over our shoulders
like visions
in a mother-daughter
country-western duet
Wax Works
the fury I will not unleash
flows like melted wax
into the corners and crevices
of my body
like the sand candles
we made in second grade
hot paraffin
searing and casting
the shape of anger in my limbs
requiring a lifelike stillness
enacted only to protect and serve
to spare the bystander
flows like melted wax
into the corners and crevices
of my body
like the sand candles
we made in second grade
hot paraffin
searing and casting
the shape of anger in my limbs
requiring a lifelike stillness
enacted only to protect and serve
to spare the bystander
one more breath from you...
one more breath from you
and I will exceed capacity
overfull of carbon dioxide
blown hot from across the room
leaving only hints of bruises
irresponsible id with
its sense of entitlement
hurtling through space
to lodge in my limbs
like a tugboat
ramming the dock
and knocking people
into the sea
while the crew laughs
and disembarks
looking for a vegan cafƩ
that serves wine in stemless glasses
poured from tattooed hands
and I will exceed capacity
overfull of carbon dioxide
blown hot from across the room
leaving only hints of bruises
irresponsible id with
its sense of entitlement
hurtling through space
to lodge in my limbs
like a tugboat
ramming the dock
and knocking people
into the sea
while the crew laughs
and disembarks
looking for a vegan cafƩ
that serves wine in stemless glasses
poured from tattooed hands
glass girdle
glass girdle
woven around my
hips and through
my vertebrae
curved beneath my coccyx
attached delicately at
the tips of my pelvis
needs shattering
woven around my
hips and through
my vertebrae
curved beneath my coccyx
attached delicately at
the tips of my pelvis
needs shattering
Homecoming
Tremendous
grief.
Galaxies spin around
inside my belly.
Pain like smeared
zebra stripes
across glass.
what am i doing here?
my ego shrinks and withers
under this
intense heat.
Fruit rots.
They do not grow and
I cannot have
been away or surely I would not feel so
desperately dead inside.
Innocent bystanders watch and dodge
the arrows so carefully
aimed to miss.
Rubber tips
and suction cups.
Impotent.
I am in the crossfire.
Shame like indigestion moves around
inside me
and rises to the
surface of my skin
like gas in water.
If I were
a sculptor
I would sculpt a woman out of lead
and I would leave
the edges rough and bulky
and I would twist it like
a grotesque helix
and I would hand it to my family and say
YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE THIS.
Then I would leave it in their house and
go away for Christmas
with a special friend I chose myself.
grief.
Galaxies spin around
inside my belly.
Pain like smeared
zebra stripes
across glass.
what am i doing here?
my ego shrinks and withers
under this
intense heat.
Fruit rots.
They do not grow and
I cannot have
been away or surely I would not feel so
desperately dead inside.
Innocent bystanders watch and dodge
the arrows so carefully
aimed to miss.
Rubber tips
and suction cups.
Impotent.
I am in the crossfire.
Shame like indigestion moves around
inside me
and rises to the
surface of my skin
like gas in water.
If I were
a sculptor
I would sculpt a woman out of lead
and I would leave
the edges rough and bulky
and I would twist it like
a grotesque helix
and I would hand it to my family and say
YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE THIS.
Then I would leave it in their house and
go away for Christmas
with a special friend I chose myself.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Philadelphia-area Premiere of "Music's Music"
Renowned composer Steven Sametz used one of my poems as the lyric for a commissioned piece for the Los Angeles Master Chorale. "Music’s Music", originally one of the poems in the "Mother Music" series, premiered in Los Angeles last February at Disney Hall as a part of a program featuring new works by contemporary American composers. It is having its Philadelphia-area premiere this weekend at Lehigh University in Bethlehem, PA. Concert details are available on the Lehigh website.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Blue
you fell in love
and so I had to paint the room
where nine years before we laughed together at
the vitamin E that should have eased my swelling belly but
somehow landed four feet up the wall above our heads
and now the frozen wasteland on your side of the bed
has sprouted white and purple crocuses
and the spring thaw has begun
and so I had to paint the room
where nine years before we laughed together at
the vitamin E that should have eased my swelling belly but
somehow landed four feet up the wall above our heads
and now the frozen wasteland on your side of the bed
has sprouted white and purple crocuses
and the spring thaw has begun
Mourning Men Who Haven't Died
incredibly
the power of your choice
leaves me eviscerated
deboned
like a naked piece of cold poultry
and it’s all just happening again
really and truly
for the very first time
as if you just came in and broke it to me
and the floor just tipped out underneath my feet
and I am reduced to nothing but viscera
no skeleton nor muscles to hold me up
no words nor voice to articulate my grief
only worthless puddles of blood and pus
seeping across the carpet in oily pools
putrid like me
the power of your choice
leaves me eviscerated
deboned
like a naked piece of cold poultry
and it’s all just happening again
really and truly
for the very first time
as if you just came in and broke it to me
and the floor just tipped out underneath my feet
and I am reduced to nothing but viscera
no skeleton nor muscles to hold me up
no words nor voice to articulate my grief
only worthless puddles of blood and pus
seeping across the carpet in oily pools
putrid like me
Bomb Shelter
my hand explodes
and I can't reach you from over here
trapped between your infidelities
and the wall
scattered shards of cardiac muscle
decorate the bedspread
in flecks of red and blue
that seem
at first glance
like part of the floral print
but stick to my skirt
and leave a stain
that sends me to Heloise and the internet
looking for the remedy
to heal the inconvenient mess
Spoiler Alert
To the lonely reader who may one day pass this way
by happenstance or misdirection:
the poem you were seeking here has been judged
and found guilty of threats to the Fatherland
and so has been relocated to colder, lonelier climes
these harmless words forgotten here
are scattered grains of rice
benign and impotent
free from power to offend or harm
safe for readers of all ages
by happenstance or misdirection:
the poem you were seeking here has been judged
and found guilty of threats to the Fatherland
and so has been relocated to colder, lonelier climes
these harmless words forgotten here
are scattered grains of rice
benign and impotent
free from power to offend or harm
safe for readers of all ages
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Praise Poem
for Traci
the perfume of her labor
permeates the school
subtle as air
invisible hint of love
humbly shared
lingering
before and after bells have ceased to ring
she is
the unknown variable working quietly
behind the curtain of each equation
the thinking space between the words
before the showy sentence takes the credit
a century ago
we would have named her
for her virtues
Faith
or Constance
Patience, to be sure
but here in our small moment
we turn to simpler tools
of many poets
impossible expressions of illimitable love
and blessings on the fortune of her birth
the perfume of her labor
permeates the school
subtle as air
invisible hint of love
humbly shared
lingering
before and after bells have ceased to ring
she is
the unknown variable working quietly
behind the curtain of each equation
the thinking space between the words
before the showy sentence takes the credit
a century ago
we would have named her
for her virtues
Faith
or Constance
Patience, to be sure
but here in our small moment
we turn to simpler tools
of many poets
impossible expressions of illimitable love
and blessings on the fortune of her birth
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Continental Breakfast
the fruit on my plate arranges itself
around the virtuous bran muffin
and the pious hard-cooked egg:
watermelon nestles
next to cantaloupe stained by strawberries
grapes are conspicuously absent
but the requisite honeydew
occupies its watery place
on the periphery of the plate
acolytes digest
the words of the keynote speaker
while chewing and spewing
into notebooks and laptops
and I
loner in the corner
horde the pineapple
like little yellow bricks of redemption
saving its pulpy rewards until
every other morsel is consumed
and the PowerPoint presentation comes
to its impotent climax
and the speaker sits down to sign his books
and then
only then
do I allow it to traverse my tongue
and lodge firmly
between my pencil and my teeth
receiving absolution in its transubstantiation
from simple fruit
to momentary miracle
around the virtuous bran muffin
and the pious hard-cooked egg:
watermelon nestles
next to cantaloupe stained by strawberries
grapes are conspicuously absent
but the requisite honeydew
occupies its watery place
on the periphery of the plate
acolytes digest
the words of the keynote speaker
while chewing and spewing
into notebooks and laptops
and I
loner in the corner
horde the pineapple
like little yellow bricks of redemption
saving its pulpy rewards until
every other morsel is consumed
and the PowerPoint presentation comes
to its impotent climax
and the speaker sits down to sign his books
and then
only then
do I allow it to traverse my tongue
and lodge firmly
between my pencil and my teeth
receiving absolution in its transubstantiation
from simple fruit
to momentary miracle
So Many Unexpected Things
Outside the window,
the snow is falling off the eaves
and crashing to the deck
in raucous heaps of springtime defiance.
The branches of the evergreens
and canes of dormant grape
bend low under its watery weight,
while the roses you arranged on the table
(the one you built,
just for this meal)
stand sentry, pink and white,
and the ache in my ribs
where your bicycle bucked me off its back
throbs, like a car stereo’s subwoofer,
muffled by traffic and steel.
The cup that holds my tea
was thrown by the first woman
who stood before an altar
and pledged her troth to you.
Not worth much in the end,
as it turned out, but odd to think
her hands caressed and coaxed
this vessel into shape,
like they once caressed and coaxed
you into her.
I am surprised when my tea
tastes better than usual.
And these strawberries on my plate,
the reddest, plumpest of the lot,
I would not normally be so greedy
as to take the ripest for myself
but no one else is here,
and no one else will eat them,
and so my motherly inclination
to choose the smaller, paler fruit
is shocked and set aside
as for once I give myself first dibs
and taste the privilege
of breaking fasts alone.
the snow is falling off the eaves
and crashing to the deck
in raucous heaps of springtime defiance.
The branches of the evergreens
and canes of dormant grape
bend low under its watery weight,
while the roses you arranged on the table
(the one you built,
just for this meal)
stand sentry, pink and white,
and the ache in my ribs
where your bicycle bucked me off its back
throbs, like a car stereo’s subwoofer,
muffled by traffic and steel.
The cup that holds my tea
was thrown by the first woman
who stood before an altar
and pledged her troth to you.
Not worth much in the end,
as it turned out, but odd to think
her hands caressed and coaxed
this vessel into shape,
like they once caressed and coaxed
you into her.
I am surprised when my tea
tastes better than usual.
And these strawberries on my plate,
the reddest, plumpest of the lot,
I would not normally be so greedy
as to take the ripest for myself
but no one else is here,
and no one else will eat them,
and so my motherly inclination
to choose the smaller, paler fruit
is shocked and set aside
as for once I give myself first dibs
and taste the privilege
of breaking fasts alone.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
drips from the wet ends of my hair...
drips from the wet ends of my hair
feel like bold print asterisks when they explode
on the inky surface of my skin
but despite my absolution
I’m still quivering in my father’s chair
like the wrung out dishrag I’ve become
cleaning up messes and forgiving trespasses
like all patient mothers are meant to do
it occurs to me that
saplings bend and sway with the seasons
but older trees grow brittle and break
crashing down to the prairie floor
too many tire swings hung on their branches
too many curse words carved in their trunks
eventually they twist and fall
and I am growing taller every day
feel like bold print asterisks when they explode
on the inky surface of my skin
but despite my absolution
I’m still quivering in my father’s chair
like the wrung out dishrag I’ve become
cleaning up messes and forgiving trespasses
like all patient mothers are meant to do
it occurs to me that
saplings bend and sway with the seasons
but older trees grow brittle and break
crashing down to the prairie floor
too many tire swings hung on their branches
too many curse words carved in their trunks
eventually they twist and fall
and I am growing taller every day
Saturday, February 14, 2009
shift to compassion
shift to compassion
open suitcase
try on theory of relativity
find shoes to match
(desperation is so unattractive)
click
feel the ache in her body
understand (no) her pain
click slam shut
exercise compassion
(with passion)
without reason
or right
or justice
or goddamn common sense
click
so disappointed
we expected more
click
doing the best she can
seeking something she cannot name
wanting what she thinks we have
casting spells at the pity party
pathetic
click
so disappointed
wanting a vote
more maturity in a can of cheez whiz
click
shit
(back to the beginning)
shift to compassion
open suitcase
try on lobotomy
find earrings to mask
the dull ringing in both ears
click
smile through razor blades
click
spit out bits of bloody tongue
click
struggle with the stains
reach for the bleach
quit
off
out
open suitcase
try on theory of relativity
find shoes to match
(desperation is so unattractive)
click
feel the ache in her body
understand (no) her pain
click slam shut
exercise compassion
(with passion)
without reason
or right
or justice
or goddamn common sense
click
so disappointed
we expected more
click
doing the best she can
seeking something she cannot name
wanting what she thinks we have
casting spells at the pity party
pathetic
click
so disappointed
wanting a vote
more maturity in a can of cheez whiz
click
shit
(back to the beginning)
shift to compassion
open suitcase
try on lobotomy
find earrings to mask
the dull ringing in both ears
click
smile through razor blades
click
spit out bits of bloody tongue
click
struggle with the stains
reach for the bleach
quit
off
out
the words pile up...
the words pile up in angry red scales
on the surface of my skin
flaking off into cups of tea
handed smilingly across white tablecloths
to the outstretched hands of simple-minded actresses
they execute tour de force auditions
ingƩnues doing backbends
into leading lady roles
contorting themselves into obscenities
designed to charm and delight
I am a snake in the footlights
coiling around their sequined ankles
shedding my carmine skin
leaving trails of blood and pus
daring the handler to misjudge me again
on the surface of my skin
flaking off into cups of tea
handed smilingly across white tablecloths
to the outstretched hands of simple-minded actresses
they execute tour de force auditions
ingƩnues doing backbends
into leading lady roles
contorting themselves into obscenities
designed to charm and delight
I am a snake in the footlights
coiling around their sequined ankles
shedding my carmine skin
leaving trails of blood and pus
daring the handler to misjudge me again
Saturday, January 24, 2009
On the High Wire
balancing on tiptoe between faith and fear
I suddenly understand the need for parasols
not just to aid in fall-prevention measures
but to shield against the thoughts
that pummel down from clouds
where Worry waits
she must have played college ball
such an arm on her
hurling nuggets of nightmares
at my unprotected head
laughing when her aim is true
while I’m left gasping
trying to focus
on looking straight ahead
ignoring the fate
that will rush up to meet me
the second my footing is false
I would choose a pretty parasol
with two pink flamingoes
surrounded by red hibiscus flowers
their necks would wrap around
to form a heart
and people on the ground
would squint into the sun
and then move on
indifferent
worries don’t begin from down below
I suddenly understand the need for parasols
not just to aid in fall-prevention measures
but to shield against the thoughts
that pummel down from clouds
where Worry waits
she must have played college ball
such an arm on her
hurling nuggets of nightmares
at my unprotected head
laughing when her aim is true
while I’m left gasping
trying to focus
on looking straight ahead
ignoring the fate
that will rush up to meet me
the second my footing is false
I would choose a pretty parasol
with two pink flamingoes
surrounded by red hibiscus flowers
their necks would wrap around
to form a heart
and people on the ground
would squint into the sun
and then move on
indifferent
worries don’t begin from down below
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Former Lovers on Facebook
they post pictures of themselves
with their toddlers/beautiful wives/happy dogs
nothing to suggest
the horizontal hours we shared
when we were young and free
and if they don’t remember me?
and those days that shaped my knowledge of myself
were less than nothing meaningful for them?
only half-hearted glances back
at times they’d just as soon forget
and not the moments when we set the bars
by which all future lovers would be measured?
the man stretched out beside me
loose and lanky in his sleep
is neither memory nor mystery
and all I have to do is slide down next to him
to be embraced in warmth and sinew
unconcerned with histories or legacies
except to hold my face and say he’s sorry
that I ever shed a tear or spent a moment grieving
over any kind of loss
and all those stamp-sized faces seem so small
and looking in his eyes I have to kiss him
just to close the dangerous distance
between dissolving into lovesick adolescence
and spontaneously combusting in a fit of fever
and the only face I wish to read
is his wide open book of devotions
whispered nightly down my spine
and spread out oh so slowly over everything
with their toddlers/beautiful wives/happy dogs
nothing to suggest
the horizontal hours we shared
when we were young and free
and if they don’t remember me?
and those days that shaped my knowledge of myself
were less than nothing meaningful for them?
only half-hearted glances back
at times they’d just as soon forget
and not the moments when we set the bars
by which all future lovers would be measured?
the man stretched out beside me
loose and lanky in his sleep
is neither memory nor mystery
and all I have to do is slide down next to him
to be embraced in warmth and sinew
unconcerned with histories or legacies
except to hold my face and say he’s sorry
that I ever shed a tear or spent a moment grieving
over any kind of loss
and all those stamp-sized faces seem so small
and looking in his eyes I have to kiss him
just to close the dangerous distance
between dissolving into lovesick adolescence
and spontaneously combusting in a fit of fever
and the only face I wish to read
is his wide open book of devotions
whispered nightly down my spine
and spread out oh so slowly over everything
Overnight in Joshua Tree
I bled on sheets that weren’t my own
and hid them from my hostess,
not knowing what to say or do
to cover my faux pas.
She was a performance artist
who liked to burn things up
while local townsfolk stood around;
the smoke became applause.
I later learned
her house burned down,
an act of jealous arson
by the married lover’s wife,
(those who play with fire and all that.)
Such relief, you cannot know,
the calcination of my stains,
particulate floating above the smoke
into the desert night
and then, at last, to nothing.
and hid them from my hostess,
not knowing what to say or do
to cover my faux pas.
She was a performance artist
who liked to burn things up
while local townsfolk stood around;
the smoke became applause.
I later learned
her house burned down,
an act of jealous arson
by the married lover’s wife,
(those who play with fire and all that.)
Such relief, you cannot know,
the calcination of my stains,
particulate floating above the smoke
into the desert night
and then, at last, to nothing.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
in an instant
walking through the world with the tears of forty years
embroidering the cuffs and collars
of my clothes
sleeves damp with weeping
the moist surface of living
the sharp inhalation of falling in love
or falling apart
embroidering the cuffs and collars
of my clothes
sleeves damp with weeping
the moist surface of living
the sharp inhalation of falling in love
or falling apart
premonition
the onset of madness
scares away the crows
all its shiny moving parts
floating in my eyes
above the crops you planted
before last summer’s drought
scares away the crows
all its shiny moving parts
floating in my eyes
above the crops you planted
before last summer’s drought
a la mode
sometimes the poetry comes unexpectedly
like a side of ice cream
on a slice of pie
sweeter than you planned
but still willing to make an exception
especially since you
didn’t intend to order it
which means you can’t really be faulted
for going ahead and eating it
like a side of ice cream
on a slice of pie
sweeter than you planned
but still willing to make an exception
especially since you
didn’t intend to order it
which means you can’t really be faulted
for going ahead and eating it
Wisdom of Solomon
one blue eye for me, one blue eye for you
one right thumb for me, one left thumb for you
shuttling back and forth across the warp of our separate lives
we’ve made her life the weft
pulled tightly in opposite directions
stretched to the place between taut
and snap
one right thumb for me, one left thumb for you
shuttling back and forth across the warp of our separate lives
we’ve made her life the weft
pulled tightly in opposite directions
stretched to the place between taut
and snap
Monday, October 06, 2008
Invitation
Contributor reading for
IMPROV Anthology of Colorado Poets, 2008 - Peace, War, Love
published by Green Fuse Press
Friday, October 10, 7pm
Loveland Museum, Main Gallery, Downtown Loveland, 970-962-2410.
Readers include but are not limited to: John Blair, Connie Boyle, Hilary DePolo, M.D. & Mari Friedman, Megan E. Freeman, Gordon Holladay, Amy Irish, Shirley Kobar, Pat Maslowski, Veronica Patterson, Maggie Rowlett, Jared Smith, Katherine West…and many more.
Copies of IMPROV 2008 – Peace, War, Love will be available for sale and signing as will be copies of individual volumes of the contributors’ work.
IMPROV Anthology of Colorado Poets, 2008 - Peace, War, Love
published by Green Fuse Press
Friday, October 10, 7pm
Loveland Museum, Main Gallery, Downtown Loveland, 970-962-2410.
Readers include but are not limited to: John Blair, Connie Boyle, Hilary DePolo, M.D. & Mari Friedman, Megan E. Freeman, Gordon Holladay, Amy Irish, Shirley Kobar, Pat Maslowski, Veronica Patterson, Maggie Rowlett, Jared Smith, Katherine West…and many more.
Copies of IMPROV 2008 – Peace, War, Love will be available for sale and signing as will be copies of individual volumes of the contributors’ work.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
it's pretty simple really
we do not have to lose those things about each other we adore
we do not have to sacrifice our friendship on the altar of intimate histories
we can love each other with the passion of siblings and the ferocity of parents
celebrating the freedoms we loved each other enough to risk
we do not have to sacrifice our friendship on the altar of intimate histories
we can love each other with the passion of siblings and the ferocity of parents
celebrating the freedoms we loved each other enough to risk
Beetle Kill
the valley has broken out in hives
blotchy and red-brown
the earth twists and rolls
in an effort to scratch its back
but the rash spreads too quickly
and the as-yet untouched acres
hold their breaths and squeeze their eyes closed
pretending quarantine
not wanting to see as they are slowly consumed
in the contagion of the ages
blotchy and red-brown
the earth twists and rolls
in an effort to scratch its back
but the rash spreads too quickly
and the as-yet untouched acres
hold their breaths and squeeze their eyes closed
pretending quarantine
not wanting to see as they are slowly consumed
in the contagion of the ages
Fraser, Colorado 7:48 p.m.
so much to lose in a sunset
the fading colors of the western mountain sky
dusting the golden meadows with shades of rose
and falling streaks of gray
divided sharply by twin contrails
slicing blades of light across the darkening clouds
below in the twilight
trains stretch the length of the valley
as far as the eye can see in both directions
pulling with all their might
the fuel that keeps the country warm
what happened to cabooses?
tugged along at the rear
the exclamation points at the ends of steel sentences
traversing the pages of highways
through the darkest side of midnight
the fading colors of the western mountain sky
dusting the golden meadows with shades of rose
and falling streaks of gray
divided sharply by twin contrails
slicing blades of light across the darkening clouds
below in the twilight
trains stretch the length of the valley
as far as the eye can see in both directions
pulling with all their might
the fuel that keeps the country warm
what happened to cabooses?
tugged along at the rear
the exclamation points at the ends of steel sentences
traversing the pages of highways
through the darkest side of midnight
the confidence of rose hips
the confidence of rose hips
fat and sassy on their feathered branches
clustered in cliques of three and four
triumphant
gleeful
downright noisy
celebrating their successful metamorphosis
from delicate pink blooms
Mother Nature’s happy plan
fat and sassy on their feathered branches
clustered in cliques of three and four
triumphant
gleeful
downright noisy
celebrating their successful metamorphosis
from delicate pink blooms
Mother Nature’s happy plan
adrift
did the leaf that just floated past fall in the river of its own accord?
or
did it slip from its branch when a black bear bodychecked the tree that grew it?
or
was it blown from its perch by the exhaust of earthmovers shoving
boulders and concrete into shapes of winter condominiums?
perhaps a little boy
set this leaf on its course
for oceans and adventure
then
bored of the game
and
abandoned the helm
leaving the leaf adrift
on the
swirling currents
of
autumn
or
did it slip from its branch when a black bear bodychecked the tree that grew it?
or
was it blown from its perch by the exhaust of earthmovers shoving
boulders and concrete into shapes of winter condominiums?
perhaps a little boy
set this leaf on its course
for oceans and adventure
then
bored of the game
and
abandoned the helm
leaving the leaf adrift
on the
swirling currents
of
autumn
Waiting for their mother
three children crouch
on a round picnic table
cranking the umbrella
closed over their heads
eliciting giggles and peals of delight
as the sky collapses
octagonal wonder of the world
on a round picnic table
cranking the umbrella
closed over their heads
eliciting giggles and peals of delight
as the sky collapses
octagonal wonder of the world
Saturday, August 16, 2008
here's what's real
here’s what’s real
on this page
with the shit and the blood and the drool
that come from the messy acts of human life
exactly from the beginning
with meconium and amniotic fluid and shreds of placenta
and the start of the beginning
with semen and mucous and sloughed-off uterine trash
seeping from our bodies as if it isn’t obvious
that metaphor is fact
and symbols are simply accessories
we hang around our throats
and dangle from our ears
here’s this poetry
here’s what’s real
outside the porcelain facades
of professionalism and accepted norms
our chemical selves in all our juicy mess
leave trails of truth shimmery as any snail’s
on this page
with the shit and the blood and the drool
that come from the messy acts of human life
exactly from the beginning
with meconium and amniotic fluid and shreds of placenta
and the start of the beginning
with semen and mucous and sloughed-off uterine trash
seeping from our bodies as if it isn’t obvious
that metaphor is fact
and symbols are simply accessories
we hang around our throats
and dangle from our ears
here’s this poetry
here’s what’s real
outside the porcelain facades
of professionalism and accepted norms
our chemical selves in all our juicy mess
leave trails of truth shimmery as any snail’s
sightings
hummingbird, green, darting between Bluebeard blossoms
grateful for the rain that keeps the bees in bed
rabbit, kit, darting across the sodden lawn
sacrificing dry feet for juicy breakfast
swallows, two, weaving long black horse hairs
into the mud of their bassinet
grateful for the rain that keeps the bees in bed
rabbit, kit, darting across the sodden lawn
sacrificing dry feet for juicy breakfast
swallows, two, weaving long black horse hairs
into the mud of their bassinet
happy Saturday
happy Saturday to be alone and miss you
to remember why this love of ours is rich
and why - when we unite - our bodies stretch toward one another
like this thirsty thirsty earth that arches its back and tips its chin
to try to catch the rain at the earliest possible moment
the poppy seeds on my muffin are small attempts
to imitate the plenty of this storm
here in this town where rain is rare and ever welcome
this is an all-day childhood rain of indoor recess and soggy shoes
as opposed to the occasional rains we have here
one-night stands where no one leaves a name
and later on we ask if it was worth it
to remember why this love of ours is rich
and why - when we unite - our bodies stretch toward one another
like this thirsty thirsty earth that arches its back and tips its chin
to try to catch the rain at the earliest possible moment
the poppy seeds on my muffin are small attempts
to imitate the plenty of this storm
here in this town where rain is rare and ever welcome
this is an all-day childhood rain of indoor recess and soggy shoes
as opposed to the occasional rains we have here
one-night stands where no one leaves a name
and later on we ask if it was worth it
Nesting
I am the only one awake
on this street of sunburst puzzle houses
rain drips off the leaves
like sweet beads of sweat earned from honest labor
our swallow still perches on her nest above my head
her mate sits on the porch light by the door
reminding me that my place on this stoop
is allowed through generosity of their trust
after all, we chose this house to shelter our beloveds
and so must see the kindred in each other
on this street of sunburst puzzle houses
rain drips off the leaves
like sweet beads of sweat earned from honest labor
our swallow still perches on her nest above my head
her mate sits on the porch light by the door
reminding me that my place on this stoop
is allowed through generosity of their trust
after all, we chose this house to shelter our beloveds
and so must see the kindred in each other
Friday, August 15, 2008
setting*occasion*action
chest (yours – concave)
curled around spine (mine – convex)
arm draped over ribs
tucked under breast
terminating in fingers interlaced right and right
(safe)
I graze freely over the acreage of your heart
protected from predators (though)
the scars of battles fought and lessons won
still smart in the bright sunlight
(and so) you tuck your knees more tightly into mine
left arm up to touch my hair
face in my neck
voice in my ear
your kiss (your whisper)
frees me
(so nourished am I in the sanctuary of your embrace)
curled around spine (mine – convex)
arm draped over ribs
tucked under breast
terminating in fingers interlaced right and right
(safe)
I graze freely over the acreage of your heart
protected from predators (though)
the scars of battles fought and lessons won
still smart in the bright sunlight
(and so) you tuck your knees more tightly into mine
left arm up to touch my hair
face in my neck
voice in my ear
your kiss (your whisper)
frees me
(so nourished am I in the sanctuary of your embrace)
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Believe it, Baby
the last time my lover made friends
with an unhappily married woman
it didn’t end well
– or rather it did end but not well
for the long-term health
of that particular relationship
– mine and his I mean not theirs –
except that in fact
theirs hasn’t ended yet so
it remains to be seen
whether theirs will end well
and if it doesn’t at least
it won’t have anything to do with me
since surely he’s not comparing us sexually
and having me come out on top
– ha ha no chance of that –
so if it doesn’t end well with them
he will have only
Buddha or the Pope to blame
but in retrospect
it actually ended perfectly
given that she carried him off
and freed me to wink at you
– you sexy dog –
so naturally when your phone rings
and the woman named for the wreath of victory
flashes on the screen
I feel triumphantly devastated
and the moment we shared an hour ago
– me on my knees/you convulsed –
is exposed as a sham
clearly not real despite the heat and wet
and the sheets down in the laundry
what’s real is her name digitized on your phone
and her expectant breath anticipating your hello
with an unhappily married woman
it didn’t end well
– or rather it did end but not well
for the long-term health
of that particular relationship
– mine and his I mean not theirs –
except that in fact
theirs hasn’t ended yet so
it remains to be seen
whether theirs will end well
and if it doesn’t at least
it won’t have anything to do with me
since surely he’s not comparing us sexually
and having me come out on top
– ha ha no chance of that –
so if it doesn’t end well with them
he will have only
Buddha or the Pope to blame
but in retrospect
it actually ended perfectly
given that she carried him off
and freed me to wink at you
– you sexy dog –
so naturally when your phone rings
and the woman named for the wreath of victory
flashes on the screen
I feel triumphantly devastated
and the moment we shared an hour ago
– me on my knees/you convulsed –
is exposed as a sham
clearly not real despite the heat and wet
and the sheets down in the laundry
what’s real is her name digitized on your phone
and her expectant breath anticipating your hello
Monday, February 18, 2008
Empty Room
the daisies stand up in their vase
like the spray from a sprinkler
before the drops arc out across the scratchy
summer grass to plop against the neighbors’ car
parked against the curb
the cut glass crystal hangs
from the base of the light fixture
catching sunlight and throwing rainbows
onto surfaces throughout the room
with no apparent regard for taste or equity
the chair where you sat waits
apart from the table
separated from its mates by the force
of your decision to stand
and go
its own little island
in the sea of dining room floor
like the spray from a sprinkler
before the drops arc out across the scratchy
summer grass to plop against the neighbors’ car
parked against the curb
the cut glass crystal hangs
from the base of the light fixture
catching sunlight and throwing rainbows
onto surfaces throughout the room
with no apparent regard for taste or equity
the chair where you sat waits
apart from the table
separated from its mates by the force
of your decision to stand
and go
its own little island
in the sea of dining room floor
Thursday, January 24, 2008
landscape
my fingertips follow
the topography of muscle and veins
like mesas rising from the desert of your skin
sweeping down the valley
to the canyon bed of my sex
you portage across my hips
as I scale the precipice of your back
pausing to lick the limestone crevices
tasting traces of chalky fingerprints
left by other climbers
I pitch my tent
in the shelter of your gluteus medius
making camp against the elements
drinking coffee from blue tin cups
watching thunderheads roll in and away
to storm on other fronts
the topography of muscle and veins
like mesas rising from the desert of your skin
sweeping down the valley
to the canyon bed of my sex
you portage across my hips
as I scale the precipice of your back
pausing to lick the limestone crevices
tasting traces of chalky fingerprints
left by other climbers
I pitch my tent
in the shelter of your gluteus medius
making camp against the elements
drinking coffee from blue tin cups
watching thunderheads roll in and away
to storm on other fronts
Settlement
From this day forward
our stories become mine alone.
Dusty dinner conversations
are packed away in brown paper.
Pride is cut and folded neatly into fat quarters,
stored in bottom drawers.
And humility is taken out, shaken out,
and draped across my shoulders like a shroud.
our stories become mine alone.
Dusty dinner conversations
are packed away in brown paper.
Pride is cut and folded neatly into fat quarters,
stored in bottom drawers.
And humility is taken out, shaken out,
and draped across my shoulders like a shroud.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
the very much of alone
the very much of alone
wears me like a coat
a vapor of fog surrounding
the surface area of myself
pushes past gravity
into the absence
of his height and breadth
the trunk of him in the center
of the forest of not here
now wraps in skeins of voids
pinning bows and arrows
between my arms at my sides
leaving only space for fingers
to caress quietly
keeping small company
in the interim
wears me like a coat
a vapor of fog surrounding
the surface area of myself
pushes past gravity
into the absence
of his height and breadth
the trunk of him in the center
of the forest of not here
now wraps in skeins of voids
pinning bows and arrows
between my arms at my sides
leaving only space for fingers
to caress quietly
keeping small company
in the interim
In the Used Bookstore
The Power of Feminist Art
spins across the ceiling
and I wonder why no one has ever thought
to equip a couch with seatbelts
for gravity cannot be trusted
and I’m drowning on the water in my throat
the stripes on the opposite easy chair converge
in a million vanishing points and I fall forward
into the center of all that sharpness
until
the book is on the shelf again
next to The World Guide to Antiquities
and the stripes are parallel once more
and I have to go to the bathroom which is surely
a symptom of a normally balanced brain
spins across the ceiling
and I wonder why no one has ever thought
to equip a couch with seatbelts
for gravity cannot be trusted
and I’m drowning on the water in my throat
the stripes on the opposite easy chair converge
in a million vanishing points and I fall forward
into the center of all that sharpness
until
the book is on the shelf again
next to The World Guide to Antiquities
and the stripes are parallel once more
and I have to go to the bathroom which is surely
a symptom of a normally balanced brain
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Reading Your Name in My Inbox
under the canopy between my pelvic peaks
cumulous clouds turn themselves inside out
exhaling convex puffs that multiply and expand
to settle in the basin of my belly
waiting with little sighs
to be called to the surface by the moment
of your tongue (on my lips)
(your breath) on my neck
your voice (at the base of my skull)
rum-tumbling slowly down ladders of vertebrae
to melt in the marrow of my core
cumulous clouds turn themselves inside out
exhaling convex puffs that multiply and expand
to settle in the basin of my belly
waiting with little sighs
to be called to the surface by the moment
of your tongue (on my lips)
(your breath) on my neck
your voice (at the base of my skull)
rum-tumbling slowly down ladders of vertebrae
to melt in the marrow of my core
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Conception, 1967
She woke to webs of valentines strung across the ceiling
above their married-two-years/wedding-night-virgins double bed.
I waited patiently, weighing different combinations
of fatherly eloquence and motherly love,
trying on traits like discount shoes,
leaving them in piles in the aisles of infinity.
He hung them while she slept, romantic spider with big, thick hands,
spinning silk of paper and scotch tape.
I waited patiently, studying tintypes and photographs,
maps of Germany and the British Isles,
reading names and passports,
ignoring the stillness and impossibility of time.
The red hearts circulated gently in the easy February air
whispering promises that would, as it turned out, last a lifetime.
I waited patiently, until, I began,
exploding in a symphony of cytoplasm,
splitting and multiplying in deafening combinations of electrical impulses.
Crafting instantly my list of things to do and people to love,
already onto the second page before my mother’s breathing slowed
and her laughter bounced off woven paper hearts
to germinate the nucleus of me.
above their married-two-years/wedding-night-virgins double bed.
I waited patiently, weighing different combinations
of fatherly eloquence and motherly love,
trying on traits like discount shoes,
leaving them in piles in the aisles of infinity.
He hung them while she slept, romantic spider with big, thick hands,
spinning silk of paper and scotch tape.
I waited patiently, studying tintypes and photographs,
maps of Germany and the British Isles,
reading names and passports,
ignoring the stillness and impossibility of time.
The red hearts circulated gently in the easy February air
whispering promises that would, as it turned out, last a lifetime.
I waited patiently, until, I began,
exploding in a symphony of cytoplasm,
splitting and multiplying in deafening combinations of electrical impulses.
Crafting instantly my list of things to do and people to love,
already onto the second page before my mother’s breathing slowed
and her laughter bounced off woven paper hearts
to germinate the nucleus of me.
Despair
the detritus of which is hope
like tea leaves in an empty cup
telling fortunes and promising tomorrow
like tea leaves in an empty cup
telling fortunes and promising tomorrow
I am a wall...
I am a wall against which firing squads
execute their victims
riddled with bullets, flesh and brains
hiding innocent children
and determined not to crumble
execute their victims
riddled with bullets, flesh and brains
hiding innocent children
and determined not to crumble
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Saturday, October 06, 2007
The Famous Writer in the Plastic Frame
he looks jaunty and slightly wicked
as he smolders
out of his low-resolution place of honor
next to the hand soap pump on the vanity
no doubt confusing the Christian woman
who cleans my house each month
and my daughter
who wonders who that man in the bathroom is
yet I’m pretending he’s my boyfriend
seems to satisfy her and she resumes building
Lincoln Log civilizations across the kitchen floor
I am not a stalker
though I fixate on his picture and imagine
having sex with him on top of the washing machine
at the summer house on Nantucket
an unexpected tryst en route to the backyard BBQ
raw steaks forgotten on the shelf next to the Dreft
he takes me despite propriety
and the actual difference in our heights
on the back of book jackets he is much taller
as he smolders
out of his low-resolution place of honor
next to the hand soap pump on the vanity
no doubt confusing the Christian woman
who cleans my house each month
and my daughter
who wonders who that man in the bathroom is
yet I’m pretending he’s my boyfriend
seems to satisfy her and she resumes building
Lincoln Log civilizations across the kitchen floor
I am not a stalker
though I fixate on his picture and imagine
having sex with him on top of the washing machine
at the summer house on Nantucket
an unexpected tryst en route to the backyard BBQ
raw steaks forgotten on the shelf next to the Dreft
he takes me despite propriety
and the actual difference in our heights
on the back of book jackets he is much taller
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
the other woman goes for a run
we had to step aside to let her pass
trapped, it seemed,
between where she shouldn’t be
and where she didn’t belong
trespassing in hostile territory
crossing lines painted in sand
an international incident
only narrowly avoided
foolish little diplomat
breaching protocols and practices
so clearly understood by those
already fluent in the language of fidelity
perhaps we’ll send in peacekeepers
to secure the borders
and observe the next election
(at least Jimmy Carter only lusted in his heart)
trapped, it seemed,
between where she shouldn’t be
and where she didn’t belong
trespassing in hostile territory
crossing lines painted in sand
an international incident
only narrowly avoided
foolish little diplomat
breaching protocols and practices
so clearly understood by those
already fluent in the language of fidelity
perhaps we’ll send in peacekeepers
to secure the borders
and observe the next election
(at least Jimmy Carter only lusted in his heart)
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Conjoined
The separation of the twins
made no use of anesthesia nor
the standard tools of the medical profession.
The surgery,
if you could call it that,
was more along the lines
of tearing a bandage off a wound
when the wound has wept so thoroughly
into the dressing that the bandage has, in fact,
become incorporated in the torn flesh,
leaving little or no demarcation between
before and after
and
the white weave of that
which was intended to heal
becomes a scar unto itself
which, when removed by force,
reveals patterns of over-under-over-under
like
a grotesque frame around the
evidence of violence
leaving all observers in the theater
wondering at the chances
that this flesh
will ever have the capacity to reconcile itself
to the absence of its other.
made no use of anesthesia nor
the standard tools of the medical profession.
The surgery,
if you could call it that,
was more along the lines
of tearing a bandage off a wound
when the wound has wept so thoroughly
into the dressing that the bandage has, in fact,
become incorporated in the torn flesh,
leaving little or no demarcation between
before and after
and
the white weave of that
which was intended to heal
becomes a scar unto itself
which, when removed by force,
reveals patterns of over-under-over-under
like
a grotesque frame around the
evidence of violence
leaving all observers in the theater
wondering at the chances
that this flesh
will ever have the capacity to reconcile itself
to the absence of its other.
mother music 3
music has been
God’s quiet breath on the back of my neck
turning hillsides into temples
and every tree into a member of the choir
my angels are the mockingbirds
singing blessings into sleepy midnights
caressing broken hearts
with memories of melodies I heard somewhere before
every note ever sung or echoed
collects in a pail of river stones
rippling across my life
like the laughter of my children’s child
God’s quiet breath on the back of my neck
turning hillsides into temples
and every tree into a member of the choir
my angels are the mockingbirds
singing blessings into sleepy midnights
caressing broken hearts
with memories of melodies I heard somewhere before
every note ever sung or echoed
collects in a pail of river stones
rippling across my life
like the laughter of my children’s child
Featured Poet
On Thursday night, October 4, I will be the featured poet at the Fall 2007 Open Reading Poetry Series at the Loveland Museum. There is a poetry open mic at 7, followed by me reading at around 8. I would love to see friendly faces, and even better, to hear you read your poetry in the open reading! Click here for more information.
mother music 2
music woke me in the womb
winding and wound around
the heartbeat of my mother
breathing first breaths of ancient prairies
and forest fires
and I am still awake
music braided my hair each night
twisting rhythms of the day
into memories replaced by morning
scent of new oranges
across the moonlit flume
chorus of a thousand crickets
music walked me down the aisle
wedding me to mine
coming home to harmonies
with forty year refrains
breath beside me
cadence of fidelity
music brought them home from school
called and responded
when the three-o-clock door slammed
stories told and dishes danced away
refrains of laughter
set the supper table
music held my head in grief
when my own hands were far too small
and rivers carved the shadows of my face
across the broken earth
requiem for innocence
echoed on canyon walls
music woke me in the dark
whispered promises of coastline pines
singing midnight melodies
with mockingbirds and moths
rain on the roof of happiness
curved against the steadiness of love
and I am still awake
winding and wound around
the heartbeat of my mother
breathing first breaths of ancient prairies
and forest fires
and I am still awake
music braided my hair each night
twisting rhythms of the day
into memories replaced by morning
scent of new oranges
across the moonlit flume
chorus of a thousand crickets
music walked me down the aisle
wedding me to mine
coming home to harmonies
with forty year refrains
breath beside me
cadence of fidelity
music brought them home from school
called and responded
when the three-o-clock door slammed
stories told and dishes danced away
refrains of laughter
set the supper table
music held my head in grief
when my own hands were far too small
and rivers carved the shadows of my face
across the broken earth
requiem for innocence
echoed on canyon walls
music woke me in the dark
whispered promises of coastline pines
singing midnight melodies
with mockingbirds and moths
rain on the roof of happiness
curved against the steadiness of love
and I am still awake
mother music 1
my perfect moment of this moment
the many endings of the beginning
the memory of God’s gentle breath
sung on the back of my neck
that is this music’s music
my hillsides become temples
embracing choirs of trees
around a ring of summer times
and under owl moons
that is this music’s music
my life divined in mockingbird songs
watery echoes from long before
and after and after and after and after
my quiet thanks on the side of God’s cheek
that is this music’s music
the many endings of the beginning
the memory of God’s gentle breath
sung on the back of my neck
that is this music’s music
my hillsides become temples
embracing choirs of trees
around a ring of summer times
and under owl moons
that is this music’s music
my life divined in mockingbird songs
watery echoes from long before
and after and after and after and after
my quiet thanks on the side of God’s cheek
that is this music’s music
Saturday, August 25, 2007
So Much for the Secret of Happiness
The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels of the world,
and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.” -Paulo Coelho
clinging to the lip of your spoon
oily streaks of fingerprints
mar the psychedelic sheen
feet dangle in the void
until gravity wins
and the tipping point spills
forgotten in the marvelous seduction
reduced to liquid fat
in tiny explosions on the floor
staining your trousers
as you kneel to embrace her hips
eyes closed with your head
on her empty womb
absorbed into residual nothingness
and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.” -Paulo Coelho
clinging to the lip of your spoon
oily streaks of fingerprints
mar the psychedelic sheen
feet dangle in the void
until gravity wins
and the tipping point spills
forgotten in the marvelous seduction
reduced to liquid fat
in tiny explosions on the floor
staining your trousers
as you kneel to embrace her hips
eyes closed with your head
on her empty womb
absorbed into residual nothingness
Gourmet or Not
The best intentions don’t make soup
just sitting on the counter.
Organic and nutritious are no match
for incompatibility of essence.
Ingredients rot in the colander,
inanimate, impotent, benign.
Micro-colonies form the surface of themselves –
refrigeration just slows the inevitable.
Even rice grows bitter in the face of
perky thirty-two year old tits.
Even celery.
just sitting on the counter.
Organic and nutritious are no match
for incompatibility of essence.
Ingredients rot in the colander,
inanimate, impotent, benign.
Micro-colonies form the surface of themselves –
refrigeration just slows the inevitable.
Even rice grows bitter in the face of
perky thirty-two year old tits.
Even celery.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
raindrops
raindrops
pummel the daisies
as the cat
prowls beneath
stalking
the audacious leaf
on the gravel path
flowers
bob their heads
in warning
but the leaf
is deaf
and doomed
pummel the daisies
as the cat
prowls beneath
stalking
the audacious leaf
on the gravel path
flowers
bob their heads
in warning
but the leaf
is deaf
and doomed
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Spicy Child
for Madeleine
swings out
past the monkey bars
gravity be damned
chili and
cinnamon
float in her wake
upside down rainbows
of flavor
perfuming the air
and her mother’s
tongue
swings out
past the monkey bars
gravity be damned
chili and
cinnamon
float in her wake
upside down rainbows
of flavor
perfuming the air
and her mother’s
tongue
Thursday, June 14, 2007
sug-ar n
sug-ar n
sweet-tasting substance
simple carbohydrates found in many plants
term of endearment
means of persuasion
strong drug (dated slang: heroin, LSD)
When a cube of sugar dissolves
in a glass of tea,
the sugar disappears
but the tea gets sweeter.
dis-so-lu-tion n
separating, decomposing, disintegrating of
something into smaller more basic constituents
breaking up or destruction of an institution
end, termination, death
When fifteen cubes of sugar dissolve
in a river of melting snow,
the sugar’s just gone.
Perhaps the river’s sweeter,
but by such a small degree
that the backpacker filtering water
and the cougars and the deer don’t notice.
Chemists would likely say yes,
but children throwing sticks
from the banks would say no and be right.
If the tongue can’t taste it, it’s really not there.
sweet-tasting substance
simple carbohydrates found in many plants
term of endearment
means of persuasion
strong drug (dated slang: heroin, LSD)
When a cube of sugar dissolves
in a glass of tea,
the sugar disappears
but the tea gets sweeter.
dis-so-lu-tion n
separating, decomposing, disintegrating of
something into smaller more basic constituents
breaking up or destruction of an institution
end, termination, death
When fifteen cubes of sugar dissolve
in a river of melting snow,
the sugar’s just gone.
Perhaps the river’s sweeter,
but by such a small degree
that the backpacker filtering water
and the cougars and the deer don’t notice.
Chemists would likely say yes,
but children throwing sticks
from the banks would say no and be right.
If the tongue can’t taste it, it’s really not there.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
He loves me...
How many petals ripped
from yellow centers
and dropped in the sand
like bread crumbs
in Hansel and Gretel’s woods?
Little girls singing afterschool
flower songs don’t realize that
the blossom starts dying the minute
it’s pulled from its stem
and as sweet as it is
in a vase by their beds
leaving a ring on Nancy Drew
later it’s nothing but dried stalks of death
for their mothers to vacuum away.
from yellow centers
and dropped in the sand
like bread crumbs
in Hansel and Gretel’s woods?
Little girls singing afterschool
flower songs don’t realize that
the blossom starts dying the minute
it’s pulled from its stem
and as sweet as it is
in a vase by their beds
leaving a ring on Nancy Drew
later it’s nothing but dried stalks of death
for their mothers to vacuum away.
When Gary’s Mother Died of Cancer
she had nineteen different clocks on the wall
one for every year of your life
circular patterns of round and round
like death was a folk dance
ticking the beat of breaths exhaled
the heartbeats counting down to zero
until that moment when the cuckoo’s door
stays shut and the silence is greeted
by applause for the band
and dancers who need to sit down
to sip a glass of punch
and chat with neighbors from down the way
one for every year of your life
circular patterns of round and round
like death was a folk dance
ticking the beat of breaths exhaled
the heartbeats counting down to zero
until that moment when the cuckoo’s door
stays shut and the silence is greeted
by applause for the band
and dancers who need to sit down
to sip a glass of punch
and chat with neighbors from down the way
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The Cowboy Riding on the Side of the Road
somehow he knew
walking the fence line slowly
in the direction of the school year
as we flew past
in seven seconds going 60
he sensed our admiration
for how he enhanced the landscape
and lifted his hand in greeting
our horn calling back to him
as we rushed away laughing
toward summer
walking the fence line slowly
in the direction of the school year
as we flew past
in seven seconds going 60
he sensed our admiration
for how he enhanced the landscape
and lifted his hand in greeting
our horn calling back to him
as we rushed away laughing
toward summer
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Of Unhappy Men and Minotaurs
galloping astride themselves
chasing red skirts and roses
with thorns intact
dimly aware
of the roar of the crowd
they snort and they stamp
in their labyrinthine rage
determined their fury will
win in the end
chasing red skirts and roses
with thorns intact
dimly aware
of the roar of the crowd
they snort and they stamp
in their labyrinthine rage
determined their fury will
win in the end
Saturday, May 19, 2007
it’s 1983 again...
it’s 1983 again
and I’m fifteen and a half
learning to live above the arctic circle
in half years of darkness and light
reflectors on our clothes
for hiking up to school
aurora borealis skating overhead
as we skated down below
on frozen fields
the most desolate of years
with no one but Johns Irving and Updike
for company
and the post carrying three weeks of wishes
across 10,000 miles of homesick
intimate relationships with chocolate
and one night stands with cigarettes
playing at being human
masquerading in the snow
I stuck pins in the bubbled wallpaper
to hold the cards and letters
from farther away than Christmas
with no return address
and I’m fifteen and a half
learning to live above the arctic circle
in half years of darkness and light
reflectors on our clothes
for hiking up to school
aurora borealis skating overhead
as we skated down below
on frozen fields
the most desolate of years
with no one but Johns Irving and Updike
for company
and the post carrying three weeks of wishes
across 10,000 miles of homesick
intimate relationships with chocolate
and one night stands with cigarettes
playing at being human
masquerading in the snow
I stuck pins in the bubbled wallpaper
to hold the cards and letters
from farther away than Christmas
with no return address
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Purple and White Interrupted by Yellow
the wave of thunk
in the chest
or stomach
after such a good day
breathing on the bench
outside the bookstore
the man on the opposite bench
talking to the phone in his ear
the man on the closer bench
talking to no one in particular
I should go
but feeling sorry for myself
takes time
and believing
that I am capable
of being loved
or even moderately admired
when so many
noble efforts failed
seems to have taken
its toll here now
beside the variegated pansies
and the one rogue dandelion
in the chest
or stomach
after such a good day
breathing on the bench
outside the bookstore
the man on the opposite bench
talking to the phone in his ear
the man on the closer bench
talking to no one in particular
I should go
but feeling sorry for myself
takes time
and believing
that I am capable
of being loved
or even moderately admired
when so many
noble efforts failed
seems to have taken
its toll here now
beside the variegated pansies
and the one rogue dandelion
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Lessons on Sleeping Alone
there has to be a trick
the virgin mattress still warm
from the Eastern European breath
of chiseled delivery men
crisp queen sheets tucked tightly
beneath the nickel plated headboard
posed like a crown on coronation day
I always used to leave the extra pillows
on one side
but now they seem too hopeful
and the wasted space too hollow and full
too ominous
and I begin to understand
the older women I know
who sleep in single twins
no pretense
no desire for company
carving a world on their own terms
with no room left for lovers
then my daughter falls asleep reading
in the middle of the bed
covers pushed asunder
and limbs splayed open and out
like nine years ago cradled and free
and I see she’s kicked the extra pillows
onto the floor
so that her whole dancing self can
claim the space for dreams
and I note the critical difference
between waiting for something
off to one side
and the choice to make a little room
later on
if I feel like it
the virgin mattress still warm
from the Eastern European breath
of chiseled delivery men
crisp queen sheets tucked tightly
beneath the nickel plated headboard
posed like a crown on coronation day
I always used to leave the extra pillows
on one side
but now they seem too hopeful
and the wasted space too hollow and full
too ominous
and I begin to understand
the older women I know
who sleep in single twins
no pretense
no desire for company
carving a world on their own terms
with no room left for lovers
then my daughter falls asleep reading
in the middle of the bed
covers pushed asunder
and limbs splayed open and out
like nine years ago cradled and free
and I see she’s kicked the extra pillows
onto the floor
so that her whole dancing self can
claim the space for dreams
and I note the critical difference
between waiting for something
off to one side
and the choice to make a little room
later on
if I feel like it
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
bear attack
bear attack
fur on flesh
breath mingled in breath
spine curled over viscera
head tucked into breast
tumbling eclipse of bodies
her jaw contracts
my thumb on her tongue
teeth find purchase in bones
until her cub rolls by
and she glances up
more intrigued by youth
and I’m alone
and cold
preferring devoured to abandoned
fur on flesh
breath mingled in breath
spine curled over viscera
head tucked into breast
tumbling eclipse of bodies
her jaw contracts
my thumb on her tongue
teeth find purchase in bones
until her cub rolls by
and she glances up
more intrigued by youth
and I’m alone
and cold
preferring devoured to abandoned
Monday, March 12, 2007
the seabirds...
the seabirds carry the weight of our past
on their wings
from Key West to Cozumel
to Cayman and Montego Bay
I sit in the tropical shade
and nurse my sunburn
but they fly overhead and remember
everything
on their wings
from Key West to Cozumel
to Cayman and Montego Bay
I sit in the tropical shade
and nurse my sunburn
but they fly overhead and remember
everything
fire cleansing
separation
disguised as vacation
pulls and pinches where the skin
would rather bend
scalded by violent rays
stretched tight across the bones
on which we hung our married hopes
flesh on flesh leaves too hot an imprint
to touch
disguised as vacation
pulls and pinches where the skin
would rather bend
scalded by violent rays
stretched tight across the bones
on which we hung our married hopes
flesh on flesh leaves too hot an imprint
to touch
To my next lover
thank you for not arriving
before the time specified
on the invitation
(you who finish what you start
and love the work you do)
i like your patient confidence
and the shadow of your arms
illuminated finally
when i flip the porch light off
and throw the deadbolt home
before the time specified
on the invitation
(you who finish what you start
and love the work you do)
i like your patient confidence
and the shadow of your arms
illuminated finally
when i flip the porch light off
and throw the deadbolt home
Sunday, March 11, 2007
that I loved you...
that I loved you unconditionally
left me in no condition
to know my self
the fact of which has me utterly lost
in the bedding aisle at Target
looking at sheets I think I love
but are centuries from any
on our marriage bed
and I can’t even find my mind
let alone my wallet
so must find my phone instead
to call my mother
(though I’m almost forty)
needing her permission
to buy these little rosebuds
to tuck around my self
as I learn again
to sleep through the night
alone
without waking
left me in no condition
to know my self
the fact of which has me utterly lost
in the bedding aisle at Target
looking at sheets I think I love
but are centuries from any
on our marriage bed
and I can’t even find my mind
let alone my wallet
so must find my phone instead
to call my mother
(though I’m almost forty)
needing her permission
to buy these little rosebuds
to tuck around my self
as I learn again
to sleep through the night
alone
without waking
embarrassing yourself and your university
can posses possess poetry? particularly
in pathetic presentations of professional
performances that punish pedagogues
who pursue passions but suffer painful
patronization by pompous pinheads? or
perhaps a practice of proofreading would
be prudent?
in pathetic presentations of professional
performances that punish pedagogues
who pursue passions but suffer painful
patronization by pompous pinheads? or
perhaps a practice of proofreading would
be prudent?
Heirlooms
they blink and squint against the light
peering around closet corners
and out from under beds
emerging cautiously from exile
to be greeted by gentle dust rags
much like the opinions I’d forgotten I could form
sublimated over time and compromise
still disbelieving as they look timidly
around and find there’s room to stand up straight
now that you are gone
peering around closet corners
and out from under beds
emerging cautiously from exile
to be greeted by gentle dust rags
much like the opinions I’d forgotten I could form
sublimated over time and compromise
still disbelieving as they look timidly
around and find there’s room to stand up straight
now that you are gone
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