Thursday, April 30, 2009
is just an illusion cast from feathers
I thieved hungrily from a fallen swan.
I'd fly straight to the sun in my robber’s mask
but for the ominously softening wax
holding my air-bound pristine white appendages on.
Instead, I go north,
I go north, to the cooler air
chasing the slip-stream trail of the proudly honking birds.
Look up next morning
and you may see their sweet formation
then me, a crude mimic clad all black and white
flapping coarsely after.
April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
a boy-child, thin as smoke and ash
slamming his green plastic bucket
over a red-shelled crab, arthropod
legs scrambling madly for a sandy foothold.
a girl shout, pushing the door shut,
crisp white paint peeling
with a sharp crack just as the sun-god
reached his lanky foot inside,
stretching across the dusty wood floor.
He shrieks in pain at the shock
as she laughs, piercing, fingers in mouth
teacher sliding the rolled blind down
over the long window, casting the room
into squinting darkness in a last-ditch attempt
to shut out the distracting peals of laughter
stealing their way in from the day outside.
every moment of spare time
searching for lost slivers of the sun.
Long days are coming, yes they are
and I would slip them all into a jam jar,
label and stow them on a high kitchen shelf
until they hatch.
April 27, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
our paths separate
in conversation over
so, can you imagine
at finding your place
gutted one morning
words swept away
months and months
of steady building
torn down and trucked off
when I wasn’t looking
gone to wherever
these things go to die
-for all the deleted blogs
April 26, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
For Jozien, for bringing the delightful news that the crocuses have reappeared.
For Faith, who gifted Jozien with some crocuses of her own.
For Cat, creator of the lovely and mysterious Cro-ku tradition.
And for Ursula, for whom life begins with the purple spots each spring.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
pads across the bed
where you once lay,
where your body
has dug its indelible
groove into the tired
She turns full circle,
of dust, lowering
nose into tail atop
the patchwork quilt;
just another sunlit nap.
April 22, 2009
(Yet another response to Christopher. What would I do without you to inspire me?)
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
the forest creatures dwell
in structures built of twine and logs
their slender axes fell.
But when the winter wind does howl
and snow comes billowing down
how would the air stay warm inside
without true walls around?
A home without a hearth is truly
not a home at all.
Is this strange architecture then
a roomless hollow hall?
Monday, April 20, 2009
stand vacant of possibility
like sullen and scuff-shoed
young players never picked
for any team.
Words never spoken,
all those letters unsent:
they all go somewhere to die.
Blind, you feel your way through
your crossroads and I, looking on,
I stomp down my gnawing impatience,
itching to know
what will become of us if you speak,
or if you don’t.
April 20, 2009
(Happily springboarding off the poem Christopher left in the comments of my image poem from yesterday...)
Friday, April 17, 2009
but for the wind’s sweet lies,
as the passionate words
of the cantaor:
From your mouth
comes kisses to strip away
April 17, 2009
With gratitude to Will Kirkland for his translation work in Gypsy Cante, where the idea for the cantaor's words came from.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
the wind teased, running
a seductive tongue
of hair whipped
into a rope spiral
across a freckled cheek.
I would press you to grit,
erode you pitted
until each tiny flake
spins down, ever down
into the open maw
of the whining,
And then the earth stood,
tall as a mountain man
pressing the wind gently,
No, he whispered,
his voice a gravelled path.
This one is curved flesh
and ivory bone; this one
is sun-kissed skin, warm
hollows, sweet deep navel,
jutting knees and elbows.
This one is mine.
April 14, 2008
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Darken our winter-weary skin
(Oh, boots! Such glorious boots!)
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Friday, April 10, 2009
Bunnies on the lawn
leaving chocolate plops around
for the kids to find
Spring is burgeoning
snowdrops raise their lovely heads
somewhere south of here
Music of the birds
wakes me up before the dawn
no more sleeping in!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
It’s all one big joke for the ravens,
me skidding across the new ice on my naked ass
butt-sliding to the middle where cracks
form ominously around me. You sit in the truck
laughing. One too many beers
makes anything funny, even a guy
trying to take a shit on the riverbank
and losing his footing. I toss my beer can
at those pesky black birds,
and they spin ‘round me cackling
with wings so shiny you’d think they stole
their perfect feathers right out of the hands
of god, pleased as any petty thief.
April 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
to draw cheer into a sullen room,
Beatnik, mother called it.
Black blinds, black music
incense smoke and hash.
Like a collection of happiness, those prisms were,
nondescript stones of glass with such talent
in that Saturnian age, when joy was scarce
and treasured beyond gold.
Over the years, they fell like sisters
given one by one into marriage
with brutish, rough-handed men.
One was woven into a dreamcatcher, twisted
from willow and twine, a gift of peace
from an impoverished mother
to a newborn child.
Some were smashed in an unwanted move
to a place of anger and self-deprivation.
Where was the hope,
where was the beauty in that?
Others were chipped by a depressive musician
who never wanted to be a father,
hiding his unhappy face
as he mopped the bath’s condensation
from the windows
in a battle he’d never win.
Today two, only two remain
from that glorious collection
of suncatchers, and they hang
in the kitchen now
older now, wiser, but still richly infused
with the talent to send their speckled cheer
across the wall.
Cheer that is tinged with remorse.
April 7, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Here is a sneak preview of my submission, with a reminder to myself to check Catherine's place on Friday to see the goodies she has collected.
All fall down
Send me a daffodil, sweet friend of mine,
and the breath of storm-tossed ocean shore
to remind me that spring is now burgeoning
as I lie in the death-throes of winter.
My body, the land wears a garment of ice
though it shudders and cracks, frayed and soiled
the soft cradling blanket of snow’s nearly gone
from my limbs, thrown so naked in winter.
The sweat, glistening beads like a necklace of pearl
forms across my hot rosy-flushed brow
I toss in the throes of a feverish state
a furnace, denial of winter.
Oh come swift as night, dear friend of mine
bearing posies and rain, nectar dew
the buds on the trees, they are bursting like boils
and my ice splits in mockery of winter.
April 5, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
keep that soft coat, tight sinew, wet nose away
from the tang of metal
intriguing though it is,
oddity in this once familiar place
breaking through well-
through like pale spring sun
spikes piercing between
smelling not of fear
but of strangeness
this mystery is best left
now would be a good time to carve a new way
through ice-snow deep-snow remnants
through knotted willows, along the blunt ridge
safe hidden routes
March 22, 2008
Brought forward because it just felt right today, and I need to ease the panic that accompanies chronic sleep deprivation. Maybe now I can write.
Here is the original picture I had with the poem.
And one of Mike's ads which actually fits the poem even better.
Friday, April 3, 2009
under dusty parades of wicker baskets, behind
a mountain of sneezing cookware
sit the urns, painted white
cobalt and ochre
glazed to a perfect sheen
refracting long-remembered light
and filled inside with painted koi
golden, caught frozen in a wave of motion
so lifelike a cat would sit on the rim
and dip her paw in tenaciously
then slip back, startled to touch air
not water, foiled again by the slippery tease
of the painter’s brush, needing
just a moment to regain her poise
April 2, 2009
Thank you Karen for the inspiration.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The kiss of the young wind, hair tousled laughingly
The sway of hips, ducks rolling with the fresh new flow of the river
Hidden churnings, burnings of permafrost’s shift
Small ones, crawling ones stretching, stroking the open land
The warm grip of the knotty pines, roots holding firm, holding firm their sandy lover
A secret embrace, the furtive scent of an unmade bed
Delight’s deep, throaty laugh
April 1, 2009
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Shall I grab your arm and yank you
out of harm’s way?
You scream and roar, suddenly heavy, limp
on crumpled knees, demanding to be put
right back where you were.
What's it like parenting a child who isn't autistic? Is it the same? Both my kids are like this, though they seem to mellow out a bit as they get older. The younger one still rages and roars, especially at her big brother when he insists on helping her out. I think she is teaching him patience. He would probably be a very different person right now, if it wasn't for his little sister.