Wednesday, July 30, 2014

Figure of a Man

My husband whose speech is suave,
            but only for me
Whose heart is worn upon his sleeve
Whose hair is the dark of a starless night
Whose hair is soft as a kitten’s fur
Whose skin is smooth anointing oil
Whose words make gentle waves
I wallow in like at a lazy river
at a water park, like a hippo
in a mud bath, like in riches
Whose words are filling like the cream
of breakfast pastries, sweet
         and delicious
Whose teeth are white and flashy
precious pearls
The teeth of an actor
in a toothpaste commercial
Whose tongue is an orphaned child begging,
            tugging
            the heart
strings
My husband whose tongue is the monsoon
wind bringing rain to the desert
And is the cherry topping the whipped cream
topping the ice cream sundae
Whose eyelids are as innocent as a swallow’s
My husband whose feet are the soft tread
of an approaching cat
My husband whose eyebrows are sepals
hooding
his soul,
enveloping developing buds of roses
My husband whose grin crinkles the corners
of his eyes like toes curled in
Whose toes are witch fingers
Whose fingers are spades for finding
            fossils
and stunt doubles for tightrope acts
in circus films
My husband with a back that is a field
of stories
That bewitches
My husband whose back rolls
like a centipede’s, like an accordion
Whose shoulders are passwords
                             and secrets
divulged
My husband whose wrists
are the chills in a haunted house
Whose wrists are floorboards creaking
in a house that has held many dreams
My husband whose lips are the memories
brought back from a souvenir
Are a pop song
Whose arms are long branches of a willow
and the arms of tongs willing and able
to withstand heat
Whose chest is a down pillow
to rest my head upon when sleeping
Whose falling and rising motions are like
a tide at swell
My husband whose stomach is stirred
by hunger for me
With lips that are the last bite
of a favorite dessert
Whose soul is a room I make my bed in
My husband with the eyes of a tundra
sunrise glow
My husband whose heart is the tapping
of stones sent
to a window at midnight by a secret courter
And is the rim of the steepest cliff
I’ve stood on, calling out to hear my echo
And is half of mine

Monday, July 28, 2014

Struck by Lightning


Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of daylight in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity. – Joseph Addison

What if I want to write another poem
on love?  Would that be alright?  Would I need
to apologize?  Last night, the rain fell
just when we were thirstiest, and
as I held you, I listened to the whack
of water smacking against the window.
I watched the drops stain the glass, the blowing
thin-twigged bush outside our bedroom that I've
paid more attention to of late, greeting
it when I wake in the mornings, its gold
buds barely visible except in light
of sun rising.  I am trying, lately,
to form new habits, to notice the small
beauties that surround me and to practice
gratitude.  So, last night when the storm came
I remembered that you love my touch, that
the way my fingers skim your back sends chills
so I traced the outlines of your tattoos
again and then attempted to recall
if I’d ever had an experience
like this− if I've made love to the background
sound of thunder and rain pelting louder
than the music playing to set the mood
and if I have, I can’t now remember
so even though I knew I left my books
outside in danger, I stalled, centering
in the moment, hallowed by our presence
and our choice to still and to acknowledge
that inside love there is something holy
to be revealed so even beckoned by
the worry for my words, surely soaked by
now, I waited until I felt the beat
of your heart slow down.  We unfolded
bodies, redressed and walked out into
the rain, letting the cold drops pelt our skin
welcoming the blasts of wind because in
the desert, we’re parched and storms are something
of a thrill, but still, after rescuing
the abandoned books, we sought safety in
the car, enthralled like children, saying, “Did
you see that one?” whenever lightening flashed,
hunting the sky with eagle eyes for streaks
so as not to miss one and I wished for
a moon roof because they seemed to strike right
above us and you said you could under-
stand how people could want to chase storms and
I nodded and said I understood why
kids and dogs are so afraid of thunder-
storms because even inside the bubble
of the car, the sky lit, at times, so bright
and there seemed to be no seconds between
that and the thunder that I couldn’t help
imagining what it must be like when
one is struck by lightning so I dabbled
in the fancy of our house on fire
even once we’d fallen back into bed
but then I remembered that once before
I’d been struck by lightning – it was when we
first made love, so I settled down against
your warmth in the hollow of the blankets,
fulfilled and remembered that nothing bad
had ever come from entering the storm.

The Sunday Whirl







Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Plunging

Misguided passion hangs perilously
   in the foreground of temptation,
begging action−words form, tease
                 the tongue.
                 The ears
imagine.  What can ward off
what has now begun?
       This dark magic? 
       This heart swells in anticipation,
            spreads for flight, belly full
                             of worms, of lies.
                                 
                                 Without heed,
deception jumps, believing
it can fashion
from desire, wings.
Storming through
on sheer will, this style
of flying,
for a while, works.
Bent
        toward fancy, mania elicits
superhuman power. 

Wind whips through the creature’s imagined glory.
The forest of reality
beneath hums her warning
as trees
          sway
by the force created.
The birds clear the air
and nest for safety.
            This supposed beauty continues
                  soaring, riding miles
                          in the lawless sky

on the tides
of lure; fangs grow as e
levated
self now seeks prey 
and landing; catching 
sight of innocence
unaware, the creature
swoops with malice
but nearing, finds his whim
warm
and thriving within a swarm of angels,
before unseen and now

fabricated feathers fail and only
by an act of mercy
does the predator not fall.
Hands of God
pluck
pride from fate and casts it
into hell.


Sunday, July 6, 2014

Myth

The men have written the women into stories;
painted them into pictures; allotting
flesh and virtue,
vice but omitting blood.  Captive,

Andromache
stands at center, at backdrop, jagged hills
and clouded sky. 

She is cloaked in rags of mourning, surrounded,
yet alone.
Arms clasped to chest, head down
like bird at rest.
She protects herself from blades of gaze.

Leighton later frees his brooding image, posing
her deep in dream,
carefully
closing the violet eyes
of England’s most beautiful woman,
so that she might not see
the poison that would kill her.

Liberated from laborious mortality, positioned
now as nymph, her sanctuary lies in sea of sleep.
Here, Ada, aka Dorothy Dene
blooms beneath the brush
stroke of a master.

Finally, a reason to be.
Evergreen,
enflamed
in summer slumber,
uneditable,
engulfed in golden
hues like candlelight
that flicker in the distance.

Warmed in still life.
Imagine if you will, relations between
the artist
and his muse; the classicist and his colors;
the fear of lust,
of men; the mission, then,
to cloister
what is mystery, to vilify as sinful,
the simplicity of love.

Or perhaps, blinded
by the spotlight,
long-limbed
inspiration confuses
love with art, envisages romance
kindling in winter,
unaware she’s doomed to neverending May.

Only when finally, flighted
as Iphigenia’s ghost, does she find her voice.
Under authorship of woman, she states
that the lyricists have lied. 
She did not willingly
sacrifice her life, nor did a hind
arrive to take her place.

Weakness strives
then to possess her but myths
no longer
sway
and she reminds her audience
that “women are no good..
dead.”




Quote from The Gate to Women's Country by Sheri S. Tepper

Sunday, June 22, 2014

We Danced

“Dancing is…life itself.” –Havelock Ellis

In the age of plague, we found ourselves dancing for our lives inside the dark.
                                  We drowned our dread in the music of our making, inside the silky dark.

This way, we levitated, rose above morass and swore
to not surrender to seduction of the dark.

Instead, yielding to the blood flow, the outpour
of our desire, we turned together, following rhythm of the dark.

                      We danced
                           despite the raging, creature darkening our door,
                           round and around,
holding tight each other’s flesh within the dark.

Breathing labored, we drew life from Terpsichore,
                                                                     swaying in the shadows
fluttering dangerously in the dark.

We resisted death this way, moving to the melody of encore-
                                                                     a different ending,
our arms and hands parting the fragile promise of a future outside the dark.

The passing black stole minds as well as lives, the futures of all those birthed before
the Great Mortality descended, the drenching dark.

We defied the fall- death galore.
We stole back life in the midst of dark.

Now aged, our future wanes, footsore
lurking silent, sweet kiss of dark.

We meet again mortality, death that’s come before.
Once we sidestepped fate, creating time in pulse, but now
we slow, no longer fearing dark.


The Sunday Whirl

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Wishes In

The pit has been ripped open, now.
It is gaping, dilating.
Could I reside inside its swell,
inside
its glowing burn?

The cliff I stand, trembling, on, looking down
is made of porcelain and unreal. 
I throw, at least,
my wishes in,
what lives inside me, splitting.

Flames lick at my feet, calling tongues, importuning- come inside,
come back,
              drink
             your fortune here.  Here,
where fire
           flows.  Taste goodness,
          experience the purity of falling,
                    of resolute release, taste freedom.
 

The rippling desire grows
from deep-seated seed; from the pit, and the call
reaches a fever-pitch, a swell, rising up, high-whistled, excited,
drowning out the dark.

Then,
the notes stand
              still.

Can I abandon earth?  Give up warmth
for heat?  Forsake ground? 
What cracks?  My habit of step?  Of self?
               My will?  My stance upon these loosening muds?

Descending, I rise
and leaping feels like landing
and the call envelops me in her wash.


I dreamt of death,
of the light beyond my grasp
in day,
the healing
                              depths finally held
but my hands were sweating and I woke.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Happiness, Intelligence and Love

I, who long ago denounced the notion
of a soul mate, can no longer deny
                     the obvious
and after numerous attempts to swear off
                    sentimentality,
I find myself right back here, writing
                                                 what I know.
What I know is you.
All morning, I have drafted notes and
                                                 verse
and lines and form
around unfamiliar subjects to escape
                                                all lingering
                                                           emotion
and technique and research increases in multiplicity
and then I’m stuck in mire of too much
information
and not enough.
Simply put, I miss you. 
And the longing both to have you and to say this
becomes stronger than my will
                  to hide.
And suddenly I find it necessary to enounce admission
that you’re my inspiration
and… shit, did I just say that?
Here’s the thing: 
I never was oblivious to the slow erosion
of my resistance, though, perhaps I never dreamt I’d let go of quite so much.
Now, shackled
to this new reality,
I’m content to be a prisoner of…
rapture.
See, love creates a monster of the lingua, vomiting
             thoughts
             that can only be defined as nuts.
So, like I said, all day, I’ve tried to wrap my brain around
the greats, twist words to do with Hemingway
and happiness
(or Hemingway and lack thereof)
with Dostoevsky’s thoughts
on intelligence and pain.
And here’s the thing-
intelligence aside, my happiness derives
from you and even with the children just arriving
and even though soon I have to leave,
my senses crave not just you but silence.
So, my escape is to a parking lot- my solace,
the cramped confines
of a car-
just to attest
to the awareness of our connection.  Really,
                                                   this only appears new. 
And the truth is that whatever part of me
said yes, held this understanding
and somehow, even you, I fear, can’t fully grasp
how strong the pull. 
So, here- just these few images expressed belatedly
                                                   to sum things up:
I am writing outside – away.  The sun can’t decide her purpose this day and it is warmish
then it is not and just as I think
to remember to request of you next time you come to check on me a sweater,
I look up and you are walking toward me, sweater in hand.  That’s one. 
Two is every other
single time you complete my thought or grant
unstated desire and three: today, I pick up phone to say
                    I miss you
and your words are waiting, mirroring my own.
So whatever woods
of my own making
I might find myself lost within,
whatever
grappling I frustratingly engage in regarding fear of love,
undying and pain’s inevitability,

I now release in order to embrace
what’s happening right in front of me.  I have endured Earth’s
great sadness and earned my depth of heart
and if sorrow is the cost of brilliance, I’ll just find bliss
in ignorance.