Friday, April 27, 2012

“Exquisite,” he says as he studies my lines, my various hues.
But I feel abstract; complex but not concrete and meaningless in the grand scheme of things
and blurred.  The coda so then begins
                                     because I’ll dance before him one last time and take my exit.  My hips don’t seem to want
                                     to shimmy anymore. 

His hands
        shake as I fold, origami like, paper thin these

I fancy a better me at
someone more ethereal, above it but in the mirror, I’m faced with truth, a
                                                                                cacophony of voices,       
cruel, familiar, condemning until I consent, agree.  My heart aches but I hear
              it’s meant to be. Not one dragon’s been slayed since I’ve arrived
                         and I fear it must be me.  So, I’ve shelved the promise
                                                                                           (premise?), fermenting into what they want.  It’s the mouth that’s
                                                                         screwed me up and I’m     
sorry, just sorry.  For being sad and that I don’t know what
            to say now, for the commencement of the end and how it had to be. 
             The palpitations, too.  I want to
be so much more unaffected by the discord, the hoarseness in my voice.  If I
                                   could, I’d write a more melodious tune, but the
                                                                               sneers of blame
me long ago.  When I clamor to stand, they push me down, so I’ve made a
sort-of home on the ground.

Shh. Shh.  Child, who are you speaking to?  And why not to me? Stand, child.  There’s truth you don’t yet know.  But you know enough to stand.  You know my voice. Listen. Let it drown out the others.  Listen, now.  I’m speaking.  The song of your life is not mere noise, it’s beauteous as you.  You are free.  From condemnation, blame and guilt.  And the name on you is Mine.  My joy is yours, as is my peace and Promises, I keep.  Come and listen.  Come, believe.  Oh, child, the mirror.  Your mirror does lie and the dance is done by me.  I see you.  I see you.  Rise.

The Sunday Whirl 

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

“My favorite place.  Oh,
                    how I love you.”  And yet I wish it were not so.  It’s flesh colored here,
disguised in
                                                                 lusty glitter.  I want to
                                                                                       want more. A
                                                                                        wooer,true not
fellow-feeling.and what is more is
                                I’m betrothed.  I’m captivating but bewitching,
seducing, lovelorn and still devoted.  Like a spoiled child, I stay and play
when he bids me come away.  It’s a circus here but my appetite is such
                                               the freak show turns me on..
I’ve run away to join but now I find I can’t
                                connect so when I’ve had my fill of flips and falls and
                                        tightrope acts, and all
                                       that is not gold, then I’ll return, head hung low,

poetry picnic 

Thursday, April 19, 2012

The dance

Waxing poetic, of late. Becoming,
                                 by degrees, the poetess I am, grateful I’m a woman, not
                                                                      a Poe or po’boy though I do sing for my
                                                                                                               supper but
hunger not, as the words fill more than my soul.  My woman’s touch,
              touches much and my garden grows flowers of age. I tarry at my work and by which...I mean - which?  Lullabies
       still linger
         in concord with
                             the time.
                                  I stave off victuals but never for them and on them, it’s arguable no
                                      is lost. My fast comes by choice and only from striving comes starving. Our lodgings, here, there, where? everywhere,
                                                                   like Seuss or in Thoreau.
 Today,  I sew not (“as
                               a woman’s dress, at least, is
                                           never done”) but sow
pensive as all
           Eve but quiet, not – do you hear the roar?  Can you feel the thrill
                                 of a day gone well?  And as I write- that irony? The littlest, a girl of 
                                                                                    two apples holds she.
                                                                                             the window now, tempting
                                                                                                                        me to
up and
    at ‘em, grab ‘em, to Goblin Market go we for a lesson or three on the wares of such
             monstrosities.  Growing, going,


But instead, we dance and I think of Tennyson, meaning to think
                                                 of Eliot, mixed up for obvious reasons but also that I’m
                                                        thankful for this dance, that I danced with her, that
                                                                            it’s a gift and she shares her Pink
Lady which I bite as we spin and the juice,no longer forbidden, squirts like a christening as
         we twirl until I dizzy first and pass her to her sister.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Which language do you speak?

Do not
        the celestial spaces speak
                        a story we all can hear?  The play of color, words.
                            The rainbow, poetry.  Tell me it’s not so and I’ll know
                                            we speak a different language, you and I. The clouds,
                                                      a patchwork of paragraphs to form a truth, like the
                                                          peacock, butterfly or pearl,
                                                          playing, dancing party-colored, as an
                                                               invite.  All manner of mosaic by a master hand.  Come                        away, they beckon, there is a pot of gold.  Carnations blush in answer when
                              the beryl sky blooms
                                          so why not we?  Ultra the marine sea when her waves pull
                                                 heavenward.  Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly and the sweet
orange tree flames
                   forth but we…we
                                 want to
black or white.  Perhaps gray…but that’s
                                                       still dull.  We denigrate or bleach to stone, forgetting
                                                          the possibilities of just the quartz. We sum up the
                                                             epic in neat type-print
                                                                            and the clacking of the keys drowns
                                                                                                            the melody of
                                                                                                            the northern
lights.  Hi ho,
  it’s off to work
                we go and we whistle
                      of tune, pretending solemnly we know – of anything at
                                                                                    all…of literature, polite; the
muses, maybe
                 and the clouds laugh so hard they cry.  We run for cover and they have no
                             choice but
                                           to match us in our haze.  They eclipse, they render dim the
                                                           sun, casting over and then exhausted, finally, the
retires….we imagine.  But the moon in protest glimmers just a sprinkle, 
                                                                                                       And I write on what’s been said                       before; clothe in words, expressions I didn't author.  I’ve formed
                          nothing and certainly nothing out of dust.  I’m just a beggar canvassing any to 
                                                                                                                                     view the canvas painted with an all
    invite to the
party for the prodigals.  The party for the pious and the poor, the Pharisee and pure if they
might see like Michelangelo, a hand stretched
                                                            down, look into the sky and hear a story, true.

openlink night, jingle poetry

Sunday, April 15, 2012


At once, a mystery and still crystal

The mind does
         not reveal, but the eyes… or the mind’s eye. That tip of the tongue,
untranslatable, heart knowledge, given by the Giver of all good gifts. 

Transparent and elusive as water, carried to the
                                                      inner man, reserved for the one who
                                                                                                     will root through
 the rubble of his own encumbrances for the pleasure of He who discloses. 
                                                                         What organ
                                                                                   of sight should
we lean on? And whose understanding? You’ve been told, so listen,
                             hawk-eyed, wise as and gentle as. 

     The hour glass drips her sand, counted, waiting. 
But heaven’s been imparted in many languages, human formed.
                                                                                        Or not.
The master key defines.
                           In other words,
                          in other words.  The marrow within,
                           it knows,is familiar with enlightenment if but a
The deep
                     searches the deep and wisdom is for the
                                   taking here.
                                       Instinct causes thirst.

Richer than...

Richer than southern
                 soul food.  Succulent,  I savor the taste 
                    of your words, let the wisdom 

      roll slowly over my tongue and through my mind. 
                           Even the presentation, dramatic, like morning glories, 

                                                            doing their showy thing 

first thing. Daybreak their cue and ‘'Vivid - now, go!”, making 

                                                                            me want to bend right 


you so I can pop like that.  I want to 
                           live on those branches, hold such potential. Sway, too, 

                                 to the 

song of sunlight. 
I want 

      to unlearn the tricks of dark, the twists of night and instead, sup with you 
for breakfast. But the push and pull remains, as the circle of the seasons, 
                the cycles of dawn-to-dark, .  Can I remember though, that 

               that’s the 
                 thing?  To stop the effort, give in to rest, relax, 

while you sink in.  You come, always, mighty as a river, energy to overtake 
                                     my strivings. Your strength 

                                           shows forth, your power, when I at last admit 

                                                                                        I’m weak.  And 
                                                                                        in the breath. 
Yours and mine. The breath you gave me and breathing in –an exchange. 
                More of you and less of me.  Just glance my way and let me 

catch it.  Bring to mind that melody that once I knew, of sweet refrain and 
                                                                     ease.because I don’t fear the 
The flames, they heal me, warm me and I want it, wild,.to overtake.  Make 
         me flexible for 

the forming, melt 

         me for the molding. I am yielding because your hands, strong, 
                                                                                 not forceful, but kind 
and gentle, and altogether 

        good are compelling me to good.

wordle 52