Was

I met a man married to the past,
and married him,
and his eyes stayed fixed
on what he thought could not be altered,
and his vision lied,
intercutting
          scenes of glory and grandeur
onto the picture of who he thought he was,
and so the light of sound was always lost on him
and our then now
paraded past
with dull veneer
and what was
       was what
        always glistened.

He had disinfected past.
Hammering with heat
of what he wanted,
he polished into
glint, the pieces,
producing slag.

I tried to introduce him to innovating tincture,
but disenchanted, he staggered back.
I tried to
tantalize him
in sepia flesh
to synchronize with story but I tore softly, over time,
within his grasp.
His fingers moved
as fast as his
lips feeling my
face to find
his own
reflection
and when the mirror finally broke,
the ground beneath us caved.

He took pictures, then,
of self and hung them
through the house-
dust encrusted,
stale art.
I indulged
flat form
but longed
for flesh
and blood.

He was as immovable as his portraits,
unmarred by truth,
and I, too, became
a prisoner
to his nostalgia
until, unpruned, I bloomed like wild lilac
upon his frame and took on exposing tint.
In wistful hope
of integration,
    I tangled
with his guise
but when gallery turned to garden,
he took his shears,
                        and cut.
Released and banished,
I mapped my chance
at cultivation.

I left behind a figment but took
             his ghost
and now I have to squint to see the sky.

The Sunday Whirl

The Mag

Completion

"Words are spoken at considerable cost to me..." -Edward Hoagland

Tonight, away from the euphoria,
       I am waiting.
I am listening for patterns 
in your breathing,
        and needing sleep
to relieve
me of this new, insufferable hush.
I am needing you to break it
like you do
and tell me if my heart
is beating.
I am twisted in this cocoon of sheets
        and crave emergence
 of the morning.
I fear I have driven us away 
  from the day 
           the rain fell through the trees
                    in summer's
                        scenery, licked up
by sun's buttery heat and I touched
you and didn't speak, and everything
       and nothing
was enough.  I fear because now
                       it's winter.
I fear that night creeps in
and my hair turns golden
and your neck is bent
and so I gaze vainly
at my own reflection and I turn away
from you and when I return, you face
                     the wall
and I lie contemplative willing you to feel
               my desire-
be kin to
               my own sonnetist self
and see me as if after
birth, flitting against
                    a crimson backdrop.
See my soul's beauty when
       my body's beauty
drips oil black as Jezebel's
                          eyes,
because only with you am I intact
       and I am still in awe (in fear)
of whole.
Split for years, I don't know
how I managed to survive or live
             at all.
I knew only the echo
following, flickering in the hollow
  of my thought, but I could not
                           believe
and I learned how to weave
                              temptation into
satiety, drawing in only
                  what I did not want-
cunning spider catching fly
                             to pulverize
shed scent and soft-shed
kisses, devour with deceit of tongue,
but you are wingless and your limbs
the muscle of my intent, the strength
by which I grow and tonight, I feel
                                  the amputation
                                                     in
the limp lamp light hampering
the glow of dark's usual clarity
                     and during this sick
paralysis of lips, I am wrestling
  against the 3 A. M. noose,
choked voiceless I can not answer
                                 and when you
give in and up, I am left alone,
        incomplete mind attending to
                       the monsters in my head
and I can not protect you.  My bones
without your frame are flimsy and gray
unwanted space, my skin.  My brain
frays like an old forgotten lover's, aged
          into decay and so now I know
             there are two ways for me to die:
in a fever, leveled beneath your devotion
or by means of this wide chasm, slow
               and tortuous.
Do your dreams, in my absence,
tell you that I'll be okay?  Cure me
with your daring.  Embrace me in
                                my reluctance
to close my eyes, and shuttle me
into your vision so that I can see me
in you.
Enter through me
and make a still life of my pieces.

The Sunday Whirl



         

                        
                                         

"...english isn't a good language
to express emotion through
mostly i imagine because people
try to speak english instead
of trying to speak through it...."

-Nikki Giovanni

We both sat under wing of safety
looked in
and found each other
but              you
ventured out first,
came in to me,
  and now, together, we look
           out,
             
and these days, I can't get my mind
anywhere but                       you
and I don't much care
because
   even when everything else
                                 is shitty,
and I can't pluck
all these flapping words
              for anything
              and the calls come as fast
              as the cliches
              and the tears
surprise me as much as the sight of you
standing, unruffled in the kitchen
   and I'm helpless,
                          so huffy,
                               and my voice
does just what I don't want it to,
                        I know
                        it will
all be better
when you come home.

And I am rushing through the day-
            maybe, for that moment-
doing this
     instead of that-
satisfying what?

Waiting        watched         wavering
between too much
   and too little.

I want to sing,
face you, inch closer.
                                             

I want to see me through your eyes
               see                     you
through
your eyes.
I want to rhyme,
         to invert,
and go out
into the world
              with you like a kitschy
                             love song
chirping in my head,
                     your persuasion perched
                        on my shoulder.
I want you to sweet talk
me out
      of my suspicion and translate
                                all I'm sick
of speaking of.
I want your hands as warm as coffee
in the morning, to stay in bed all day
                                and keep me safe,
                                and to just be me
with you and
        you
be
you.

I'll go in even when I'm afraid,
I'll go in breathing in and out, slow
  like you're standing in our kitchen
                       and I'll nest
where you do
and turn in and out, softened
and turn in and out
what is in and out of me
so I am ready.

Under Cover

"There is something haunting in the light of the moon..." -Joseph Conrad

The moon is pulling waves, even in our bedroom,
tonight, in the middle blue, and I am trying to find
where to talk
from
and my voice.  I rarely speak freely and when
         you look at me, I look away.
I am
trying
to speak from what I know. Simple words
                                     naming happiness or
                                                               sadness.
This is hard because have you noticed it's never
               really fully dark, even at night?  Even
                           under cover
snatched up and around to hide from the breeze
                               or the heat
                               or your eyes?

Under cover of the stars that fall when
obscurity's passion breaks.

I don't know how to unslant
                                     sadness and even less
how to tread
         these tides where my center
bends.

How to say that every single
   other
   other or
nightdayyearlife was a lie and this
  is the truth.

How to unglorify,
             unmuddy
this pastpresentfuture and see
one moment as clay-
just touch
just hold it
               in my hands, squish
               it through
my fingers without some
           grand plan to mold it
                                          into
a gigantic, daunting whole story
paralysis.

I have binged
on words, shoving them
                        into an overpacked
sentiment and then had to lug
     them back home.
I have boxed them neatly, organizing
                      them sterile and tidy.
Square and tight for an overhead bin
      and flight.  I, tonight, can not
                 give them wings but
                              maybe, I can
defer to Angel of One Woman's, All Women's
Blackouts and Clean Sheets
                 and Fire and Hope and Love Affairs
                          and I can ask her,
"Do you know taut pull of moon,
its haunting light(ness)?


Do you know how to speak of one
                     without
                                the other.  Other
without the one?"
Apart from all these words and still pulled
                           everything paired is one.
The moon speaks without
                             words
and I am trying
               to say that (happy or sad) I love you.

The Sunday Whirl

I Wonder

Okay, this was very experimental for me.  Writing in my own voice.  How I might talk.  But it brought out something that I didn't know was there!

I would never feed
the birds. They're gross.
Remind me of the Alfred Hitchcock movie.
You know, The Birds, where the whole point
of the movie was....birds.  Attacking.
Tons of them.
Jenny had a thing with
seagulls.  She'd take tons of pictures of them
when we'd be at the beach.
Chasing, them, practically.
She also used to run into them with her car.
All the time.  I've never really known anyone
else that happened to.
She cried all the time, too.
Was afraid of bees.  Bees made her cry.
Joey, who looked like a tapeworm, made her cry.
I think something else, really, was making her cry.

I never got the bird thing,
just chalked it up to another peculiarity.
It was kind of funny at the time.
She got a huge kick out of the birds
stealing chip bags or any left over food items.
She laughed maybe as much as she cried-
and really, I never understood that, either,
she'd laugh loud.  Silly.
My mom would cringe-
bring it up for years afterward:
"Remember, when you and Jenny
laughed and
laughed about the twins
across the street?"
she'd ask and then sigh.

I don't even know if I'd want
to feed ducks.
They peck and chase and
I think it's the feathers
that gross me out.
Make me think of lice.
I probably would do it for my kids.

I think about Jenny
all the time
and wonder if she's okay.
Any happier.
Her crazy, big smile
and her throwing her head
back and crying and crying
in the schoolyard over Joey.
Her mom's frustration.
My mom's frustration.
I wonder if Jenny still wants kids.

dVerse

The Mag

Adventure

adventures are a funny thing
My prince, my knight,
              easy
              enough to find
riding in to save the day.
like I found you
I the damsel in distress,
           and now every day is an adventure
not knowing I needed you to stay,
us being us
and you refused to leave,
in our mess
armed
and facing fire
of
  fear,
sword in hand, dragon to slay.
                 and chaos
I stood far but still near
wed and woven
not quite sure who was more dangerous-
full family
framed
in the fun
man with sword or beast
of cooking
of lies,
favorite dishes
scorching hot.  But the prince always wins
decorating for the holidays
           the battle, and so the princess.
             hiding sometimes from the allthetime
And I was the fire armed with words
riding the waves
making up the stories and the fairy tales and the horrors
I found us in you a funny thing                
but you did your job so I let down my hair or was swept onto your trusty steed 
                                                              adventure
and we rode off into the sunset
                         
Imaginary garden with real toads

At Home

I made stories up -an entire category of weapons. I felt quite at home in the waging of war.  

I grew up....surprised many.  It seemed the right thing to do.
The objective is connections....Your vision changes....
                            capacity has been destroyed.
I was just a peculiar person.
It
is of course a huge challenge....All the time!
                     All the time!

but

small 
steps
can produce large results.
My mother
would have thought an admirable
                    thing.... a solution to 
                    the whole conflict
and never wavered...
     difficult
but developments are promising...
I talked a little too much, you know...
   agreement was important...
             made more
                    easy...
no...it's done...completely...it was only made up...


Found Poetry from:

Nobel Conversation with Alice Munro  

and

• Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons Award Ceremony Speech (The Nobel Peace Prize)

The Found Poetry Review

Childhood Dreams

They are molding,
                    like greens gone
bad,
mushy as a teen,
like frayed Christmas stockings
long packed away
with decayed faith,
            coddling dust.
They are molding, and any leftover mild
glow culminates
                    as only
memory,
melted opulence
               of youth,
sticky puddle mess
of voice.
The brilliance is gone.

But my cells are collard,
and the same comfort
still nourishes
and they wait
to resonate.

They are molding.  Stale breath
carves out the periphery of now.
Fact is here.  Fiction gone.
Awareness, sliding down
                        like broth.

But....
Trapped, kicking.
Love, kicking.
Fawn or colt, struggling in spring's grass
          of dewy brilliance.

Because the tender bursts forth
like a bubble of gum,
troubling and big,
messy glob of hype
that calms the child within.

And they say this happens
when you get older-
that the pestilence pecks,
mocking,
and I've heard the humming cynicism,
the hidden hive of
                                         feeding lies.

Gone.
The dim glimmer gone.
Now, gone.

But I am seed,
glib
and gliding
up,
up,
dawdling in soil bedding
waiting only to wed
      the ancient sun.

Holed up
by dream hoarders, I am rising,
toward sustenance of sky
bidding me
see
what I am still capable of.

Poetry Jam

What Comes

Blooming books of love and madness
inside the quiet of a purchased afternoon-
interruption pending

like a volcanic explosion
like an unspoken implosion.

You do a bang-up job
brooding a sea
of all you can or cannot yield.

You know what you've taken.
You know how to waken

everything in me you know
and you know how
to call the sun.

You know what matches.
You know what latches

the double doors
of want and need
that still shut tight

against the rock of solid noise
against the lack of bearing poise

that comes from the offering
pried from my prayers

that comes from the taste
that comes from the waste

that comes from leaving
an old life behind

that comes from chasing a sound
that comes with breath not found

that comes like unrelenting ringing-
a demand to which there is no answer

that comes like they are on their way
that comes like they will make you pay

that comes like the nightfall
an acquiescence to the day

that comes and comes
like your sweet concern
that I'm not worthy of

that comes like ray of light
that comes without a fight.

You open all the drawn
words and windows
and reveal the bright.

Last Words

I returned your ring
but kept my vows,
and you did not return,
so now,
I bury letters,
long
and sonnets, parsed
in tomb of what I knew
         of love.
Bones, of which,
dry as the flesh I gave,
imprison past.
I lay to rest
specious sinew,
sepulcher purist spores
and garnish grave
with primrose,
        pomegranate-
                    all
I ever was or gave.
Symbol of all I lost.

To the gods of fable,
I yield both my power
and my weakness,
take back wings.

We drank, together,
poison of denial,
and you slowly drifted off.
Departed, darling,
I became.
So, rest, beloved.
Close eyes
that once imagined
glow of truth.
Flutter, soft,
filmy lids
and cloak
the sparkled lens.
I kiss you
one more time,
         kiss
your swollen lips
  of promise.
While you stare
blindly
     into darkness,
      I rise.
Verbosity of verse
     reverberates,
sobbing wild,
rocking vault
  of marrow
         as I ascend,
but you are deaf,
and I am entering
silence.
Adorned spotless,
my skirt billows
as I mount,
bright as Venus,
break through cruel
                       curve
of opalescence,
shatter
show.
Moon lights course.
Perished,
you can not pursue.
I wield war
               and birth
               and I forgive.

The Sunday Whirl

Love Made New

I will not forget last night.
Not just because
you stood waiting,
quiet-loud,
                     in that
varicolored, woven
                    (what was
that?) shirt or because
                  our smiles
                          met
before our bodies did
      or because when
my words
      wandered wildly,
you not only listened,
but declared that you
had missed
       my periphrastic
             prattle.
Not just because
   of the love made new
   or your hand on my
thigh on the ride home-
      home!
But because
you have given me
my voice back.
Because
our lines together
form a prayer,
                     and because
with you,
   I don't need to speak.

Safe With You

I am anticipating lights, heat. You.
Waiting for descent and your smile.

I  have half terrified myself,

studying secrets, wondering
if I, too, should yield.

I am plotting my next session

with the therapist I don't have.
Revealing fleeting, flitting,

swollen, spinning drifts that

sound like someone else.
Should I mention that

I've been having trouble spelling?

I think of pre-nostalgia
so, of course, you.

But I am safe with you.

Somehow.  And I don't want
to dig for bones.  I just want you.

In Flagrante Delicto

The house
   hums, always loudly now, and I give thanks silently
for this marvel.
We hang with care, the lights, the star, the garland,
        and
        all miraculous offerings.
The house, this year, wrought
                                  with new tradition,
                                                      delicate as your
inflections,
wrapped in wonderment-
the timing,
the season-matching merriment.
We have found decor,
long shelved need, and your desire sparkles
like the brilliance we've been waiting for and I think
                                                       of the antecedent-
                                                            the crisis
before creation- fleeing and fullness-
weary women for centuries after
just looking for a home.
This year, no different,
providence pended, hankering
for mounted wisdom,
      men to guide.
Your pauses
         pound
           out
innuendos,
               splattering a fresco of fiery
hues onto my well
                           laid plans and even so I can't help but feel
                                    indebted.
I have tasted,
           too, the
                      end.
So, this year, I will add deeper
                                               rouges, flame to fire, even as
                                                                            I trim
                                                                              the green.
I will host unspoken words.
I will sip from insight's cup, warm as cider,
because just on the border of close, you have
found me with what
                  is yours,
knife in hand, poised to carve,
but I am
                                   not the truth
server
with intent
              to trounce.
Instead, it is the inevitable
forcing its way out, laborious,
   sticky
and my heart starves, too,
                    though you cannot hear its weak, synonymous
                                                        rhythm through
                                                              the reserve.
See, I have climbed the same stairs to dreaded attic,
             brought back
adornments, holy,
                traveled,
                too, the same dusty road in plight of night, in need
                  of room.
Issued by sovereign call....
depending now
on nothing.

You can have what I cannot give.

The Sunday Whirl

Lectulus

In creating, the only hard thing's to begin...
                                                         -James Russell Lowell


You are Adam
        and
I am Eve,
pre-fall
         and so
vigil held in
pre-nostalgia
waned with wick of wariness,
lessening into daybreak's risk,
and light rising, I signed
             the words, I love you,
then spoke them plain
        saying all I never thought
              I would.
Because lathered in your
before and after
kisses,
        somehow
                        what once gushed
syrupy
seems now likely.

So, here I am, in the wiggle room
  of luck,
believing in the blessing,
            given
           not
by choice or virtue,
but won
by fight,
and the danger of practicality,
looming just above-
        ever easing.

I offer to wisdom all previous
grieving,
repossess
    the wonder.
There is suffering
            still to steer,
              I'm sure,
but together
we
row rapids
  of redemption,
        each wave of what
once was
            and
reaching
            graveyard of the end
                             of what
                                  was once
before,
we'll dig up vision's
bones,
breathe bloom
into the stilted mouths of
                         mocking cynics.
We will
           laugh at sighs and stretching
                         silence,
because now,
voice,
legitimized,
and artificial phrases,
yes, sublimest art.
More is more, and I will serve you
happily
       in return for heart,
because you never gave up
                    chase,
                        and catching me,
you held me long in hidden gap,
wove, like craft, a frame of healing,
waited out derangement
            of my feverish cries
                                              and I
survived.

So, now I give my life to you,
                        my love,
undo
softly, gently,
    false covering of figs,
      abandon fear.
I spill more sumptuous
                           than the fruit
                                              I
tempted with, and ask forgiveness.

Press hard your hips to mine,
                  your lips to mine,
and know the way
by memorizing feel of features.
Know me in the dark and light,
                in the cycles
of our hours,
our habits of formation.
Hear me
in our modern.
In
my notes
            slipped into sack lunch
vows I've never uttered.
Keep them close
as you do my body
in between the sheets
         in early morning
segue.
Taste like lasting taffy,
the sweetness of my thoughts,
        watch my fingers spell
                         in lieu of
                             lines
the pretty gathering of sonnets
                  and regard attempts,
however lowly, to call you home.
Eat with me newly granted
knowledge,
and when spent from toil,
return
   to Eden's bed.

The Sunday Whirl

                                         
           

Winter Journey

I came in through the snow, my footsteps quickly fading.
I saw, on my way, that old tree leaning, dusted,
paling, and our initials carved were covered only
barely.
I brushed aside the white so you'd remember.
I listened for the solo note of frost finch floating
                            so I could follow.
                                 I found the door with message
                                              thawing in the dawn
but made it out.  I waited among the elms
         and all of nival ilk.  I waited long
         and worried you were lost.
I should not have left.  I circled the vast
                      and colorless expanse, returned
                      and knocked to no response.  I, then,
with one finger, traced words into the sleek freeze
        on window and left again,
                                      the cold gnathic aching blowing
                                                        as if predicting death.
I could feel your absence.  I let my heart beat widowed,
just to know it.  I turned against
       the wind,
                its blast all that broke the terrifying muteness
                                             of the land.
I needed joy.
I needed you.
I stopped and stood alone
in this somber
        silence
and watched the eerie
powder snow gently take out canvas.
I worried you'd forgotten where we were to meet,
   where I met you last, four seasons past.
I planned calendar year around
                                            return.
I memorized your face, this place, but not your meaning.
I held the heat and lied.  I met you in mess of romance.
I observed your wounds with my hands.  I placed yours
                           where mine were matching.
I came back in winter,
came in pitch black night in bleak of chill,
needing fire.
I will kiss you alive when I find you.
I have arrived.

       

Punctuates

The rain first falls wishful,
                       wanting more.
More than the sidewalk,
more than the gutter, more than the elementary
school blacktop
empty now of lanky players.

It falls wistful
        like
      a grandmother breathing,
                       yearning
    for marshes; dry, praying
                               prairies;
forgotten ghost town
forests.

Lacking these,
              the rain jockeys
for attention, pounds
              the storm
              takes the city siege,
                     sends drops down
in droves,
     driving citizens toward safety.
     
People rush awkwardly for cover;
            hurrying
though careful of the slippery pavement,
and the brimming puddles.

The murky morning,
warning enough for fools,
clouds
constructing mood,
          though most paid no mind, ignored
the smattering, rolling roars,
distant but close enough to hear.

Now the rain grows into rhythm,
                                               heckling
with her timing and her beat
                       all
unlucky souls huddled under quagmire
and awnings.
A few brave pedestrians
with their umbrellas and their purpose
march on through the magic
         happening
between the cracks
      where the soil silkens.

The people
befuddled by the weather
though it has run for eons on such
cyclical
                   systems.
The people with their gear, lamenting
frizzing hair
like moisture is akin to electric shock.
The writers
            isolating in their safe house
coffee shops, penning sulky
           stories,
adding for affect a necessary storm,
like their minds
are individual nations unsurpassed
and can only thrive at selective span
and far away from others.
The people feigning casualty
walking slow like they don't care.
The stuffy, puffy business folk
                  peeking out
                            bespattered
windowpanes,
huffing, checking watches,
                                  wondering
if they can still make lunches.
And just across the downtown street
                    of the high rise buildings
                                          sit the sleazy bars
where patrons come rain or shine.
Some weathering the deluge
just to get their whisky, rum, their gin.
The rain
       respects this - at least they thirst.
Their counterparts across the way only know
                                    of hunger
and not a thing of pain.

The rain ceases razor pelt, falls short
        and punctuates.

The Sunday Whirl

The Gift

You strode in,
        self-possessed,
        surprised
me daily with your persistence,
                                     sowing
                                     seeds of patience
                                                        in this bucolic land
where I had
set up camp,
              my nomadic
heart meaning only
       to repose a while.

You, like you
were born here, knew
the paths -the way
through grassy dells,
                 and wooded vale.

You took
my hand
        and led me
when the
sun would set, navigating
shadows nimbly with map of grace.

My fear kept me trailing ever behind,
                                     groaning over distance,
                                     grumbling with
each step
while you
        simply hummed happy
and pushed
on,
half pulling me alongside
rilling streams and up the rocky
                                             crags.

When did I yield?
Realize this was now my home?
Maybe,
when, at last, one midnight journey, I buckled, fell
                  sobbing to my knees, fatigued.
Gently,
         you took my
face
in hands so
                    strong,
kept your steady gaze for
what seemed years,
until the tears
                    stopped and dried.
                               Dumbfounded by
                                                          this
                                                                sheer kindness, I rested
                                                                  halfway between that pasture where
                                                                             you had found me and the hilltop destination where
                                                                                                         each morning pink would break and you would
spread your arms out,
  palms held open,
proudly show me valley below,
                                     as if this moment was brand new.
                                                                   We would
then descend,
aurora's colored clouds
              completely lost on
                  me and, too, the height, the why
of this recurrent
                               tour,
the
space beneath
                   the peak and the return by stars.
But that
night you touched my face,
and
  I slept,
  I had visions of yours
                   and then knew
I had seen it before.
         So, as the moon hung low
              and shining, I woke revived,
              anticipating
               arrival and
with purpose,
tried
    to match your stride.

This time,
atop the hill, the lights mixing, creating prismatic display of dale,
                I understood.

We held
       hands
and looked up at the
great sun rising,
flooding the sky in fire,
and in that instant,
I knew
                                                                                                        what I had missed each time before.
The grain
stood out
with dignity,
waving,
so far down, glowing now golden
                                  where before, it had seemed drab
                                                              and merely brown,
the meadow,
      malachite and now flowering with promise,
the small rivers, coursed with force.

I realized it was all yours
                           and you were giving it to
me.
The evening excursions the necessary means by which to grant this
                                                                                                    gift,
for now I saw the others.
            Waiting.
                  I,
now,
     would guide.

The Sunday Whirl

                                   
                                                               

Carries On

By, Jove, quips God, What
                                   went wrong
here?
He
slogs through our muddy mess,
scratches His head.
Shrugs.
Wonders,
              Why did I promise not to
flood this place again? 
Makes
                                     mental note to be careful with those
                                                                  covenants.
Dust, he mutters, now shakes His head.  Snorts.
It would
be funny if it
wasn't so damn sad.  He kneels,
pounds His fist into the dirt,
and the
earth quakes.
Humans
hardly tremble.
Calming, He sifts
           through
           the
sand beneath Him, soiling His
fingers with our remains,
pondering
what might have
    happened had
    he
added
an eighth day, a
  ninth day, a
       tenth.
But He's always had a thing for
                                          sevens.
He calls down the
                                                                angels
to console Him.
They hover round with
                                             reassuring whisperings,
                                              reminders gently spoken
                                                                             of
the why.
They praise creation.  He smiles wistfully
                            as they list reasons of why,
still,
                                         it
                                         is
good.

God is swayed,
         stands invisible upon orbiting sphere, begins
          to move in rhythmic dance with heavenly host.
                                                                                   Slowly,
at first,
then
     faster,
       all ethereal bodies tapping
     feet and waving wings and
             arms.
The
                        trees catch on and join in,
limbs
leaping,
leaves swinging, and then
                             the waters too, rippling and
                                                             laughing in cascades and currents, dispelling
myth of disinterested deity
              distant
               in the sky.
We name the action, 'storm,'
                                   sleep even sounder with no inkling of the minds of mountains
                                                                                                 bending,
the
rocks reacting
                  in refrain.
We are a pragmatic people to our core,
                             ignorant of the vibes of glory just outside
                                           our door.
We,
                                                             who lag so far behind the simpler
                                                                                     beings,
the crux of all His hope,
and somehow blissfully
         unaware.
               When morning mist
                                     gently wakes, we deck ourselves in plumes
                                                                               of
practical endeavors,
busy ourselves with our own
importance.
Pass out blame, take all
credit,
employ herculean efforts to
                 run the show
 and live in secret desperation until our deaths.
And God
stands on the precipice of
 the impulse of
annihilation,
thinking,
Maybe this
               is mercy,
then catches sight
of just one ragamuffin mite,
watches
                                              with interest his silly antics .
        Somehow, this creature softens
                          the father's heart of
God,
and so He caves.
                    He gathers the angels for a huddle,
sighs,
and when He
                                                                             speaks,
the wind whirls, emitting secrets infinite and
                                                                                                the world carries on.

The Sunday Whirl
                                                                           

               

Waking

I am waking to
                     the flames.
Come
                             and fill me.
                                         My knees shake.
                                       
                                                       Stirred by beauty,
                                                                            ablaze to love.
I can feel it rising,
tantalizing,
song
                                                sung in unison and I can't be still.
                                                         I am dizzied, drunk
like
by the grappling between what I want and what I fear,
                                but release is welling up and I am warming to the call, the splendor of all You are.
                                                      Wash these feet of clay so they might run.
                                                       Won over by
                                                                           Your goodness, I waver less and less;
                                                                           Your love, immeasurable.
Give me voice and words,
a
         melody.
Draw me close.
Send
in sheets, a purifying rain - renewal.
                                                   Woo me with in an unrelenting romance because I believe
and I am done with safe.
            I have stood long at
                                          the edge,
yearning for the courage, testing depth with pebbles thrown in plea.

Make
me brave enough
to say
        Your name.
My knees shake
but no longer, in trepidation
                                     and my heart confesses truth of
                                                                                     ownership.
Bend me to Your will.
   Erode my own.

The Sunday Whirl


                                                                         

Tenuto

Hold this note long.  Play it loud
to sound out
reverberation of the past.
Win me over.
I have
                tripped over my own heart and now the knees of my desire, skinned and bleeding.
Your balm
just
                                     might do the trick.
                                         I have been a slave
to the faulty
           fatuous
mirror of love; returned vacant stare with vacant stare,
                     emptied of all I thought I knew,
fawned foolishly
                                    over a man that was not real.
Cheated myself out
                          of every hope.
                                                    Now,
like a
baby mouthing everything,
                    I want
                             to taste -
                             to
feel,
again.
You've proved persistent,
                 unremitting, held out, priming,
                                                    prodding, kept calm in the fever pitch peak of all my fear.
Still,
I want to
  test
your durability-
your lung capacity.
                 Can you survive the swell of my uncertainty; decode my
                 cryptic messages, balance the act between
                             my cleanest meanings and
                                      all attempts at
sabotage?
Will you break if I drop you?
Can you keep me coming back for more?  
Will you lunge
through my limits, veer past my inhibitions,
                                               plunge into waters
deep to save me from
grip of misandry's tentacles?
How long will your promises last?
                        Your garden grow?
                                   Are your vows perennial?

I am sectioned off.
Head,
                                                                                                               heart
and soul.
Can you piece my roving instincts back together?
Create
collage from the amalgam of my inclinations?
                                                     I want a
lot and I need still more.  I have
                                             hues you've never seen
but they
are fading
      fast, trapped
between the black and white drone of dying words.
                                                 Revive me.  Change my thinking.
Show me the strength of your hands.
                                                   Are they tender
                                                   and able?
Can they cradle my undertones, read me like braille?
I have mimed what I should have spoken,
                                   signed consent for you to see
but perhaps the least I could have done was whisper.
                  See, my veneer of
                                    nonchalance is chipping and
                                                         I have nothing
up my sleeve.  I've learned that I'm a novice
                                  and you, an avant garde paramour.
                                         You are ravishing in your
lavishing and I am empty handed, fad worn
  and tattered,
         trying not to
balk at new attire.
Be patient
  as I hone my skills
    so I can play along.  My tongue is dry from thrush
                             of falsehood
 but my fingers work just fine
and I think
                                  I'll find I'm capable of ceding.  I ache like any
                                                 mother and can listen
                                                                           like a friend, so creep like ivy up these bricks I've
                                                                                                                                          built to keep you out.
  Outsmart
           me, baby.  I am close to yielding but
                                                                need you to be nimble,
prompt,
because I am running out
   of time.  I am aging
                    and
so
somewhat haughty; huffy,
                 high and mighty but softening with each kindness shown.  Travail through
                                my raving, flailing protests and I'll
                                                           lay them down.
I want you
but I'm scared I'm broken.
I maintain
  my lack of need but maybe, I'm only talking
                                                trash.
I've fenced off sentiment but there are slots in every story told,
                        so spot
these inconsistencies and if you could, forgive.
         I'll confess to culpability but never grovel.
                 Notice my vices but praise my virtues
and if your
           light is bright enough,
I'll hover moth
           like in the night so you can catch
me.
I'm split right through
            the middle now,
                  move in.
Tread careful.  Kick up gravel
so I can hear you come.


The Sunday Whirl
                   
                                           

Binding

She is
(somewhat) sober now, but sleepy, and so everything is funny. She laughs without control,
                                                                          abandoning herself to
                                                                                                       the leisure of not caring.
                                                                                                               She belches loudly, and this erupts
a new peal, waves of chortling
                                 carrying across the small, dank bar,
                                                                        disgusting some, infecting others,
who giggle along.
                                                                                   The man she is with belongs to this first group.
                                                                                     He is not amused,
                                                                                                 and his stern
gaze
catches hers and she
                 quickly
                 quiets.
His eyes growl
                       the way her father's used to when
                                                   she'd come home
late,
words not necessary to convey the message:  deep, deep disappointment.
She shifts
         on the stool, attempts to make light, a slight joke but
falls
flat
and he responds with a terse command that it is
   Time
   To
   Go.
She shrugs,
as though she gives no credence to his threat to leave without her,
and though past evidence suggests he
                 won't,
she wonders,
                 worries,
just enough.
               He
is worn out,
the
dark circles beneath his eyes, telling.
          Is this love or some strange duty he feels obliged to?  She's not quite sure;
            fears, almost,
                              to know,
though the
lurking uncertainty a consumption almost
                     as complete as drink.  She misses his
                                                       smile, withers inside a little each time she reaches for him and he stiffens, returns her touch with tepid put-on affection.
   Their old way of
playful banter
                   replaced with either
laconism or lectures.  She
     no longer bothers to counter
                          his well made points, slants secretly,
                                 even,
toward his side.
                                                      He treats her
like a child
because she acts like a child.
They
      agree on this.
                       She hands him the keys, chastened and contrite.
Fellow drunkards flash
                                                    looks of pity as
                                                                          she stumbles
                                                                                        behind him on the way out. Still a
gentleman,
he opens the passenger side door and helps her in, his eyes though, cast down, as if
                                        the very sight of her is painful.  She
                                           expects this and accordingly,
                                                                 demurely turns away herself, drops her
                                                                                                   hands into her lap.   Now baneful tears burn,
and she
                          squeezes them back
before he climbs into his side of the car.  She can't stand the way,
                                                                                           when she cries,
his resolve slips into helplessness, fueling her own.  She will not
                      use these tears
                             to trump.
                             The car seems to crawl up the long road home and
                                          she stares
out
    the window at the woods she knows well.
Even in the dark, the leaves on each tree seem to individualize,
wave,
as they creep on and on.
              Born in tree country, in all this green, she tries to think back, to when it all turned grey.
She curates memories
                             in the museum of her mind,
categorizes chronologically events that may have led to current state;
  any proof that she is justified in her slow demise.
                          She finds nothing.
                          He has
refused to speak,
but she curves toward him now, watches
            the methodical rise of his chest as he breathes.
             He pretends not to feel her eyes, fixates instead on the road that's winding.
The entire
world rests heavy on his back.  He is exhausted.
In an unexpected move, he
                 extends his
                             hand.
Stifling a gasp at this
prodigious marvel,
              she gently centers her own
      in his.
Her
          heart thunders
and against her will, she begins to sob,
               so gratefully relieved by this rescue from the hell of her mind.
               She is too immersed in this emotion to notice his reaction,
though
               he is strangely
calm,
less mortified by her feminine bent eruption than he might normally be, despite even,
the continuation of the cantering tears; the effect made of streaks of inky, wavy, stripes
down her cheeks.
By the time
      they are home,
she looks worse than usual.  He carries her, though she is still entirely conscious,
places her tenderly on their double bed.  He
  edges in next
                    to
her slender, frail frame.
They are both still fully dressed.
                      She is both his illness and his cure, and
likewise,
as she
relaxes in his arms,
        she recognizes and gives into
the soothing, medicating effect, of his closeness.
They know this is
               wrong.
This need, this cycle, this
     self-defeating dance they do.
                             Neither is
                                          strong enough to stop.
Maybe if they could, they would,
but they are dependent as though for air,
and
jailed by their
                  respective roles,
duet of denial, a relationship
                         reminicscent of lyrics by an 80s hair band.
She is distressingly
still beautiful to him, beguiling.
He is gracious host to
                  her parasitic nature,
                                  capsized in
                  her raging sea of insanity, soaked thoroughly through in her sorrow.
                                                    They lie here, just on the brink of dawn with these
                                                                            separate realizations.
Morning
will soon arrive with invitation.
The sun will pine across
beryl sky
for their acceptance of her light.
     Their breathing slows in unison and they shut their eyes against prophesying
                                                                 moon glow.
This is
just
    their way.
       Early, before they know they've
       even slept, a goose signals to her flock that
                                                 it is
                                                  time for flight.
                                                                     He rises first, of course, brings her
                                                                                                coffee.
She tells him
she is sorry,
sips the hot forgiveness,
savoring these
symbolic beginning mendings they continually repeat.
                                                 He meant today to
be the day of endings
but rays flicker in, cast shadows on her sadness
and he sits beside her,
                  biding,
                  binding.

The Sunday Whirl
Three Word Wednesday