A Life in Progress

A Poem in Rome from Home

2012-01-08T17:38:00.000-08:00

Oh beautiful City,
we find love.
Pigeons shuffle between our feet,
a fairy tale,
a composer of music,
history,
walking.

Green grass grows
on an empty lot
and a single flower,
white on white canvas,
unpainted.

Simple faith
for girls without a teacher
and a big bad wolf.
Stones,
windows for shopping,
pillows for dreaming,
God always knows the truth.

Follow the puppet,
never tell a lie,
have lunch
inside a whales stomach,
swim.

Books.
Education.

The roof is a mountain
for a City
and a woman- alone
with only key
gifted from angels
and a fountain of wonder.

Each soul has it's own mystery to solve,
the context of our life,
faith and blood
from birth to death.

Out of the Box

2012-01-08T17:16:00.000-08:00

Her head didn't fit
in the box they prepared.
They believed
they could press her down,
but she rose,
opening the lid,
lifting her ears
over the edge -
and her eyes.

The passers cast hooks
into the box.
Little fish bit and teased.
To this they were pleased,
jerking their line
snagging bits of hair
and cardboard.

They yanked hard,
till the box
collapsed - spilling.

Water ran over her body
as she was freed.
Little fish
flipped and squirmed
at her feet.

12/29/2012

Feather

2011-11-07T08:19:00.000-08:00

Feather

It found me,
though the bird had flown.
A feather,
on a red door matt.

It could have rode in
on a sock or shoe,
or maybe by
the wind's invitation.

Now sacred words,
adrift, out of place,
unnoticed,
by the passers.

Upside-down Tree

2011-10-05T11:17:00.001-07:00

Upside-down Tree

It's roots reached clouds,
confusing birds, that thought at first
to fly down instead of up.
Cats waited under leaves,
fat cats with feather beds.

The moon rolled its face over.
A boy wanted to climb, but
his head was in the dirt.
He kept pushing but couldn't get higher.

A dog sniffed a branch,
jumped over limbs and pissed on leaves.
A man with a chainsaw
cut it up, without much problem.

Stuffed Monkey

2011-03-28T18:05:00.000-07:00

Stuffed Monkey

Put him in the stuffed monkey,
hug him, wish him real.
Slide a finger under his red suspenders
talk about the jungle and his white tennis shoes.
Tell him he has kind eyes, attractive hands and a strong grip.

Set him on top a stack of books; let him see pictures
of angels and scaffolds, places to work, places to pretend,
tree houses and tea parties in Washington DC.
Remember home, love nature, never let go.
Birds sing like church bells in the sound.

Dream the river, remember a star that never moves;
collect a golden fish; follow the ropes; drift deep
into darkness, hoot of owl, eyes of moonlight watch.
Wounded ears spit fireflies, writing cursive scream
of wonder spun to quantum delirium.

Count your heroes as they jump fences into gunfire.
Kiss the monkey and wash the soiled sheets.

The Cellar

2011-02-19T10:16:00.000-08:00

The Cellar

The hum that coasters on the wind
rolled off into a distant day
below what might have been a tree
rooted round the cellar walls.
The silver bars that kept roots sound
held the walls from falling down.
They wrapped like limbs of octopus
hugged tight to claim a treasure chest.

Beyond the stairs of rotted branch,
down which I never missed a step,
the night-one called me there to see,
block walls that formed a cave beneath
- beneath the sea.
and there she stood, a little girl
dressed in Sunday school attire,
with nothing there except her eyes
and a door that opened on - into the sea.

My fingers chilled like cycled ring
frozen on a crooked limb,
a cold that crept like spider webs
and tingled at my finger tips.
A wrenched call belched from the pipes;
the belly of a motor moaned.
It tried to speak in children's song
that lit a pergola scene, where ...
soldiers marched onto the shore,
each with a canvas on his back
that kept in time, the beat of sound
in paint of pergola light.

Upon return, I marched cross bones
that marked the path to follow home
back to the cellar neith the tree
where last I'd seen the little girl.
The walls were lined with jars of rocks
and golden fish with glittery fins.
Her footprints lead into the sea
beneath rock beds and broken bow
where tentacles of circles hugged
eternity - until the vessel creaked.

Ken

2011-01-31T08:09:00.000-08:00

Ken

I went shopping for a husband,
one that understands the right way,
how to appreciate life, share responsibilities,
and respect each others dreams and passions.
I want a guy I can write poetry about.
I told my daughter the plan,
and she wanted to come along.
We ended up at Toy's R Us,
searching shelves for the right Ken.
I didn't remember them looking so young;
these guys look like teenagers.
The only one I found that looked my age was Spock,
attractive with his salt and pepper hair.
He was even on the sale table.
I wondered why nobody bought him.
"I don't know," I told my daughter.
"He changes the whole idea.
I'm looking for a normal guy.
Maybe if I dress him in Ken clothes,
something summery, shorts, T-shirt,
sun glasses, and I'll need a hat to cover his ears.
He might just work," I told her.
I carried him around awhile,
imagining what it would be like
to take him everywhere I go.
"I don't know; people will recognize him,
I can't write poetry about this guy,
it just won't be normal."
I decided to come home and search the Internet.
Maybe an old G.I Joe would be more my style.
I couldn't find anything better than Spock.
Even the old G.I Joes look too young;
I've aged, but the dolls haven't.
I considered bleaching and dying his hair grey.
Heck, now-a-days with all the plastic surgery,
who can tell the difference?
But, would I like a guy that spent his money
on plastic surgery?
We're having trouble just meeting the bills this month.
He looks great, but what about me,
working my ass off, so he can ride around in my purse
never pay for a meal, flaunting his perfect plastic image.
I'll have to strap him to the lawn mower,
and guide him around to even get the lawn mowed.
Grrrr.... I don't think so,
I'll be waiting weeks on this guy.
Our yard will look like crap.
My neighbor will think I'm stupid, his wife will be laughing at me.
I'll be dreaming of burying him up to his perfect face,
mowing him over... he'll bring out the worst in me.
Hell, that's not good poetry.

Hidden in the Sound

2011-01-27T15:43:00.000-08:00

Hidden in the Sound
~
I walked backward for a mile
a torn smile floated down.
Leaves waved like
playful children before they laugh.
~
The cut began to bleed.
I stared astonished at the miracle
oozing through my clothes.
I saw the pain, couldn’t speak,
~
placed my hand over it
to hold it in, hide it,
tried to disappear, held my breath,
couldn’t think, couldn’t feel.
~
They were already - watching,
waiting. Camouflaged vultures
hidden in the sound to
nurse the pain like starving piglets.
~
My soul screamed,
but the sound was occupied
by those already understanding
what it was about.

W for War

2011-01-25T10:18:00.001-08:00

W for War

I saw it coming;
It oozed from the computer,
W for war.
I saw it in the paintings,
blood, interrogations.
It hadn’t changed.
I saw it spilling over,
creeping under the door
like a blob,
a full theater on the edge,
the producer being eaten
in grotesque natures.
It made babies of grown adults
then crucified them.
I saw it falling in the drawings,
a dusty rain,
mommies clean away,
ashes of another generation.
The seeds were planted,
sprouting in head phones,
and songs for the broken hearted.
Where do we go from here?
Patriotic courage waves
colors of a universal flag.

2011-01-24T17:05:00.000-08:00

In Their Sleep

When I see them
In their humble slumber,
tired poets, sunken
deep in supple sullen rhyme
cheek and chin a-kindle
in the offing distant hills
rolling over yellow poppies
rich in color of their lives,
eyes and lashes like a drawing
model for tomorrow’s dawn.
I’m lost to know my own hearts calling
admiring these travelers passing
dreamers drifting, sailing time
each his own a stated ship
his Xanadu to claim,
saluting all the crowds of wanderers
walking vacant in their sleep.
When I see their hands are resting
lips defenseless to desire
on soft green meadow milky way
fingers long for pencil writing
laying gently on the grass
like a fragile heirloom treasure
safe on pillows kept to please.
I wish to bend and bear them
press into their sinuous lips,
to lift the hand that guides the poet,
caress the sleeping finger tips,
braise them gently cross my cheek,
never telling like a painting
careful not to wake them
beyond dreams gate and heaven’s edge
where death and peace collide,
cocooned in capsule beauty locked
where I sit gazing in.

Sometimes

2011-01-23T17:13:00.000-08:00

Sometimes
Sometimes being alone isn't that bad.
My bed is comfortable when I'm sleeping.
It's warm and smells of perfume and fresh sheets.
I go to bed early
and read from a couple of books on his side of the bed.
When I read poems about other couples,
I feel like I don't have anything worth writing.
Sometimes one of them dies,
and the poem means even more than before.
They say things I can understand,
but can never write about.

Sometimes I move the books and someone sleeps there,
but it's not like them; the other's poems are better.
I can't talk about the time it took,
to give significance to their poem.
One line might have taken twenty years to say.
They are something that lasts forever.

Although, sometimes I read
about temporary love,
and the poetry can be satisfying,
but in a different way,
sometimes it's only sex
that satisfies the poet in variety of ways.
It might be his or her ego,
or maybe its make believe love.
After I read several of these poems
from different poets,
I turn out the lights.
Sometimes I feel a tear in my eye
then I fall asleep.

Before the Others Came

2011-01-20T07:42:00.001-08:00

Before the others Came

I found a stick, reached out and
flung it off the road.
"Maybe I can save them."

The other's were coming, marching along,
the three of them and an old lady with a bird cage.
They were getting closer. I could hear
the sound of their voices
but, I didn't know what they were saying.

It drifted in the wind. I sat on a large rock
under an old oak tree, leaves fell, drifted
with the sounds. Many had passed before -
they played like ghosts in an old movie,
waiting on the sound. I listened so hard,
I wasn't sure if it was them I heard.

One of them was laughing. The road had a bend
that kept them out of sight.
They would be around the corner any time.
I could hear them - louder, and a little dog barked.
I could hear that very well.

One of the men was irritated at the old woman.
"Why did you bring that bird cage?"
"Because I want a little bird; I want a little bird that sings."
The man kicked the dog, it hit the rock - dead.
I climbed down, picked it up, held it back to life.
We waited together, the little dog and I..

They turned the corner, and we could see them.
The sun was bright, morning light.
It spotted the rock like a giraffe.
The little dog and I posed on the giraffe,
in morning light for a surreal painting.

The man wore a coat and held the boy by his hand,
tugging, shaking his arm to listen.
"Don't drag your feet boy, you've only one pair of shoes."
They were near now,
I scratched a face in the dirt with the stick.

They stopped - pointing,
"There's an eye." said the boy.
"No," said the old lady.
"That is a little bird, he's just learning to sing."

I tapped my pencil in my notebook.
"Did you hear that" the man said.
"Wasn't nothing" said the last man, and they passed.

I climbed down from the rock. The little dog followed.
We walked along together toward the sunset,
crossed the squiggly line,
where I'd tossed the snake away,
before the others came.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

2011-01-18T18:24:00.000-08:00

This poem is from a couple years back. It's comprised of book titles from books on my shelves.

Kiss Kiss Bang Bang A book title poem

My life propagates
a genealogy of morals,
entangled minds cloned
quantum reality.
Misery breeds rampage waved to
the art of drawing dragons,
a moveable feast
of folk and fairytales bond to
the critical tradition.
The dream songs share
a brief history in time,
the metamorphosis
of the time machine,
a Romeo and Juliet
born to Paradise lost.
Each day soars bird by bird,
or half bird as Peter Pan
over Walden pond,
the dreaming mind shipwrecked
on Islands in the stream.
The elements of color
renovate a picture of Dorian Grey
drawing in perspective
a war of the worlds
from the Photoshop bible.

Frozen Wheat

2011-01-18T17:55:00.000-08:00

This is a poem from last year that started as a five-minute poem at Alabaster & Mercury.

Frozen Wheat

Golden flowers stand erect
clustered, together to stay warm
under the darkest blue
calling of storm, a strange beauty
bending under winters breath.
begging not to break,
brush the scarecrow’s bum,
wake him from his
nap through Fall.

He jumps from the post
with a burr burr,
rubbing his hands together,
sending straw into the wind,
frantic leaps beneath the chill
throwing blows to hold Jack Frost
shouting bastard calls..

The Frost keeps pressing in
against his show of strength
reddening the scarecrows’ eyes,
blowing back, blasting,
throwing him into
the loft, where he lay
in a beam of sunlight.

All the Hoopla

2011-01-01T16:24:00.000-08:00

Lost in cozened, laughter
still cheering, still hearing the ting
of goblets raised and met.
The true hero is absent
as conscience flees histories spirit
distraught with warm ambition.
Honesty tangles in galleries of thought,
shard in cubist moonlight,
washed in shadows of war stained wonder, where
Social justice weaves discourse, and
sincerity doubles as corruption.
They've earned their dignity
boasting, bootlick flattery,
a backslap jam, a cakewalk dance on water.
Laughter pleads rejuvenation
from ignorance blessed by deceit.
Unconscious hoopla searches recovery
from moral blasphemy regressing humanity
that one day find its course
as nighttime falls upon reality, and
the spirit of a dream once cherished
is painted off as orange coconuts
served at Gatsby's dinner party.

A letter to Gertrude

2010-12-20T07:58:00.000-08:00

Last semester my daughter started her first year of college. She doesn't have a car and wanted to take a Monday night creative writing course. I decided to take it with her. We had a lot of fun. We had a class writing assignment to write a letter to any writer we chose. We had to type them up and include them with our final portfolio.

Dear Gertrude,

Of all the writers I had to chose from which are millions if not more, I chose you. First I want to tell you, you made it. You are an extremely popular figure in American literature. I own many of your books; although, I must admit, I haven't read them all. I do plan to one day, and I know this is okay because I asked my psychologist who has a whole wall covered in books on shelves; I asked her if she's read them all, and she said no she hadn't, but she planned to some day. I told her, I was worried because I have so many books that I haven't read. The book shelves are full, and my desk and dressers consist of stacks of books. There is a book shelf in the hall, full - with books stacked on top. There is one down stairs that looks the same and a random book here and there that I might want to read when I have coffee. Your books are all together on a small shelf of special books because they are amongst the first I collected; anyway, my doctor agreed we know something about every book we own which is more than not knowing anything at all.
I actually discovered you by the artists, and Hemingway and that is because he wrote letters; I was writing letters, so it seemed appropriate I read his book or books. That's when I began to buy books. I still intend to read them all. It all happened so fast. The first book I bought was actually a book about Renoir. I bought that book because I wanted to learn how to paint. Then I bought Monet, and I don't remember what happened after that, except that I went back to school late in my life because I wanted to learn to paint. I felt terrible that I was getting older and didn't have as much time as some of the others. I don't remember exactly where your name came about, it might have been Picasso, but it was one of the two. And, I knew you moved to Paris from California and collected art - oh yes, and that you wanted to be a lion, and I had just finished a painting where the lion played part as the weather - well I tried, but it was a terrible painting.
That's one of the reasons I went to college. Anyway, I was very interested in color theory, which lead me to study the cubist painters, which lead to the mystery of Picasso, and you were there in the middle of everything it seemed. It was around that time, I earned an AA in liberal arts, and then I transferred to the university and changed my intended major from fine art to literature.
I kept collecting more and more books, one of which was Hemingway's book, A Moveable Feast, which I did read and learned a lot about your life in Paris. I know well of your part in the lost generation - an excellent term by the way and a truly quintessential experience.
I just want to say, I respect you not only for your outstanding writing abilities, but for your courage to be yourself and be proud of that, and that brings me to why I am writing this letter. I'm supposed to be writing about important things a writer needs to know, and I believe you are an example of many of those things. First, a writer needs to be their self. I don't think they need to prove anything or defend their self from all the self appointed judges of everyone's life but their own - just be who they are and have a good time with it. We are all different, we all have our strengths, but our personality needs to lead the show. There are always more people out there like us being beat down by whoever decide they deserve to - like you used to do to Hemingway... just thought I'd throw that in for fun. We all learned a lot from you, all of you.
It's the real people that make it to the future. The critics may get some attention in their time with their little games, but they don't stand out in the future. They have a few friends that laugh at their stupid jokes - just the dumb following the dumb. They are so cruel, but I think it's important, we let them tell their own side. When history looks back, they will see the truth. I prefer real people following real people.
From most everything I've read, humanity seems to be a central thread that ties the generations together - well that and knowledge. It's us and them; they include: the critics/judges, the politicians, and the war makers.
It takes real courage to stand in front of a crowd of stone throwers and not try to hide your true identity. Take Jesus for example; his story lives on, but none of those guys throwing stones ever got very far in the future. I bet there was some real funny guys back then too. I also believe education is important. I know you studied psychology. It takes a lot of work and respect for those artists that pave the fragile road to our future. Perseverance is important too and a good catcher's mitt to catch those stones in time.
Well Gertrude I'd better let you back to your novel,

Sincerely,
Jolie

A collection of Fibonacci poetry

2010-12-04T10:42:00.000-08:00

Fibonacci Poetry
The Fibonacci number sequence 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13… etc.
The next number in the sequence is found by adding the previous two.
Ex:
1 + 0 = 1
1 + 1 = 2
2 + 1 = 3
3 + 2 = 5
5 + 3 = 8
8 + 5 = 13
Most of the Fibonacci poetry I’ve read on the internet is created at this level, but there is no restriction to the form. The next number in the sequence is 13 + 8 = 21. I’ve seen them reversed, mirrored, doubled and anything imaginable adhered to the basic mathematic structure. You can make it as complicated as you like. If you’re a mathematician, you can probably find some really cool combinations, but for us guys who like to keep it simple, this is all you need to know. This is a spiral pattern as illustrated here:
http://www.mcs.surrey.ac.uk/Personal/R.Knott/Fibonacci/fibnat.html#spiral

Handful of Stars

I
held
a hand-
full of stars,
a palm of live wires,
glowing red like an x-ray
tiny fragments of light building energy
nudging, crevasses between fingers particles free
and
race
into
the night sky
shooting in reverse
to original position
taking wishes of the night from lovers' lips,
casting them back to a time before they fell in love.
(Fibonacci poem Doubled)

The Ledge
Here
on
the rock
ledge, I rise
to meet with challenge.
My spirit knows its strength endure.
Shadow plays its turn beneath an eagles open wings.
Ghostly images tell a tale
on a barren stage.
Unknowing
I am
still
there

Dear Adam ~
Just
look
at them
in chaos
fighting like monkeys,
the greed and jealously your genes,
I’ll admit to sharing, but my part was justly love.

Sing
song
blackbirds
early break
of day, gather in
multiples, arrange in a tree
to celebrate rain with song to light the edge of night.

Blame~
They
believed
it was right,
so we forgive.
Their side was no crime.
It’s a human mistake.
Blame is justifiable.
They truly believed; they were right.
Even when they see, they close their eyes
to humiliation that covets them.

Gold City

2010-11-22T08:30:00.000-08:00

My key was stolen
along with my little black purse.
It was my fault.
I left it unattended
on a chair near the pool,
but I still have the lock
unlocked and waiting.
It was only a ninety-nine cent lock,
but the key was magic
when it matched a dream
and story I'd written.
I carried it everywhere
examined it with wonder, but
I didn't realize
what it meant to me
until it was gone.
My heart was broken.
I should have kept it safe,
but maybe it was meant
to be taken.

Now, the lock is cold and useless.
I often contemplate
throwing it into the sea,
but I can't.
It seems meaningless,
yet signifies hope
something I can hold..

and then one day
I found the perfect match,
the locks that line this gate;
their keys all lay
beneath the water
of the Fountain of Trevi.

But my lock was at home,
and the key gone, so
I took this picture,
and I can still pretend
because as long
as I still have the lock,
the story never has an end.

Poor Kitty

2010-11-15T08:59:00.000-08:00

(Moose at 6 weeks)

Poor Kitty

It's one of those nights
time just needs to pass.
My daughter's cat was spayed.
She's home from the vet
still a little drunk from anesthesia.
She won't listen to my daughter
trying to follow instruction for her care.
Keep her quiet,
keep the collar on,
so she can't bite at the stitches.
Give pain med in the morning.
"Mom," she yells.
I go in her room.
The cat is on the top bunk
with her collar off,
growling and twitching her tail.
"How did she get up there?"
My daughter has tears in her eyes.
"She just climbed up there. She won't listen,
and she won't let me help her."
I pushed the collar over her head,
lifted her down and put her in a dog kennel.
She worked the collar off again,
pawed the door,
upset about being confined.

I have this
indescribable discomfort,
a misplaced guilt,
that doubles as responsibility,
to do the right thing,
and lack of control
to make Moose comfortable.
Our poor sweet kitten;
she trusted us,
and we've suddenly turned to torture her.
Her blue eyes stare,
her body seems weak.
We are all miserable,
watching her through the door of the dog crate.
And I paid money for this.
I want to return for an undo,
just give us back the other cat.
You can keep the money.
She can have kittens
until our house if filled with cats
and they in turn may have more.
That's the way nature intended.
We are sorry Moose,
time just needs to pass.
When Christmas comes,
we'll buy you a sock full of toys,
by then we'll all have forgotten.

Yesterday and "Blood Test"

2010-11-10T09:19:00.000-08:00

I'm looking through the new Palomar College catalog trying to decide what to take next semester. I'm thinking I need to know more about politics or law. So many of the famous poets had either law, or psychology degrees. But then I was thinking, maybe I could take philosophy over; I don't remember much about Socrates and Plato, Descartes, and those. Maybe it will help my writing. Or maybe I should paint; that was my first vision.

I went to the university yesterday. I need to apply to admissions, so I can graduate. I climbed the stairs, looked at the statue of Caesar Chaves, "si se puede," is written on the stair beneath him, which translates: "It can be Done." I remember the years I climbed those stairs every day, looking out the windows like the girl in the "Sister Christain" video I posted on my Facebook. That video actually lit a fire under my seat, it's time to graduate. OK, So I went to the university. The faces are always so kind and helpful there. If only they could know the hell I've seen, but how does one explain? and how does one explain without blaming one person or another. Some one stole my wonderland? or maybe it's the same for everyone. It's the collective conscience. Everyone is wondering the same thing. We are all one creature and we're injured - yowling into the fabric that tells the future. If I speak, I'll ruin it for everyone. They'll all think I'm stupid - or crazy.

I always hoped they had the answers that I was missing in my life. The air smelled so perfect, I ran my hand along the sitting height brick wall that leads toward the admissions building, passed Starbucks, and a line of students waiting to go through the door. The bricks were warm. I thought how time had passed so fast. I didn't appreciate those years enough, and now returning to finish made me feel like a loser. I should have a career. I never figured it out; I never figured it out. Maybe I just need to graduate. That's it. I'll understand once I graduate. The bell on the clock tower rang, and I looked at the windows, remembered the video, remembered looking out from those windows at one time, but I didn't see me here today. I was thinking about drawing a picture, or writing a metaphor.

Admission's stamped my official transcripts and sent me to another office for counseling. I ended up at a long desk explaining why I was there. They gave me a card and told me to email the councilor to make an appointment, so I came home, emailed, but I haven't got a response yet.
About that Sister Christian video.. what's beautiful: I posted a poem at Myspace awhile back. It was more of a journal entry than a poem. It's called Blood Test. That poem is really about what's eating away at me inside. It's about defining my personal identity. When I was writing the part about visiting the Vatican and having a vision, it came to mind that they wouldn't like me. Why would a Catholic church give a holy vision to a Christian? Of course they didn't know. Nobody looked at me weird. I was just another tourist visiting Rome. And what I saw was just an artist's spirit roaming the Vatican, and besides religions hate and kill each other. Then I thought, what a beautiful acceptance at that level. To think of oneself as a sister Christian, and in my own needy way, it seemed like humanity was on course... and isn't that what this is all about...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z92bmlcmyq0&ob=av2n

Blood Test
The doctor took my blood today,
two vials of dark red juice.
I should have gone yesterday
but, I forgot to fast.

The hawk is calling,
circling high.
I've sat in this place,
so many times to write.

The sun is calling too,
I have to close my eyes to see,
leaving me to hear,
the neighbor
with his weed eater.

I changed into old shorts,
the ones I wouldn't wear to town,
and the white tank I should have trashed,
the one with a tear.

I think about my blood and urine,
left at the clinic,
the doctor placing labels on the vials,
my name typed on each. That's me, yep.

The church bells sound,
reminds me of the day,
my father and his friends
carried my mother's coffin.

The bells had a similar sound,
as we walked across the fresh mowed lawn,
to where the hole awaited,
a nice place to rest.

I remember walking through the Vatican,
wishing I'd been baptized.
The artist's spirits
alive in labor's left to be admired.

Whether religion is right or wrong,
I like to believe there's a God,
one that loves all human kind,
that doesn't wish to kill the others.

I dipped my fingers in a sculpted bowl
held up by cherubs,
found the water with my finger tips,
touched it to my skin like perfume...

to sanctify I vision I saw,
while admiring the crosses,
and statues, filled with holy dream
to share with the future.

Letting Go

2010-10-12T17:07:00.000-07:00

I slept well in the bed I chose,
the tall one with a flowered comforter.
As the elevator door opened,
I saw him across the hall.
He was with a party of six or so.
They gathered near the door;
the button arrow pointing down.
I started to go after him,
began to speak,
but didn't let the words go.
He was right there,
he would have heard me,
he would have stayed.
A lady in a nice dress and handbag
spoke to a younger woman in jeans.
"You sure have put on the weight."
The numbers above the door
moved down, stopped, and the door opened.
I stepped forward,
began to say his name, but I didn't.
He would have turned;
he would have stayed.
A voice spoke from behind me,
a woman quietly said:
"Let him go; that is his family."
So, I just watched,
as they all rolled their luggage
into the elevator.

10/12/10

2010-08-13T15:33:00.000-07:00

Freud’s Perverse Polymorph (Bulgarian Child Eating a Rat), 1939
Salvador Dali

Oh Rats

Her future riddled
by a clean white bib
stained before she left the crib.
A long gestation
the artists creation,
unclothed before a cheering crowd.
What a surprise left to a promised prince.
Will he still want her
after she swallows the rat
after the biter taste
saturates her pretty pink tongue,
hairs of rodent
clenched tight her mouth.

She's cute as a kitten
with her first catch,
his limp body
might have made a steady steed,
until he tried to run, so now
dangles from her fresh cut teeth.
One gaze into her loving eyes,
will see a future bow
where once this little thing of curls might curtsy
past the blood that soils her lips,
past the reek, the drip, and
rotted breaths stole by the corps
to leave his one last mark.

Oh Rats baby
what have you done?

Gusano Rojo

2010-08-13T15:30:00.001-07:00

Gusano Rojo

It calls again asking for an attorney.
Since when did the wind
need money to blow, or leaves forget to fall.
The wheel spins
instead of earth, and she was only burrowed
to transgress an other's freedom
then tossed in the trunk
beside what's left -
of last night's tequila.

Bits of madness
leak from the book shelf.
The characters escape
on tiny ropes and hooks
planted in a cherry wood desk
once prized and shined with Pledge,
now bows beneath the pressure
of yet - another life story.
The mechanic is over booked;
the wheel of time rusted.

Her's - was only a worm
floating at the bottom
of a bottle of mezcal, an artifact
thrown into the sea
uncovered now and then by currents.
Unable to speak until ingested
and it is them - again
again - again;
the current settles.
She wriggles just below the surface,
a red, gusano rojo
and the mermaids laugh.

The sailors bait their hook
cast into a rojo sun,
and Melville wonders - who?
has set a hook in Moby Dick.
"Gusano Rojo, Gusano Rojo,"
they shout from the deck,
the wind disrupted once more.
They reel fury and fiery breath
in the hot summer sun,
mad with the voice of the worm.
"Gusano Rojo, Guasano Rojo..."
and the current settles.

8/9/2010

Poetry

2010-08-08T17:37:00.000-07:00

Poetry

There's she is, it's Gertrude,
standing on the top shelf
of my bookcase.

She claps her hands,
a cut-out card
held up by her elbow
that rests against the word - poems...

and there's Teddy Chaucer
he's there too
balanced between Shakespeare
and Donald Hall.

Gertrude applauds.
The fan blows cool air
across the room,
vibrates the blinds on the opposite wall.

Poetry is not always available
to share its spirit, it wanders off
to visit the neighbor,
to take out the garbage,
follow an old yellow school bus.

Gertrude applauds.
The poetry waits
till I look back, wonders about me too,
and where I might be,
and I am busy, washing dishes,
folding clothes,
I've gone grocery shopping.

We become like the couple
that pass in the hall.
I sit to write
and poetry stepped out,
is visiting with an old friend.

It's climbing a tree.
I paint myself - an illustration and follow.
Where has poetry gone?
It cracks from an egg,
asks its parent for a worm.

I want to be like poetry
inspired by everything it sees,
dipping, bending round corners
watering mountains, flowing with streams,
and dripping from faucets.

I climb the bookshelf,
sit next Gertrude Stein,
so she can rest her elbow on my name.

Gertrude claps her hands.

Quatern

2010-07-12T14:10:00.000-07:00

A Quatern

His song sailed through the garden's drawn
of Shakespeare dawn and painter's eye,
oared with well formed arms to follow
fated rivers of the hallow.

On echo of a steady wind
his song sailed through the garden's drawn
of pastel hues to journey just
into the light that played his name...

and in the deepest forest green
where reservoir of trumpet crow,
his song sailed through the garden's drawn
and tales forever fixed in stone.

Across the planes of cosmic sea,
and fruited vines of mystery,
where peace and war amalgamate,
his song sailed through the garden's drawn.

Old Dreams

2010-07-12T07:58:00.000-07:00

Old Dreams

He returned in daylight hours
after the dream -
a reminder of the night
searching red clay caves
safe from hostile skies.
He came back,
and I returned awake
to where he stood watching,
propped against a wall
of foreign architecture.
He spoke with an accent,
but never in a dream.
I looked back for him,
as though reality could enter.
His image could only remind me
of something familiar.
He became a Picasso
An Old Guitarist,
now sitting to play
where his voice left off.
where red changed to blue
where life and death split
during the night.
I will paint again
when I can claim confidence,
and we will serenade together
the red clay songs
with a blue guitar.

I Wake

2010-07-12T07:57:00.000-07:00

I Wake

I wake to the cell phone alarm.
I know it's morning by the grey mist that fills the window square.
I think about where I work today,
think about growing older, roll over,
and if I'll ever replace this old mattress.
I remember unfinished details of a Saturday appointment,
and an x-husband I wish I'd never met,
in the time when life could have moved past
this void that calls such necessity of fifty.

I wonder what it is that leaves me in a state of mystery?
what it is that returns throughout the days
in clients voices, in unexpected expressions
that light the soul of everyday occurrence.
I feel sickened by uncertainty, mad by madness,
but happy at the same time, that I am
Inflicted by the deadened ends of hope
that sent me searching out angels,
rolling in the paint of miracles.

When I don't want to scream, I love this.
I love this euphoric dream, the rotted phantom
that promised to be my prince, and never came
just left me staring in the eyes of other victims
that cringe with symptoms of psychopathic fear.
I never got to understand, and now -
I don't want to leave this pain
because it's blooming, and I'm a child in the garden
picking flowers for my mother to draw.

I'm standing in front of the mirror
looking at my eyes. I wonder how fifty I look,
what I'll look like in another ten years.
I run a brush through my hair,
line my eyes, so at least - I look awake.
The smell of coffee warms the kitchen
sends it's last perk and spit before the alarm.
I open the cupboard and choose a cup.

The Guest

2010-07-12T07:54:00.000-07:00

The Guest

A steaming kettle
screams about the race
to answer the call
and seep a Tetley
fingered tightly by a tag.

The fire burns
behind glass doors
like roses in a vase
of a chilled window.

Water falls from kettle raised
to fill a golden flight
of butterflies on bone china
set with care before an empty chair
and ironed linen.

The guest arrives,
returning from caves,
grazed by a bullet, and
mended with wood pulp paste.

Leaves float zig zags
through the glass,
flakes of ash that fold
to gently blot the lips,
that puff beneath an inquisitive stare.

6/14/2010

The way she moves me

2010-05-10T11:46:00.000-07:00

Another A & M - 5 minute poem.
this one from Peter's topic:

The way she moves me

She moves me into tomorrow
never asking if I mind.
I don’t question escape,
or even dream there’s anything better
than her presence, than her choice
to change the weather.

She moves me into yesterday
where I can see wisdom
blowing like fresh laundry on the line.
I don’t question value
of each dressing that I fold
and store in a drawer or in the closet.

...for whether the weather
be that that I choose,
I know she’s prepared me
for the way that she moves.

The color of the ocean where it is the deepest

2010-05-10T11:41:00.000-07:00

This poem is from a little game we play at, Alabaster & Mercury, a private myspace writing group. They are 5 minute poems, then we leave a topic for whoever decides to take a stab at it.
This topic was left by my friend Larry Kuechlin:

The color of the ocean where it is the deepest

I drove home early
before traffic made the drive taxing.
Part of me remained with last glimpses of freedom,
and last song the sea played in my dreams,
where darkness swirled
only revealing to my imagination
some sort of truth that lit my wonder.
My hair smelled of smoke,
that drifted through the morning
deep beneath the pressure
of a day's demand.
I painted my toe nails
my favorite shade of pink,
smelled of Hermes Paris,
before uncorking the joy
that stole away the hours.
The darkest shades of sky
lend only to this moment
the splash of white foam
tempting me to follow,
to draw me in and surprise me
with its depth and chill.
Yet I stand here
dripping with need to submerge
to feel the weight of her power,
give to her strength to carry me
where life is fragile, and I must swim to shore.

His Smile

2010-05-10T11:40:00.001-07:00

His Smile

His eye was an oak leaf
dried, fallen and blown into place.
His smile the shadow of a blade of grass
that chuckled when the wind blew.
He halved himself with the edge of nature
camouflaged by time of day.
His face found its shape by shadows
an afternoon sun left
as it journeyed beyond trees and mountains.
His hair was a tuft of rye grass,
grown over the edge to finger draw
a shadow image against the walk.

A tiny ant ran aimlessly, back and forth
climbing twigs without stopping for balance
It crossed his eye then disappeared
in a grass jungle.
All he could do is smile,
happy to be noticed,
happy to be drawn by an afternoon sun
and remembered by a poem.

Sonnet Nine

2010-04-27T10:31:00.001-07:00

Sonnet Nine

When morning first broke through the open shade,
I gazed to find what darkness kept concealed.
A tidy ocean bed that God had made
spilled quiet on the shore that dawn revealed.
Beneath the milky cast that hid the sky,
a row of surfers waited for a wave.
On shore a flock of avocets ran bye;
their ebb and flow my memory engraved.
The half-a-moon that shined the night before
still lit the darkness when I closed my eyes.
Too soon the sun would rise to light the shore
and only leave recall to claim this sigh.
The wind that gave me shivers in the night,
now warms the dream my spirit does alight.

Butterfly

2010-04-14T07:51:00.000-07:00

2010-04-08T13:43:00.000-07:00

Footprints on the Soil

You make yourself impossible
to love...
drifting off past the edge of trees
past fairytales and song
where wonder diminshes
and time closes with the stage.
Curtains draw and darkness leaves
a path of chirping crickets,
a bench under a street lamp.

Wait here,
don't go into the darkness alone.

You set the clock on random
changing every second,
and you give me the moon
smiling down, as though I were a child
and you an illustration
shining through winter branches
like something real
that never quite comes.

Don't fall in love.

I wait like something faithful
in a jar of formaldehyde
until the wind blows in the night
and it falls and breaks,
and now the path has broken glass.
The rain washes me away
into the dead of night,
where nothing even dreams,
yet I can't close my eyes.

Don't worry Dear.

I rest beneath a tree
a wilting fruit that turns to soil.
My job is feeding sprouts,
telling a story nobody believes,
still wating for my love,
while they all walk by
arm in arm
leaving footprints on the soil.

Dead Mouse

2010-04-08T13:42:00.001-07:00

Dead Mouse

Who so often wonders who
an owl in tree-tops darkest night
hungry for a mouse to find
first light that falls upon the path.

We found a mouse dead in the path
uneaten buy its pray,
yet I cannot blame the owl
or hawk that hunger for his meat,

a tummy full to feed his young
hidden from their own foe.
Perhaps he might have lost his grip
when startled in the night.

I knelt down on my knees
looked closer for a cause,
but didn't even find a scratch
or ruffled coat.

His black eyes were clear,
his little ears intact,
fur glistening with health
left still to find the morning light.

I wonder if he might have run
into the night, found his true love waiting
a princess never promised
to a little gray mouse.

But, who knows for sure, not I,
my wonder satisfied.
There are just some things in life,
we never come to know.

The Pubic Hair

2010-04-08T13:41:00.001-07:00

The Pubic Hair

Like plucking a weed,
I pulled the misplaced pubic hair
depriving it a life
to play Repunzel for the dead
spirits grasping from the Earth
for anything left to climb higher.

This misplaced secret
that had slipped from concealment of panty
boasting itself amongst the soft leg hairs
of my inner thigh.

It stung like hell as I tweezed
and pulled its permeable root
through the soft pale skin
leaving a red speck of blood.

I lay it on the table, examine it up close
under my reading glasses then crush the root-ball
with the lead of my pencil
and examine its life source
now mashed like some sort of zit goop.

I sit back in my chair
and look at it from a distance,
worried someone might see,
and I would feel the fever of embarrassment.

This hair either plucked or in place
discomforts my inner being, as though
I would be a better person
had it never grown at all.

I wonder what someone would think
if they noticed it.
This mischievous gremlin
appointed to frame my confidence.

Yet it lies there in full view
evidence of its pitiless death,
glued down to the table
as though it seeks to find life again
on another planet. ..

as though it needs to prove its purpose
as some grossly out of place being
frightening everyone that looks at it
to hide their face in embarrassment.

I pluck it once again
denying it purpose at all,
and there it is
proud as ever between my finger tips.

I twirl it around
honoring it one last dance
then suck it away with the vacuum cleaner,
so I might find myself again - something like pretty.

Reading Poetry

2010-04-08T13:33:00.000-07:00

Reading Poetry

I lie on my bed reading poetry
and thinking of a friend.
I can almost see
our thoughts resting
under the same night lamp,
reading the same poetry.

The shadow from my hand
blacks out the paper.
I can't see what I've written.
The grey pencil fades away
along with the day,
whose light softly retreated
into the mountains.

I scratch my neck and twist some,
moving my hand from the light, so I can see.
I hear the sound of cars,
passing on a distant road,
and remember that someday
I won't be here anymore.

.. and that I may be reaching
for this moment
at some later time in life
wishing the children were still downstairs
playing games on the Internet,
and I could still be here
only dreaming of a future time.

I imagine myself an old woman,
resting in a nursing home,
my mind rusted and blurred,
my hands withered like fall leaves.
I might even call out for the children
or ask where my dog has gone. Then

...fading gently like the light of day
into dreams.
I think of a friend, and
we are walking together
under arbors of fresh born leaves,
the musk of fertile soil rising.

A song of spring plays from the birds,
light dances in the shadows.
We bow our heads with smile
afraid of what a kiss might bring
as we decide together which path to take.

2010-01-03T07:40:00.001-08:00

2009-12-25T14:20:00.001-08:00

Eighth Sonnet

And this morning you gave me a lion,
stood there, hands in your pockets, smiling.
Thanks, thank you, your pride I can rely on.
The cub’s curiosity whiskers king.
Frailty, a génération perdue, found
again by those who painted out of turn,
and blamed the broken predators of sound.
What good are dreams if not to build a burn
that in our heart grows, and we fall to tears
on Christmas day, sit in the sun, alone
and dream more about what it was we hear
and wonder blessed to have the gift atone?
…and from his watchful eye, I’ve learned to breathe
smiling as you, curious to believe.

12/25/09

Sixth Sonnet

2009-10-09T16:29:00.000-07:00

O’ books now tucked into the shelves of time,
Wake up, as me, to find the morning light
each day that brings the dusty road I climb,
rocks destiny to and fro all its might.
Before the sea can close its wild swath
and clam the quilted feathers of the swan,
play not your gentle song unto the goth
or bend your bow upon a broken dawn.
Rise from the slivered dreams our youth infects
and counterfeiter’s staked upon the age.
Trust be the pen humanity directs
to earn applaud when light falls on the stage.
This day just one amongst the stories told
as each upon the shelf of time unfolds.

Looking Off

2009-07-05T13:37:00.001-07:00

The horse looked off
collecting distance in his spirit
yellows and gold’s lightly pressed
beneath a dry summer’s breath.
His mane brushed west
flipped like black flames,
a song of taut drum, determined
to tell mountains, rocks,
of dreams that rise in smoke
over warm parted pelt.
His rider reins-way freedom
images history, black and white
photographs, on the library wall
stories sweated and snapped.
Lives sleep under hammer and nail,
pound to the cities birth.
Thunder and the scent of first raindrops
perfume reality, poof tiny craters in the dust.
Struggles leave fittest to follow
the narrow path rising from
yesterday's dream to come alive,
and find…
today’s wish for freedom
reflected in yellows and gold’s
in a horses eyes.

Manefest Stars

2009-06-15T17:43:00.000-07:00

Manifest Stars -kyrielle sonnet

She throws herself at their feet, snow white curls
recounting the blue cerulean swirls,
adrift in reverse, next ship of the line
to manifest stars beside the moon’s shine.

Her audience emerged, the tunnel lit;
sparks of sun surf the crest to him submit
in tumultuous storms life throws the line
to manifest stars beside the moon’s shine.

Reckoned to coast in safe, taking corners
unled before they course away the hours
her shores auxiliary to God’s design
to manifest stars beside the moon’s shine.

A mystery the world has been assigned
to manifest stars beside the moon’s shine.

6/15/09

Books - kyrielle sonnet

2009-06-15T17:41:00.000-07:00

Books

Books, books are everywhere, too many books,
but I love them. They take up every nook
and space on shelves. I sleep by authors
dead an alive here all at once. Actors

of my dreams, their poetry camps inside
the crevice of my mind, a place to hide –
out until it’s clear to collaborate
uncensored by expected rules of date.

They wake inside the darkness of my sleep
quiet not to close the doors I must keep
to let them through. I’ve seen them all late
uncensored by expected rules of date,

trying to jump through, bashing walls of books
uncensored by expected rules of date.

Fifth Sonnet

2009-03-18T18:24:00.000-07:00

Fifth Sonnet

To please your jealous friend, I bear this pain,
sent off to face a cold and bitter sea
where once upon a poem your love did feign
eternity, walked here to there did we.
Your ship has come to be a rescue dream
that once I found myself at ends without.
The world appeared to plot an evil scheme
that shook the demons in your heart to doubt.
Forgive me if I stow away tonight
where only from a porthole can I view
a moon that shines its light as guide to write
and gulls that paint your memory on blue.
Though to your grief this pain does not attend,
the love I pledged to keep will never end.

Forth Sonnet

2009-03-18T13:02:00.000-07:00

Forth Sonnet

My bird! My bird! has come to grace the sky
along with sweet, sweet sun that warms my face,
a gift that knows the child inside my eyes
behind the years that time cannot replace.
O’ falcon come to know my hearts true call
when spirits rise to meet your golden wings,
cease not in faith to keep my dreams enthrall
ascent to heavens harp our hearts will sing.
By chance I find you be a red tailed hawk
nostalgia lost to nature’s choice of nest,
your beauty be no less of that I talk
a pride upon which wings a true sigh rest.
Our spirit to your flight my heart befriends
and grace upon my eyes does make amends.

Third Sonnet

2009-03-18T13:01:00.001-07:00

Third Sonnet

No words will ever steal away your love,
a statue carved in forests of my dreams,
with fountain feeding tender deer and dove,
dipping soft their silken tongue into the stream.
The doves no not a word to make them flee,
or fear an enemy can penetrate
the gate that only God could build for me
that shines ahead where I forever wait.
But, if somehow someone should steal the key,
and force a game on my green forest floor,
you know I won’t participate or be
standing in the way of that you want more.
I’ll climb a sturdy tree with view above
applauding for my true forever love.

Second Sonnet

2009-03-18T12:59:00.001-07:00

Second Sonnet

I found you throwing fire upon the sky
to forge a storm and cast a bolt of flame.
Your feat of folly begs to light an eye
let heat of burning bolt lay ash to shame.
Fear not I burn before a dream has sung.
Forever to your fiery heart I sigh
and taste immortal lava on my tongue
that flows a river through to valley high.
I glide Alpha safe from dangerous foe
to journey under stars of ethereal dew.
In dreams music of Kubla Khan does show
the route to sacred sea of Xanadu.
Blazing sunrise skies ignite the sea,
where on your ship we sail eternally.

First Sonnet

2009-03-18T12:57:00.000-07:00

First Sonnet

Give my love armor, protection of will
that greed and hate can never penetrate,
and I a soft place in his heart might fill
until my dieing light fall, a promise wait.
I shall forever dream he be my king,
alone in highest castle window view
landscape rich, where birds of liberation sing
from branches strong, leaved in vibrant hue.
His journeys fair, a starlight beckon shine,
a wind his spirit guide cross fields of time
precarious nature and poet intertwine
to challenge storms impervious in rhyme.
Give my love a compass to guide him home
where on his lips waits kiss of honeycomb.

2008-10-11T08:11:00.001-07:00