- Peel from your eyes their woolen ennui.
- Melt your soul softly into the horizon
- Now sunset flamed, all scarlets, violets
- And corals – your numinous projections.
- Absorb the glistening hues and listen
- To the unfolding of your hurts, entombed
- As they were in the moldiest heart corners.
- Inhale the cerulean vigor as it washes
- Over and among the encrusted passions
- Dormant, subverted in the daily drudge.
- Savor the tang as your senses, once
- Deadened, warble to life in a building
- Crescendo. At the climax, faculties tingling,
- Are the sparks that ignite the poem.
I was dropped from a black hole
part hurt fledgling
bird of swift wing
part hothouse flower
in the desert
I am square peg
in round hole
way too dense
I do not fit well
in the world
my spitfire tenacity
ruffles too many feathers
while my soft underbelly
is ripped raw
from the teeth of daily
as an overly plump raindrop
plunking cold and abrupt
on a spring sunned bosom
it slides anfractuous
joined apace in feigned ennui
were I an ailing spinster
downtrodden in whalebone stays
pale and pince-nezed nosy
would my verses flow
\snake oil slick\
along with river Thames?
I find I am much too hearty
to sit abed and scrawl
longhand iambic pentameter
with dainty perfect pen
so my words trudge
stagnant in the sludge.
were I an artiste avant-garde
flouting dilletante conventions
skirting societal hems
with off-color threads
would my stanzas stitch
themselves permanent press?
I find I am much too staid
a slave to stoic strictures
to scribe poesy astride
a horse of different colors
so I scrawl off-kilter odes
to a life of stodgy standard
mayhaps the day will dawn
when my morphemes will march
with motoric locomotion
utterances in extremis
emotive brave locution
we are a scrappy pair
as we scratch and claw our way
from under this dung heap
into which society
shat us out.
you shred skin
as you shed convention
from beneath the shadows.
I reinvent myself
rewriting the future
on the blunted nib
of frenetically wielded quill
into a long cool
draft of summer breeze.
we scrabble together a moment
amongst the endless scramble
a breath, a bite, a word.
your steadfast grip
trembling rooftop helpmate
racing the clock
while a storm rolls in.
you find me cheeky
skittish and determined
give an appreciative wink
at my disheveled skirted squat.
we giggle at hot footed dance
you secure my safe descent
beyond the hectic humdrum
and I tuck this moment
sweaty and dusty
with my windblown locks
behind my ear
where I will hold it
reach twining yellow blossoms
warm from grandma’s porch
(This piece was prompted by today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, using Adrienne Rich’s “What Kind of Times Are These” as my inspiration)
in winter, trees are stark naked, like my truths
when they creak and groan in the howling wind
your ears prick up, fixated and keen
living under them, as you do.
I know my truths are hushed, silenced and quashed
shriveled scarlet maple leaves, flaming in shame
peeking, hide and seeking, from their burial spots –
hidden ‘neath the blizzard banks, ‘tween I can’t tell and you won’t ask.
it’s funny how I disappear a little more each day
in this wasteland of muzzled testimony,
gagging on marinated bear paws, downed with guzzled vodka
as I wonder how I landed in this Siberia of veritas, right here at home.
I am a shadow of myself, disappeared with my truths
lost, until I stumble upon the gathering place, brimming
with diademed women – walkers of the shadowed roads – who conjure
now the midday sun, glittering experiential jewels, scattered in hilltop shouts.
in allen phasen der faltung nisten die büschel,
geballte pakete, dicht, eng und stumm
hockt in knospen das drängen nach fetten
vermoddelten zentren in purpur und/oder weiß
wohnen rücken an rücken hinübergebogene blüten
auf krautigen stengeln und blühen sich rund.
als es zu regnen angefangen hat, ich am halm
in meiner großen hand den schweren kopf
gehalten habe, zog kindheit in die feuchte luft,
spitze schreie, habenwollen, pfingstgelockt
zum hang geworden. sehnsuchtsarten stiegen auf
und tauchten wieder ab. wie ich das flüstern
ihrer vielen tausend blüten hörte, wollte ich
die regennasse rose strubbeln, knüllen, fleddern
wollte ihr die blüten rupfen, um mich werfen,
und zertreten, freunde rufen, kommt und schaut
das fette große blütending, was ich da hab
katzenkopfrund weiß und ohne augen, ich, ich,
ich will den katzenkopf, der keine katze ist
durch’s irre rudel meiner wünsche treiben
kaputtgemacht und angefaßt, nein unversehrt
lass ich die hehren rosen reglos starr inmitten
jener bahnen stehn durch welche kindheit schnellt.
in all phases of finding fault with that which I hide under bushels
I think of the pecks upon the cheek
slobbered in drunken barroom moments
those verboten moments of purple gazes/ under water
when I wreck and I wreck all that has not been blessed
of feminine strength and the bludgeon of seeing red,
as is the right of angels in wide brimmed hats, I am cool
in my sunglasses that craft my life in their mirrored lenses
exalting what has been, as kindness in the face of failure,
spritzed with glee, woolen underwear, finger lockets
that hang on our words, the sutured stitches of
our widest taut paths. when I am flustered
in the pulsing veins of the bluest hordes, I roll
with renegades wearing crimson glasses, kneading, floundering
among with aisles of the ruby slippers, and with warfare,
and regret, women refuse, orders and shouts
that fit with gross pretending, as all I had was
catastrophic and blithely undone, I, I,
I will then catastrophize, knowing the cat’s tongue
which is rude no matter how hard I try
all is kaput and angst, no universal
woman am I when I wear rose colored glasses and lipstick
swearing that I babble truth while the children run.
your world is ablaze
you guarded those smoldering coals
\steaming hurts and smoking resentments\
you were the watchman
lest a conflagration rise.
you stood in the gusts
\intrusions and degradations\
as if stinging sparks
were of no concern.
you felt the bonfire billow
\swallowed bile now volcanic\
while Hestia whispered
power surge sweet nothings
that brought your blood to boil.
you exhaled as a dragon
\savored the bite of rage\
dripped fuel from mangled fingers
threw that Molotov
just to watch it burn.
drowns out dreary drizzle while
grey gives way to grey
verses attack me
faster than I can speak
tongue twister vortex
than my fingers can type
they tumble pell-mell
from my synapses
and I am helpless
under the tumult.
I am dragging the words
from the page
fiber by fiber.
I strain verses
from amidst the paper grains
reading between the lines
like the rings on the stump
of a drought-stricken tree.
of my sorcery spells
of the end of rhmye
this parched poesy
will be the rune