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Sunday, March 26, 2017

Casked



Casked

I am the cask and the imbimber
Come to a stop at the base of
your rolling foothills resting on
velvety sweet green on this morn
Come to a stop at the base of
your rolling foothills of this long
journey – months falling into years
longing for a whisper through my
slatted boards, longing for a passing
touch – day to day – month to month
adds molten time to the burgeoning
pain – I can feel the blood red of me
bubble through a slivered crack here
and there – once I was the vine - the 
wine - the beginning and all for you -
suckled you, loved you and was loved 
in return – now I lay pulped strained -
     Cask and imbiber of all that was and
     all that seems will never be …trapped
     here at the foothills of your indifference
     left to inhale the scents of the stew
       of life swirling outside – I exist on sips
       of perhaps…here hidden in the sunshine
       history and future-decomposing in a field
       of butterflies and smoke


The Sunday Whirl
Photo -Peter Griffin

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Looking Glass





Looking Glass 

I ask no questions of you 
yet you speak-in silvered
tongues wavery watery 
versions fall - one atop
the other – no truest –
chubby cheeks into 
koal-lined glimmer –
milk swollen breasts,
platinum strands –
an infant blinking held
to see his first look – I
ask no questions yet you
speak – incessant murmur
watery, wavery, forever
flickers – there in just
the right light – with a
soft self-kind smile – 
all reflected back and
forward to 
peering me..
all except 
what lies 
beyond…



(photo by Piotr Siedlecki / www)

Looking Glass



Looking Glass

I ask no questions of you
yet you speak-in silvered
tongues wavery watery
versions fall - one atop
the other – no truest –
chubby cheeks into 
koal-lined glimmer –
milk swollen breasts,
platinum strands –
an infant blinking held
to see his first look – I
ask no questions yet you
speak – incessant murmur
watery, wavery, forever
flickers – there in just
the right light – with a
soft self-kind smile –
all reflected back and
forward to
peering me..
all except
what lies
beyond…



(photo by Piotr Siedlecki / www)

Sunday, March 5, 2017

Time bend or The Railroad Goes





Time bend or The Railroad Goes

Miss the bits of you-
blue smoke drifting
parenthetical arcs
around your words -
Miss all you turned
  my head to see 
waiting
until I saw -
the flat calm
of a lake at sunrise  - 
the brilliant flash 
of a jay's cocked eye - 
watching -
all of it -
leaks 
in the solid
temple that was you - 
left
I swing 
between each sense
of you - off track - 
your smoke trailing over the
horizon - as you clatter off
heading toward an unseen
curve - a dip -an ultimate
 vanishment-
until then -
I miss the bits and 
hold the smoke ...



Thursday, February 23, 2017

Gone where?





Gone where?

Where have you gone
my baby boy – the scent
of you – turns my head
looking – your skin slips
silk against my breast –
I feel the hot imprint of you
curled as though you would
melt back into me and again
we would be one – where - oh
where have you gone –
my baby boy – the scent
of you lingers
in the air –
this airless
air – now
grown
cold
still I
holed
hold

on







Wednesday 

Sunday, February 19, 2017

Boom

Blinding Sun Related Keywords & Suggestions - 



Boom

She woke a tiny girl in a large apartment
marooned on a canopy bed high in the sky
Walls of glass – far above this new concrete
city -silently scurrying far far below -her bed
piled high with pillows – a cover to be called
a duvet – as though it made all the difference.
Her mother took her swing, made a good deal,
accepted as a sign from a divine Universe the
tall man who kept coming back to Do-Drop-In
diner and finally after thousand cups of coffee
and steamy side-wise smiles took them away
to here –Her mother now wore shoes with high
heels and bright red lipstick – lifted a little finger
when she sipped wine – from a closet filled with 
fancy glasses – all the same – all sorts of repeat 
things like that here – fat stuffed animals choked
with neck bows glassy-eyed on the window seat 
like one of those infinity mirrors things repeating –
on and on in this endless apartment -a pinned up 
butterfly behind glass walls –she lay marooned on
this canopy bed high in the sky and -it was wrong 
selfish wrong -she knew it-but she could not deny 
that she ached for the small stream at the end of 
the dirt road behind the school where she used to 
stop on the way home - looking for tadpoles and 
the glint of copper pennies -she knew it was wrong 
to look for a line that would draw them back – back
to wish each thing to vanish into a vacuum of never-
had-happened – for time to fly back to the then-when
she walked on ground - bare feet in the soft warm dirt 
of home – hope a thing that was only an ache in her 
mother’s eye.



Sunday, February 12, 2017

Re-sound Melody










Re-sound Melody

Who shall sing my song when all that is
left are scattered rhythms
Who shall gather scraps and stand face
to the wind upright in the gales and sing
rag to a bloodied eye - torch still aflame
root of all that was and can still be right
Who shall sing my song?







Sunday, January 29, 2017

Call to Midwives All Dedicated to Valarie Kaur*




Call to Midwives All
Dedicated to Valarie Kur *

time to shoulder the burden of birth
of heart, soul and hope
time to march on this soft earth
of all creatures, creed, and life
time to cope, to touch, to give,
to reach toward the light ...
time to shoulder the burden of birth
of this more perfect nation world -
struggling to be born not from the
"darkness of the tomb" but from the
"darkness of the womb"
"breathe then
 push... "*


Valarie Kaur is a brilliant and wonderfully articulate young attorney activitist - 
her words at a particular multi-cultural NewYear's gathering left me breathless .. 

Sunday, January 8, 2017

Coming through the fog

Morning Fog 







Coming through the fog

Ah 
my siren 
felt feeble – 
the plumped 
preen lean – 
yet 
now in spite 
of this single stab 
seeped fulfillment 
cheat – I shake 
the sodden to leap -
truth emblazoned 
on my soul – 
to climb the 
mountain – 
flee fear 
hold tight 
to my
chest 
the reap 
of all 
that is 
righteous- 
past to  
future – 
see them – 
feel them 
feel us -
standing- 
shimmering, 
warming chilled blood - 
bolstering burgeoning 
this ever unquenchable happening of hope 
gathering – here, there, everywhere,
coming through the fog, coming through the fog

Saturday, December 3, 2016

soul murder



soul murder 

listen, 
banging on the back door 
files of despairing dead arrive
flies flapping in swirls of night
damning anatomy of soul murder rises -
screeching, souls pulled over razor pointed
heinous history, burned, beaten, shot, stabbed, 
water hosed, dog-ravaged, hanged from trees, 
dragged behind cars, left to die on wire fencing, 
our myriad murders, our unprotected heroes -of 
then, now ripped in hellish heave backward again, 
screeching in righteous recrimination draw messages
in their crusted blood spilled for naught,here they are 
pulled from places of rest, leaning in exhausted  agony - 
these resurrected, recriminating warriors of past struggles 
won-now defeated long after the fact, faces of disgust  push 
patterns of themselves through the net of the creaky screen door -
come to shake their heads, eyes deep-dark in agony of our betrayal 
our permitting this 
racism reload - 
reinvigorated and 
balloted as normal 
embracing the dark
seeking spirits to 
destroy 
listen,
learn
light,
fight
now