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Sunday, July 10, 2016

Cold Comfort



http://www.drpkp.com/2016/06/crow-fury.html
for Viv.... 


Cold Comfort 

the little girl tiptoed to 
see her - the sunporch
chilly in the first shock
shivering just a bit - she
approached - and there
as she knew she would
be - she sat - that bright
quilt draped on shoulders
Regal - I swore she spoke
to me as always-whispers
in the rustle of the willow
I felt her touch - her hand
veined and blue and firm
floating on mine - She,
my touchstone-talisman
Love - for it was always
love ... Love, said she is
the lift - the spice - the
laugh of life - in some
spectral knowing my
eyes suddenly stung
by her coming goneness
She held my tears ..
her voice in my soul
Do not weep little bird -
never waste a wit on
worry - you will grow -
you will fly and soar -
to love, to live, to laugh.
Yes, even without me...
for I am always there..

I sigh and run fingers
across my faded soft 
quilt - chilled on this
night - touched with
fear - I run my fingers
on my faded quilt and
suddenly in brilliant
conflagration burning
softly, strongly bright
in the distant twinkle
of these cold dark nights -
needed...
She
shines.

and somehow
I hear the soft
sound of small
footsteps
tiptoeing









Cold Comfort


the little girl tiptoed to 
see her - the sunporch
chilly in the first shock
shivering just a bit - she
approached - and there
as she knew she would
be - she sat - that bright
quilt draped on shoulders
Regal - I swore she spoke
to me as always-whispers
in the rustle of the willow
I felt her touch - her hand
veined and blue and firm
floating on mine - She,
my touchstone-talisman
Love - for it was always
love ... Love, said she is
the lift - the spice - the
laugh of life - in some
spectral knowing my
eyes suddenly stung
by her coming goneness
She held my tears ..
her voice in my soul
Do not cry little bird -
never waste a wit on
worry - you will grow -
you will fly and soar -
to love, to live, to laugh.
Yes, even without me...
for I am always there..

I sigh and run fingers
across my faded soft 
quilt - chilled on this
night - touched with
fear - I run my fingers
on my faded quilt and
suddenly in brilliant
conflagration burning
softly, strongly bright
in the distant twinkle
of these cold dark nights -
needed...
She


and somehow
I hear the soft
sound of small
footsteps
tiptoeing



Cold Comfort


the little girl tiptoed to 
see her - the sunporch
chilly in the first shock
shivering just a bit - she
approached - and there
as she knew she would
be - she sat - that bright
quilt draped on shoulders
Regal - I swore she spoke
to me as always-whispers
in the rustle of the willow
I felt her touch - her hand
veined and blue and firm
floating on mine - She,
my touchstone-talisman
Love - for it was always
love ... Love, said she is
the lift - the spice - the
laugh of life - in some
spectral knowing my
eyes suddenly stung
by her coming goneness
She held my tears ..
her voice in my soul
Do not cry little bird -
never waste a wit on
worry - you will grow -
you will fly and soar -
to love, to live, to laugh.
Yes, even without me...
for I am always there..

I sigh and run fingers
across my faded soft 
quilt - chilled on this
night - touched with
fear - I run my fingers
on my faded quilt and
suddenly in brilliant
conflagration burning
softly, strongly bright
in the distant twinkle
of these cold dark nights -
needed...
She
shines.

and somehow
I hear the soft
sound of small
footsteps
tiptoeing




Sunday, June 26, 2016

Crow fury


Crow fury

in a flurried fury the crow rose – sunlight
shimmering on an ink tipped wing – from
sleep int-erupt-ess she rose blinking at
her window – a small girl watching a ripple
rise, swarm, sweep – hatred boiling in the
land as the crow rose and soared – to park
on a leaf rustling tree not too far off in the
sweet shadow of cool place – of peace –
the small girl – watched as the crow
vanished to a point and then was gone
and returned to her sweet bed to sleep

to dream and to wake to a new day coming









the drizzle of diamonds




the drizzle of diamonds

the sky used to drizzle diamonds
her face turned to heaven as she
stood infant in arms and whirled
good fortune at peak – now gone
to rot – weeping willowed roots
wrapping round her ankles on
the trail to the tunnel where ex-pat
mothers trudge seeking surcease
from the swift sickled saint, sur-
cease from those relentless
slashes of the soul - seeking
entrance to the black tunnel with-
out end - yet - there -through it all
in memory - manifested - ahead 
the drizzle of
diamonds
sparkling
still 





Friday, June 24, 2016

A craving poem: a regular day

a regular day
kneeling they fall
headless in blood
others stand above
posturing
pictures fades to black
voices chatter
here and there
it’s not just that
bloated bellied
children stare
with wide eyes
slashed puppies
from televisioned
eyes and screens
begging ... begging
and I
in witness bearing
madness do not
turn away or
toward …
I wake
to this sunshined
morning
flowers flaming
potted - planted
trees drift...
languidly as
words scream
and a group sits
all night emerging
fifty years before
Blasting the
gunfire that cannot
be silenced any longer
I long I long I long
for the regular day
when I lifted a mewling
infant to my breast
and curled together
on cool sheets
as milk flowed
in peace

Sunday, May 29, 2016

Memorial Daze

Memorial Daze

there in the tawny before glow
when my mind is most lucid
in the mist-creep a chill clinging
as a vine or diverse as a silly
graduation tassel clinging cracking
the mad plaster trap where I have
shelved your leaving me … here –
alone in the tawny before-glow
in the shimmer of tears
memorial 

Sunday, May 8, 2016

No Smoke There

No Smoke There 
other people’s mothers wore skirts
and high heels even to vacuum –
she – no truck for girly silliness –
my mom wore white
sweatshirts and jeans rolled
at the bottom – bare feet in
summer 
she was a waft of Channel #5
and cigarettes bobbing up
and down while she spoke
poking holes at the world with
her index finger – she told me
her friends called her Stretch
because she was so tall …
I knew she didn’t have to reach
to touch
the tip of
the sky
my mother…
some saw just
a kid
“too young to be
in love” – but
I knew ….
I knew ….
the truth
no smoke
no mirrors

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

PAD - Day 26 - Love - anti-love "InViolated Love"

InViolated Love

they say that mother love
is inviolate love - bonds
impossible to break -
suspect before a creature
rolls in waves within you
and burst from loins in
blood and ecstasy -
suspect this inviolate
business until its cry
brings mystic milk from
your breast - until you
stab it with a safety pin
and you feel the pain
shiver in your spine
suspect until it rides
a two wheeler and you
scream in joy watching
from a window - at
a graduation - a first
ride in a car - first
love - walk down an
aisle beaming -suspect
until it throws its tiny
arms around you - huge
muscled behaired arms
around you - until each
breath you take remains
taken for both - suspect
this inviolate love - even
when this creature from
within inexplicably machetes
the cord connected to
your entrails and pulls
hard and
away
and
still
love

Sunday, April 24, 2016

NaWriPoMo - Day 18. A poem in the language of home... Sssssssh - your father




Sssssssssh – your father…

"Ssssssh your father..."
is getting ready for dinner
Ssssssh your father....
is eating at the table ...
silverware clinks, quiet
gulp of cool water
swallowed – he breathes
"Ssssssh your father ....
is going to the living room
to relax ...I follow and...
sit ...there next to this king
this raven haired young 
man as he placed ruby
records on the player –
and there – sitting next
to him … music crashed
shook the walls and
my small chest as I leaned
against the solid wall of
him and he cradled me
with an arm and I smiled

sssssh to them all….