Sunday, August 30, 2015

The Wanting

The Wanting

down cobbled stones she hears her own wanting-heart
thumping hobbles dragging dread uncanny closer until 
transformed - pantingly vulnerable as any empty-head
heroine smothers all - she simply waits breathlessly for
some swart heroic swoop to rip the disguise from her
pallid poem and fill her world with rounded vowels. 

Saturday, August 29, 2015


Artist in his Studio by Rembrandt


There is an ache born of longing
written in soft charcoal smudges
The yearn for all that once was and
will never be again - the inexorable
pull toward a future flowing with
fresh unfamiliar faces -vanquished
dreams –this oncoming smudge of
mumuration rising born of all that
was and all that is certainly to come
whirling – into agony stunning even
the most steadfast hopeful soul into
wide-eyed, mouth gaping, stillness –
stillness as the final smudge of that
single infinitesimal fleck of charcoal
erases – this is knowledge, known,
denied, this life lived in the spaces

Warmups.... #1  & #2

#1 (my father was a Rembrandt loving oil painter - who I adored)

She pulled from his peg on the door
His shirt, a tunic, a sash and finally
on tiptoe knocked the black hat
to the floor – on bare feet she
rushed down the stone corridor
out the gate through the red
dust and into the empty studio
She dressed before she turned
paint brush in hand willing her-
Self to become Him for just one
single moment and see the world
as he did stilled long enough to
transport into colored oils….

In the stillness of long shadows

In the stillness of long shadows
falling softly we stare into the
Quiet - eyes wide and wondering
Where we are and what awaits
in the stillness of long shadows

falling softly

Sunday, August 23, 2015

in the incomparable sweetness

Cynthia Cole Davis

in the incomparable sweetness 

they tiptoe together -  
bare toes squishing fresh-dropped dung
watching out for 'grownup-enters' creaks
reach for small fistfuls from the burlap bag
and run - run into and over the dawn lit field
wet grass - through corn - jumping mole holes - 
run to the cool edge of the woods and there bury 
their purloined seeds pressing into the untilled earth
with fingers tremulous stoked by stolid solid certainty - 
knowing that before long a vine will sprout another and 
on-until time tumbles - they are ready - and their wine flows –
Now, they lay together tasting the future on their lips - watching 
clouds as the new rise-sun spills- 
chewing on a pilfered stalk – 
farming - 
soy beans into grapes 
until the call to breakfast 

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Midnight Mourning

Midnight  Mourning 

I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight
the motor of my mind a whir - thoughts popping
from hidden chambers as magician’s rabbits to die
immediately - nothing can live in this airless dark  -
I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight -
memories joining into Golems-marching mutants
clomping down the corridors of raw recollection
To say you are missed – is to compare a pin-light
to the convocation of all flung stars in the galaxy –
I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight
as the fleshed reminder of what was you lay cold
in an actual mortuary –I know. I watched the gurney 
slide into the mouth – myself – metal on metal - 
watched as the van with a phone numbered logo
 made a U-turn and pulled down our driveway 
our driveway where you came home to me – always. 
Yet, even this thought that I prod more or less 
like a rotten tooth falls dead as a soaked autumn leaf – 
thoughts piling into moldering heaps of sodden stench.
I wander the mortuary of my mind this midnight –
Methinks that this is but the first night of such walks.
I have now joined the matriarchs – alone and strong
for you – Shoulders straight and eyes and mind clear
during the light – but at night – at midnight my darling
I shall wander the mortuary of my mind – searching for
my stolen soul and wake to the sound of our mariachi 
men strumming softly over a vanished horizon 

The Matriarchs’ Tale

The Matriarchs’ Tale
(a lil bit of sunday fun inspired by Wordling words) 

from the mouths of matriarchs comes the tale
on many a mutuant midnight to warn and regale
the tale of Meth who danced through the night
calling blazing mariachis in hip jutting motor-might
Meth who smiled with teeth so gleaming winter bright
magician, sorceress, not one soul missed
but for one small boy and one small girl all were kissed
only these two no less no maybe more
curled into one another goes the lore
from the mouths of matriarchs goes the tale to spin
that it was only these two innocents left to begin
to begin a dance of love with clear eyes and soul
untouched from the blazing burn of Meth’s black hole
until one midnight as mariachis played
Meth called and a now grown man and woman stayed
Stood strong and firm as about them townspeople bayed
From the mouths of matriarchs comes this tale
of the hold of Meth and the two that did not fall and fail.
And as, the band played on wild and whirling fast
Others drew to the two that seemed to - in love last
That did not fall in gasping breath and grasping lust
More and more turned as Meth burned out to dust
Now the mariachis call only laughter to each soul
All freed from the black bottomed gawping hole