Saturday, December 1, 2012

Good Night

As if to foil some clarity
or lack thereof,
the heavens tonight are
obscured entirely
but for Venus beaming
some secret smirk
and the moon reflecting
some shallow thought
onto the backs of the clouds.

And I am bare-assed
and feeling the warmth of
some strange memory of fall
in the wind with a welcome shiver.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

A Lake

Hoisted upward by the hips, the body, a drenched hairpin
but for the flailing tornadoes storming rain in four directions,
pauses to admire the face-to-face image just after cresting the surface;
recalling to life the first love a life knows, an infatuation really,
perhaps never outgrown, a child’s favorite blanket
stored in a pillowcase at the bottom of a drawer that over time
is shared with only the closest friends less and less frequently.

Winter claims his kingdom,
petrifies the world below, forgotten
underfoot, under skate, under snow,
under the frigid table of inactivity.
Through the aged mirror pane thickened with chill,
a fading picture, almost recognizable,
is stricken, paused in time. Still,
heartbeats pound out of the red clay, dim
and rhythmic as a dying clock, barely
reaching up to their solid roof.

Boaters part the hair of the water,
swimmers take to the sand,
and Summer dredges up the long sleeping
or long dead flotsam from below.
A deep, rumbling growl, the belly of the lake,
demands the return of what it relinquished:
“Come back and get your sea fins.”

Saturday, October 6, 2012

To a Sycamore

Sycamore in autumn,
golden hue emerging from
a sea of green surrounding.
Your trunk, your limbs
stretching appropriately
and with ease—
the unequivocal ideal.

Earned beauty in the patchy bark
with its shades of green and gray
from the bitter and the sweet
sloughed off and scarred,
badged with life.

From under your shadow
the world drinks up, sucks in,
devours your perfection
where it unexpectedly comes;
the form, the function
curving with purpose; age
compounding strength
compounding wisdom.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

An Expectation

She returns to ground zero
anticipating a lingering cloud
to remain outside of herself;
perhaps a haze as thick as
the memory that lays siege 
her mind, her being

like the smitten psychopath
who expects to see his love
at the subsequent funeral;
or the life-prisoner released
in his twilight years
grasping at threads of normalcy
from what had become
his security blanket.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Limerick o' the week, a la Mad Kane

Methinks I will end up posting more weekly limericks than other original poetry for awhile, as the fun of their composition is quick and puts me in enjoyable company! Again, I recommend any readers of this limerick click over to Mad Kane's Limerick-off Monday to submit one or be delighted in reading the others!

The beginning line this week is: "A fellow had made a mistake..." and variations thereof.

Here's mine:

A love-struck man made a mistake,
took a femme out for wine and a steak.
After the sup
he invited her up
but heard, “I don’t do sausage, but cake.”

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Mad Kane's Humor Blog Limerick-Off Monday

I just discovered the blog of the lovely Madeleine Kane, who creates a Limerick challenge every Monday for open participation.View details via link above. Basically, she writes the first line of a Limerick and anyone is free to submit their own continuation of the verse.

This week's opening line was: "A man who was known for his flash". I highly recommend clicking over to her blog and reading some of the highly entertaining entries!

Here's mine:

A man who was known for his flash
was too quick for the coppers to stash;
garbed only in skin,
his big, toothy grin,
and below a revolting mustache.

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Recovery of Sorts

Revised 8/12/2012:

Thunder splits a cumulonimbus mash;
denying light
refusing sun
deflecting clarity on every plane.
A river of words evaporates through a
cauliflower of mud sludge:
blocking, blockading.

A beggared man,
squeegee in hand,
clears the murky panes
nothing to give—
fleeting memory fading fast.

It is there to be had…
capture it, set in stone
the truth recovered once again
again and again
for the last time
for now.

The Visit

She came with the sunset
and left at its rise,
day and night
day and night
day and night
in between;
panging of
washed away
with explosions of joy

Helpless Relaxation*

Best demonstrated by
vagabonds in cafe window seats,
dinner dreamed or imagined:
lost to life;

or a young one
brinking sleep and waking,
bobbing from mundane to divine:
the quintessence of innocence.

*Word combo planted in my brain by Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.


Once a whirling dervish without restraint,
here and there a dance on wind
as spiders toiled in vain to hook
a wisp of leg or arm;
the will of this one a stone
plopped through woven webbing
left a  gaping hole of unpaired threads
fluttering like severed strings
on cut-off jeans.

The Golden Haired Harpist

The golden haired harpist,
to have her symphony,
exchanges her instrument of tranquility
for one of urgency –
Bleating disturbance in the healing halls
as trumpet only can:
Harp harp harp
for bleat bleat bleat –
in her manicured hands
there is little difference between them.

Harpist, harper or,
as trumpet is her choice, trumpet she now blows,
Trumpetress may have the priceless notes -
Her lengthy rote sounding or resounding
near and far, all around;
whirling cacophony in a dwindling prairie,
once a place of peace where, now,
grass, reeds and dust dirtily mingle
in a composition of destruction.

She plucks, strums, or blows
her notes of haughty righteousness,
absolving her own acts,
molesting passersby,
or mere moles in holes
that come out to blink just twice
for light
before scampering back underground,
fearing being trodden,  stamped and mangled
beneath the deadly stiletto heels
propping up her femininity –

Away she goes,
Jezebellian priestess,
Jester of Hippocrates,
Conjurer of explosive discord;
leaving the simmerings of strife in a cymbal,
salted and peppered to perfection.

Mia prima donna,
you play not for me,
for I am no child of Apollo;
but swerve not from your symphony:
Your notes, my offering.

This piece was shared on Poets United in Poetry Pantry #108