installation 3

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my little Matryoshka

Concerned with fashionably balanced items on bookshelves–
I thoughtlessly placed her long ago
To this day, she squats, eyes forward, harboring no ill will
Most of my shelved tomes have sat so long, their spines have rusted–
But, eight horse-sized literature anthologies have seen action
Their bulked-up spines are careworn and wrinkled
As part of the publishing team who created them, I’ve perused them plenty
Two houses ago, I held an authentic job–
accompanied by a generous paycheck and a me, me, me business card
When child number one entered into my, my, my world, I exited Prentice Hall
Since then, Springsteen’s Glory Days, endlessly loops in my ears
This might explain my current cruelty to Matryoshkas
Depending on the day, the time and the spider muses in my studio–
my temperament shifts

This morning, I’ve not yet descended into my she-shack, where all creative things happen or nothing at all–
I’m still sipping coffee in my kitchen, facing the ‘family room,’ and the mantel with its bookended bookshelves
Colored spines form up-ended brick paths to limitless rabbit holes
The antique nesting doll guards a Time Life series covered in 70’s drab
The decorative mirror resting behind her bulbous form, lends a reflective quality to the warm palette
You can’t see the dust. I can. The shelves have remained undisturbed for awhile
I never considered little Matryoshka’s thoughts when I exiled her to shelf Siberia
Not a single heart-string of mine tugged for her redundant life–a nonstop amalgam of herself
As I write this, I’m thinking about Matryoshka–
her delicate flower patterns and the firm twist one must apply to reveal her abundance
Perhaps, I am jealous of my little Matryoshka
She knows who she is, inside and out
bookshelvesshot of my family room taken this morning, portrait hanging over mantel was painted 2 years ago, if you look closely at the upper right, top bookshelf you can see little Matryoshka

I can no longer wait for you

I’m still waiting for you
I think I’ve always been
no
I know I’ve always been
forty years past
scanning the stars glued inside my baseball cap
before each at bat, desperate not to strike out
thirty years ago
face first, hair second, brain third
hoping you’ll notice me
twenty year flashback there I am running
six miles alongside the busiest roads
why don’t you pullover and take me away
fifteen years ago
off those roads striving for inroads
sending, sending, sending
out my door, into yours
hoping something manages the mail slot
ten years recent past
what a tease
you were never really interested
I wasn’t even close was I
today
I can wait no longer wait for you
all my past tactics have failed
there is no one to find me
you were never there

I must turnaround
I must stop dreaming
no fantasy fingers will tie my work to a star
with a glittering red bow

I must float on my own
or
I will fall flat and be trampled upon
by more creative beasts
Taurean Bull
my little monster love book must now be sold and I must sell it.
“…I could burn with the splendor of the brightest fire or else I could choose time…” –Lament from Evita

are there enough pages

are the chambers of your heart sliced thin
with enough pain between the parchment
to make you an interesting read
have the edges of your soul been sharpened
despite the dull devils trying to wear them down
are those cobwebbed secrets in the recesses of your mind
sell-able
will anyone pull a star down from heaven
and slap it on your blemished skin
the thoughts that crawl up your beading flesh when lights go dim
can those fading illuminations stage a moment
amid a sun-packed universe of perfection
what makes your story
more interesting than your lover’s
will there be enough pages to sew together
after you tear your life apart
sculpt woman

magical words, miraculous changes

it has been said
passed down from yuletide lips
Charles Dickens saved Christmas
not the man, ’twas the book
his story, we all know
if you don’t (your library copy might have gotten jammed in an 1843 chimney)

Industrial Revolution spinning at warp-speed
factory holidays are ghost shadows
we are living in the fast-pacing present–more is better
our dull, simple past soiled with slumming traditions–less was less
one floor above sweating basement workers, the future appears bright and shiny
a young boy’s father gets locked up in debtors’ prison
the child Charles, now forced to labor in a “rat-infested boot-blackening factory”

these formidable memories haunt Dickens

I imagine Charles back then
beneath winter’s moonlight
childhood terrors like bony hands slamming rusted leonine door knockers
he summons these all-too-vivid specters to do battle with his benevolent muse
the war won
A Christmas Carol is born

“…in 1867 Dickens reads A Christmas Carol. One of the audience members,
Mr. Fairbanks (a scale manufacturer) was so moved that he decided to break custom
and give his workers Christmas Day off and not only did he close the factory,
he gave turkeys to all his employees.”

magical words can inspire hearts to make miraculous changes

Little Tree

Little Tree

Charles Dickens, true to his words became an exceptional philanthropist. “…the welfare of the nation’s children was at the top of his list of concerns, and he used his pen and his considerable dramatic and oratorical powers to raise awareness of the plight of poor children and to raise money for children’s charities…”

sources in order of quoted appearance: Uncle John’s, Christmas Collection (yes, the Bathroom Reader, please don’t judge where I sometimes read😉), charlesdickensinfo.com, hharp.org

if my little poetry book love of the monster helps one heart, that would be a gift I’d keep trying to give😘

goddamn peaceful

5 am
wishing ’twas contented spirits
who dusted winter’s cement grasses
with sparkling pixie dust
my little dog’s lone paw prints
sweet as a postcard one might send a faraway lover
I linger in this miraculous quiet
let the moment warm
the silence of this morning
as beautiful as swimming beneath water
where sounds of despair are drowned
swept away by bubbling filters and light-dancing reflections
fondling liquid ballerina toes
there I often dream
there, I can only dream
in the silent spaces away from mouths not my own
‘the’ planet, when we’re cruel
mother earth, when we’re kind
I don’t want to touch the frozen front door knob
twist it and go back inside
rather
I’d love to freeze out here
5 am
with the sparkling pixie dust
and all that glitters
in the beauty of this miraculous silence
when the world seems so goddamn peaceful
rest
“ye merry, gentlemen
let nothing you dismay”

Rudolph Hug

Rudolph Hug

lotm-screen-shot-amazonhey, what do ya know, monster clawed its merry little way to #9 position this past week on Amazon’s little list of, hot new love poetry releases

enter title here

it is very quiet
the realization of a deep loneliness
apparent in the sound-sucking carpet
in the dim light of way past midnight

acceptance of what I need
not always found in my words
or my forms
something undeniable
presses my mind ever forward
forces my fingers to choke pencils
don’t always know which way
to
shove the compass needle
magnetic attractions don’t always apply

searching for something to shove inside the attic
to store inside my soul
maybe

treasures for the grand kids to find
hope for my older self to embrace
there is the first effort
before the wheels start spinning again
what now?

enter title here

Baby Elf

Baby Elf

my book is nearly ready to be launched into space, my mind is more nervous than my hands

something about

over
under on top
this is it
that was now
wasn’t it
wasn’t it
spiraling
pack pack pack the fucking brain
round the square corners

jump the cycle
break the loop
think outside the box
that was 1990
wasn’t it
business speak
can’t speak anymore
much of anything
who was that glossy chick with the shiny shoes and the matte business card
baby spit on the shoulder
now dirty sports uniforms

something about files or writing
art no it was art
crap family coming this weekend no next
was there a party I was planning for someone I love
it’s the school thing he needs to be at she told you
what? what was I doing

oh yeah
the studio I was filing my art
away for something
wait I’m in the wrong room

where the hell did I put my studio
there’s no food in the fucking fridge
social-ing on social media isn’t always
walk yourself Mojo
I ain’t got the time
I gotta go drop some books by airplane
purple roomI consider my childhood bedroom – my first studio. There at the table is where I pretended to be, Kolchak the Night Stalker. The wall “rainbow” was my first mural. I’d give anything to reclaim my original Breyer horses there on the shelf. My Clairol makeup mirror – geez, I’ll never get that close again to a magnifying mirror with lights, and my little budgie hanging in his little cage – I often let him fly around.

Please pardon, but I’ve been back cleaning old posts. Many I’m not too pleased with, so I’m reworking these older writing pieces while the brain currently in my possession is on vacation.