pounding Djembes

blistering fingers thrum chords of fire
are these the burning hands you know
the soul’s tempo like a copper pendulum, does gold resonate there
this virtuoso mouth of yours, has it stolen arias in vacant symphony halls
when lights are low and days have dimmed
has the rage of your wanting lips fingered around a contrabass anaconda
do motivations fade inside bitter notes when the maestros falter
is your wary body allegro when a feisty partner plays
do you weep for the swelling of spring songs upon winter’s death
written across sheets of white are ink spills to be erased
goat-skin Djembes thrust exotic cadence into hearts unprotected
does this pounding journey move along its own rhythm
or do lovers create your solos

Upright nude trio/charcoal

we are fighters, Jill

Jill,
you and me
explode through our mothers’ thighs
the same year
It is 1963, Jill
you and me
surrounding ourselves with winged creatures
clutching word and song
wisdom and farce
eyries we construct, yes Jill
you and me
where they belong
up high so our children can observe the world
before they depart for earth
It is 2017, Jill
you and me
we are fighters
protecting all those shadowed beneath our extending wings
we spar, laugh, punch, caress, comfort
we are educators
you assist students
I create teaching tools
It is 7 am, March 27, 2017, Jill
“fought a long hard battle…carried husband and family with great courage…love of her husband’s and children’s life”
It is 7:05 am, March 27, 2017, Jill
you and me
we have just met
I promise you, my dear friend
to keep loving and supporting and cherishing and fighting
to live up to your amazing life
God bless you, Jill
the dearest person, I never knew

do you (think you) know me

do you (think you) know me
inside my words
on top of my art
are your elbows leaning at your side(s) as you read along
do they comfort you
your elbows, not my word(s)
not my art
maybe you’re only getting to know me
if you don’t know me, (I dislike math)
these thing(s) xx2f (art+writing) are no source of comfort
rather(!) representational of all I don’t know

I do know–if we lived closer
we might be (great) friends

I am told I smile most of the time

when I write dark(ly)
or when I write in darkness
(lights are sleeping. I’m not)
I grin
unintentionally
like mad grimacing
once long long ago in a generous glass grocery store window of epic proportions I spied my reflection she was smiling. I wasn’t happy

I want you to be comfortable
inside my words
on top of my art
with your elbows at your side(s)
and tell me something
about yourself
I might even get to know what it is I don’t know
about myself

PS (person singing)
when we meet on that special day
in that secret place (where I wait for you)
we will smile at one another
I stop looking in a generous glass grocery store window of epic proportions to see another smiling face
my personal shopper

not where I live

Today, I’d like to write something about me.
Not from a clever place.
That’s not where I live.

Rather, I am someone who picks at her scabs
and watches them fall into Rorschach patterns
on the foot-flattened carpet.

Insignificant silhouettes that go unnoticed,
except by those fascinated with inkblots and
inexplicable stains.

communal totem

exposing myself

Burbage’s Globe
Aerial fly-bar
Frozen pond
Grassy slope
Low-rent stage in high-rent district
Chipped pedestal
Monkey barrel
Bar
Coffee house
Social media
Lemonade stand
Wet inked
Newsprint
Periodical slickened
Dick Blick canvas
#!*#**!!##**
Lincoln Center
Mind
Street corner
Library room with one transom
Long pier
Short pier
Mountain top with foot-warmer
Dream
Convention hall with stadium seating
Conference hall with folding chairs
Above a deli
Below him
Bareback ride across sunset primed sand
Charlie’s Angels’ intercom
Amphitheater
Anywhere “O” speaks–
or suits with sneakers gleefully dance
Red carpet
Leaning on Harry’s white Steinway as he plays
I wear dazzling white gown in above image
sometimes gown is gorgeous emerald
on rare occasions–blood crimson

Sydney Opera House
Basement studio
a few of the the many places I pretend my words and art expose themselves

eavesdropping

hitting bottom on my second glass of wine
hearing laser sharp, vision glazing
crumpled paper menu and sleuthing pen
seated at table
situated near bar
and men wearing baseball caps

…like she’s
she’s a wanderer
always wants to walk back to Florida
…like a two year old
yea, my mom went through that
got her in a place now
thought she was back in high school
said she was prom queen
that’s when we knew
twilight years
God bless ’em, when you can keep ’em
better sometimes forgettin’
don’t wanna remember mine
maybe we’ll see grandma dancin’ on a pole
she did think she was prom queen

oatmeal walls

 

a cause

there is no right place for me to rest these weary bones
you have not the strength to support us both
too much time wasted on indecision
domestic odds
often in your favor
the satisfaction I need
the want I must satisfy
is to be found in a cause
I’ve not yet a name for