book love and shower lust

my poem, dogeared inspiration, in FOXGLOVE JOURNALmy poem, dark magic, in FOXGLOVE JOURNAL

I footnoted these 2 pieces in FOXGLOVE Journal before on previous posts, but I should have presented them better,
supporting the wonderful creative journals that support writers and artists – thank you😘
(photos courtesy of Foxglove Journal)

Advertisements

the ark

snake charmers pecking at malnourished carcasses
bodies strangled in murderous waters
walls so high, mountain steeples flatten
follow the arc of the convenient
the long story is best told aboard travelling vessels
bridging episodic whims
this is where they followed
the writers
two by two
in it for the long journey spanning centuries
creative creatures called to board
before the raging floods of sameness
drown out overweight minds and weak voices
protected in the ark, safe to endure extreme swells
the chosen and their miraculous words survive mankind’s dysfunction
sowing seeds for independent reaping
sun to sun to sun
after earth recovers and swollen rivers recede
writers perished by insignificant waters finally reveal themselves
their dried out bones almost identical

golden horses

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

I fear the sea

I fear the sea
not for the lives she sometimes steals
in the dark
in the light of day
across God’s painted sunset
on a whim
when she is glassy-eyed and raging
I fear the sea
for the wild screaming foam
reminding me to live
for the crystalline scent
awakening infinite possibilities

seagulls beckoning
whales bemoaning other loves
in angelic harmonies
electrified water witches smiling
laughing in the tumbling water
seducing with passionate life
teeming, glistening scales streaking rainbows
lost would I become in a dream there
lose my sand footprints to the wind
lose my mind to you
my way back
lost I would become
I fear the places I never want to leave
I fear the sea

dolphin

“There’s a place for us,
Somewhere a place for us.
Peace and quiet and open air
Wait for us
Somewhere.

There’s a time for us,
Some day a time for us,
Time together with time to spare,
Time to learn, time to care,
Some day!

Somewhere.
We’ll find a new way of living,
We’ll find a way of forgiving
Somewhere . . .”

lyrics directly above by Stephen Sondheim
hearts and love to those lost in Orlando

imagining rain

the sky showers down in shimmering rivulets
cleansing the earth of leftovers
something we planet guardians don’t do well
cloud masses end load the cycle
pouring so hard sometimes
dearest pets have been given over to frame the scene
the water is exquisite in its clean smell
vertical rivers stream to feed the parched
those below drink the life giving stuff and absorb the mist
beyond illusion or imagery of form to paint this memory
it is light itself
breath from heaven

yet
here I am, older
fancied up in a lace-lined number for celebrating
heels, so I stand fake slim at six feet tall
makeup applied hoping I might fool some years away
and all I can say about this gorgeous rain is
CRAP
my makeup is gonna run
MarilynMM is a 2′ tall print from a litho plate I painstakingly etched in college
I used this particular art thinking how we can sometimes be
a bit outside-centric rather than inside-evolved

(I’m ashamed to admit I’m guilty of this from time to time)

MM’s photo reference from the talented photographer Philippe Halsman (1906-1973)

pooling around with Millie

There is a pool I go to early Thursday mornings with my mom. The pool is crystal. He is a beautiful blue like my mother in moonlight. We swim, jogging across the earth only wetter. Millie wears funny goggles not as large as Snoopy’s but funny just the same. The blue lenses match the water and when she goes beneath the surface half her face disappears. We had to make a no laughing rule, because I swallow too much water. She thinks I’ll sink like a stone if I suck up the entire pool out of happiness. And Rita swims to the right on mornings Millie and I don’t get a proper lane to share, because the dude who can do twenty butterflies across the pool and the flip thing at the end of each lap (I think he’s showing off for us old gals) grabs a lane early as does the gorgeous, petite Asian woman with the flawless skin. Rita, I adore. She wears a white bathing cap with flowers like Esther Williams and when she smiles, I swear the flowers change color and grow a little. Water is kind to Rita. To all the ladies. He’s a charming fellow gently embracing their bodies. He grants them a weightlessness that time steals once they ascend those metal steps. He is the lover. We love him. How kind, the pain floats away for awhile. Every brash sound in the world seems to disappear when he whispers bubble mumble into our ears. So we all will keep at loving him. And he will always remember when they wore deep red lipstick and used their mouths well. Now, his formal rectangle with proper scrubbed edges tends and respects our lady-ness like back in that day, when gents tipped their fedoras and newsboy caps to beautiful Millie and flower-capped Rita.

Mermaid Girl

Mermaid Girl

These words were inspired today while early swimming with my beautiful mother in a crystal blue pool. I was reflecting on my new age of 53 (technically not 53 until May 20th;)) and thinking how I don’t care much (can’t say completely because that would be a lie) mostly because I’m blessed to have Millie and Billy for as long as I can keep them. I hope to enjoy every precious perfect and imperfect moment with my parents. Thank you.

The art was created last year – hey, it was either the mermaid or a fish:)

our story must not end here

riding the heat of dawn
we insinuated our bodies within one another
I presented myself to you
a wordless story
whispered in raging lines
fertile were my curves

from which our children sprang forth
multitudes

spilling over with god given wealth
a rain of ages

carving the cradle of these infant sons and daughters
my breast milk abundant
nourishing young
influencing adult
satisfying aged

long and beautiful
as I was
as I am
beginning
to end
our story must not end here

Golden Gyptian

if you suspected the Nile River, you’d be correct 🙂

 

For My Friend, Who Thinks She’s Lost Her Words

I am writing this for my friend
who thinks she’s lost her words
who thinks her words

are trapped beneath rocks
who believes she doesn’t possess the thirst
to move those dry mountains
my dear friend
needs to know
her words, those languid thoughts
the beautiful ones under the rocks
will seep into the rich black soil
decompose
reform
then be carried onward by industrious insect and
cyclical underground element
until they flow into jostling aquifers
cascading into wild rivers
roaming up as sparkling wells
into crystal waters that feed bubbling fountains
in thirst she will sip
and those wet words
her words, will quench her imagination
saturate her parched muse
and her pen will flow once again
with the beauty
she thought she’d lost
somewhere along the way

Turquoise Eyes

Turquoise Eyes

Dedicated to my dear friend, Deb who has done nothing but encourage me to keep writing even when I  believe (as I do often), I am anything but a writer…