Thursday, February 26, 2015

To My Muse

I'm a blue, disjointed woman
Picasso would be proud
Stalin's supporters
whisper at the stairs
conspiring to always
throw me over

I must be some kind
of threat, a great
Court's fool to have
such attention, always

But a Queen would
not have such a thing
raise her hand & tell you
to fetch your tail

So be off, ambulance riders
Hemingway had his time
Bad mouthing like Miller
and women like Anais
take pleasure in it

Dying strong is an art
Virginia Woolf can attest to
leaving power in words
yet she never came back
from the water

Rocks in my pocket
like loose change
just jokes of me

What I write
what I become is a
result of all of it

They become these words
lines, sketches,
paintings, of you to see
if you see yourself
somewhere in there

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

My Burlesque

I am a hangnail
magnet to irreverent people
a broken handle
unaddressed envelope

No room to stretch
to dream about freedom
swinging from one cage to another

The circus goers sneer
call me foul things
I perform out of habit
for them

Dank hole full of
deference, manure
and uneducated patrons
behaving badly

Potheads with peanuts
pretending to know
acting like they know

Laugh at this old woman
who did what she was told
and when she didn't
she still failed 
they laughed harder

For whatever the cause
it wasn't sufficient
children lash at me
and all follow suit 

No more from me
I'll go into the darkness
when my part is done
as badly as I performed
all these years

It doesn't matter
if I stopped acting now
they wouldn't know 
what to do without
an elephant to kill
for pleasure

Tuesday, February 17, 2015


Intentions beyond this ledge
are jagged cliffs, pine trees
and a lonely lake.
Sorrow of a lost arrow, misdirected.
It's not enough to open your hands
and say come away with me.
It's not enough to close one's eyes
and not see the painful landscape
where I once lived.

Murky water, thick as milk,
I was treading so long in.
Now the ghost is back, coming
into view--and each step closer,
just as fearful of losing again.
Grasp me, quick.  Pull my nakedness
in with your warmth. Open me up to
possibilities of strength and heights
of mountains again.

Tuesday, February 10, 2015

Eternal Winter

Does the flesh prick at the sight
of deep winter under cellophane?
Chased away from paradise by setting
the tree of life ablaze?

The winter has been unforgiving.
Returning back to the cold
makes one remember most.  The bitter
cold carefully selects its days
and punishes you beneath its force.

Then there's forgiveness: the decision,
the solid stance of Spring promising
beginnings.  Except old wintery days
froze you to the core during your
mid-western suburban childhood.

As did mine below the equator.
We are no different. But I exist
no more than supplying
a reflection, a forever willing audience,
someone who loves good fiction.

Forgive me?  It's still days until the thaw. 
I thank you now more than ever. 
But you are more alive than I. 
Fresh from the greenery--
brown fleshed bodies at your disposal.

I have grown pale and old. How do you
forgive the dead, a ghost that you
could once touch, but buried
deeper in the same avalanche?

Never transgressions on your part--
at least that can always be forgotten,
incessant white noise--you, from
the land of the living, of a perfect
wintery scene, and back of
the post card reads:
Wish you were here.

A lot does not exist in this plane
no matter what side of the world you are.
Bleak landscape, nothing ever grows.
Have you noticed? Only gleaming
ice castles, one who loves a story teller,
can keep you from being trapped
under the frigid weight of yourself.