Tag: poetry

Posted on

Zoophiliac’s Dream

  

Credit: http://static.comicvine.com/uploads/scale_small/1/15776/1322468-cat_fem6.jpg

She mewed at him provoking sense and shifted gaze.

The glint in his eye sparked flame among the blue.
Smoke surrounded her, drifting a tail of thin vapor.


His Circe gone, the scent of woman-cum-feline stirred.
The endless voyage in hiatus, his will broke in on itself
feathering out the tics drinking below the surface calm.


Caged ardor pounces a captain’s dreams ad delirium.
The restraints of a space-time compendium of battles
writ to air beats love into holes of clawed subordinates.

Posted on

Secret’s Out

  

credit: http://edge.neocha.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/huzi@neochaEDGE_01.jpg

I saw her picture first

cut off head, breasts
ample, pink spandex
clad, gathered at the
neck, accentuating
her rack so shapely.
She saw my photos
and thought to meet,
she and I anywhere.
But she turned out to
be a fashion maven
adoring all the latest
and I have no style 
but my own practical
to the bone and spare.
And I told her so, that
we had no center, no
common denominator
as I cared a whit for
what she cared a lot
about and so, what
kind of conversation 
could we dream up, 
impossible to sustain?
She revealed nothing
more than color and
fabric galore, for sure
a goddess of cinched
waist and good sense
of season and tricks
to enhance features.
For me, choosing the
day’s attire wears me
thin and ragged with
choices so few as I
keep a cry-cluttered
chaos of t-shirts and
jeans, no belts of any
kind, scoop necks or
v-necks only, turtle
necks producing a 
sweat and strangle
merely imagining a
collar so high up to
a neck’s constriction.
So with clothes only
we could not share
enough experiences.
I told her so, that she
needed to seek her 
own since I could not
compete, never get
beyond intimidated.
But the truth is, she
revealed her secret,
opened to me and I, 
unable to configure,
to examine fragment
instead of a shortcut,
a whole composite of
what she potentially 
could be, a mind not
reacting rationally or
flexibly without data
computable as usual
designation of man or
woman or somehow
tangibly identifiably a
sexual orientation that
would posit me in a 
known position, how
to act and what to 
ward off, defend or
protect, how to play
games, wait and see
properly, knew not 
what to say, how to
be. What could he
presenting as a she
expect of mere me?
Fear of falling free
of label safety just
dismantled me, a 
gaping loss of words
and thoughts of how 
to be only me with a
human:  he/she/we 
I skulked, hung it up.


 


Posted on

Anchor’s a Weight

An anchor rests upon my left foot, 
center of the crown atop metatarsals 
while the shank steels up to my knee 
to measure the length of tibial boxes.

 

  
Its weight causes a limp in my walk.
  

 

Anchoring my bones,
it weighs against my walking away
and ties me to the hull 
where I see pass by
ocean life abounding 
color and coral free waves 
of undulating weed and water
to please my senses five.
  
Though tethered to a ship,
I am free to enjoy, observe,
swimming gleefully 
in surging seas.
  
credits: 
Posted on

Bauhinia

  

Bauhinia, 

the delicate pink orchids 

that blossom each spring 

cheer the grog of the morning 

march to distances 

far and few 

from your branches. 

The blistering sun’s alchemy 

or the blustery grey

 of the day–alters. 

Drifting and burgeoning, 

transforming and contrasting 

as my moods, 

sometimes filled, lagrimal

of rusted red seed pod, 

feet and fingers of them 

like stultified streams 

of leaking fear frozen 

brown and red in mid drip. 

It’s then that your leaves wither 

at the edges, 

blackened and burned. 

The weather turned for the worse, 

your leaves round hearts 

of butterfly green, 

full and wide bloom. 

But when the winter wears away, 

your flowering bauhinian 

bells and stamen 

reach for my notice 

as I breeze past 

to travels once again 

drawing me from you.

Posted on

White Horse Bride


A daugher, a horse and her father
danced the lands of long and wide.

Hers were the steps of wan beauty
chaste and coveted centuries deep.

Her suitors at the foot of her father
poured the gifts of grain and steed.

Only one chosen the other pursued
fated to follow a white horse fleeing.

Two promised galloping to the rise
fly mountain top steeple to an altar.

And there the arrows reached true
both slain by jealous pride enduring.

A white horse exchanged for a bride
betrayed their sullen chase in hiding.

So bride-spirit inhabits equine prairie
to roam a world turned rage and fury.

  
Posted on

A Mother’s Birthing Flight

  
credit: http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2008/03_04/lonelyDM2803_468x562.jpg



On a late Sunday she was born early
her mother in teary wondered weary
looked her in the eye and challenged
“Grow stronger and quicker than me
and don’t ever take nobody’s charity.”


Then she laid her baby down to die
her own ailing heart beat-less inside
but that baby survived, grew round,
fed by couple-strife seeking solution, 
by priestly advice for consummation.


“Raise a child in charity’s appearance
and through her grow into one; hence
your conflicts will vanish in loving care
when hours turn into decades quickly
and so save a loving vow’s guarantee.”   


Today she sits on a birthday morning
and stares at the street cars passing,
no one stopping by for cake and gifts;
she regarding the hours of a first light
contemplates a mother’s birthing flight.


Posted on

The House of Mirrors

image

 

credit: http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2013/06/25/t-magazine/25leandro-redstone/25leandro-redstone-tmagArticle.jpg

 

Windows open the flies get in and buzz around occupant ears
and the neighbors see if anyone’s home to borrow a few eggs.
Prying eyes into unshuttered houses make movement cribbed
self-consciously checking on words, their tone and expression
so no one calls the cops when the screaming sounds so loud
that anxious stares cannot bear the cruel curiosity any longer.

Unlocked doors welcome strangers in along with friendly foes
to sit in the kitchen nook to wait for cold beer and sandwiches,
served in feigned welcome smiles wary of wrong impressions.
When doors swing wide the wind bellows loudly, wild howling
that outsiders mistake for babies neglected and other abuses
a lure for authorities of watchful interrogations lying in waiting.

An open house with glass walls like an atrium of family fronds
is a sociological study of disordered habits of broken subjects
where gourds are lasered open with surgical knives illumined
reflecting wide-eyed grimaced faces of fun house mirror halls
that release shrieks of wailing laughter hysterically unleashed
while witnesses nod in knowing affirmation of suspicious spin.

Confessional containers confine the inhabitants in cool cages
bars silvan with tales and typecasts for the people’s comfort,
the rack to rest their hats on in assurances wide in ever after.
“We always knew she was untrustworthy, her nose in the air,
and look at her children’s friends with the pierced nose rings.”
To lay bare what can be seen is like carelessly losing a home.

Posted on

Roses of Song and Myth: the Love Lie

 
Credit:   http://assets2.madewithcolor.com/2014/08/11/17/57/30/934/Marigold_Rose_3.jpg

The rose is not flattery, nor flattered can she be.

Her colors never brighten so with admiration.
Her white is white and pink is pink regardless.
Sun is her food, water her delight and nurture
she needs nothing from hands, no clip or two
no more than her nature designed so provides.

A stem releases bloom from inside itself formed
its patterns deep and wide configured long ago
running through time like speed of sound-light.
The evolution of her growth and being precede
all hands that pluck her bloom from bony bush.
She needs no more than nature draws from her.

For when she is clipped, she poses as love sigh
tall, thorny languor along the chilled lip of glass,
a vase for her thoughts to showcase her beauty.
But hollow and thin she starves on water alone
no earth to feed her fibers, her soft petal velvet 
of colors destined to rot, odiferous swill of death.

The rose bleeds not from thorns as do your gods
for she needs protection from prey; all who harm
love in the name of hunger forcefully feed on her.
The host of vines and verdure are not loving kind
but raw and real as the rain that beats her roots, 
suffers her drowned to make her stand woody by.

Patience and virtue and kindness do not clothe her.
She hangs no myrrh between her breasts to lure.
Nature is not a song for her nor an allegory rhyme.
She fails as ideal and lasts only so long as her DNA.
For her name is rose not love by human confusion
and sings a song the words unknown to mankind.

Leave her an earth that grows her feet strong-free
and make her not your words a sign of loving,
for she is not an idea, symbol or object, no agent.
Neither is she subject or lust or desire or longing.
She is not inspiration, romance or pheromone but
life stuff, permeation, breath, not your philosophy. 
Posted on

Living by the Numbers

 
credit:  https://danutm.files.wordpress.com/2013/05/big-data.jpg


I am a woman who wades in numbers,
soak myself in abstract configurations;
I jet-stream massage statistics to know,
find the answers, solve the riddle of it,
the non-numerical, innumerable queries
cried in words, a seemingly literary call,
but responsive to figures and values one
of twenty-four-seven and three-hundred
sixty-four in sixty times fifty-two or so set 
give or take, plus or minus, more or less.

“I’ve got your number,” no one ever said,
but clichés are like that, ubiquitous stain
on creativity’s spine like the cafe au lait 
spot on the leg or neck, a birth mark blot,
red, brown or invisibly zero’d out erased.
Countless ones perched in memory slate
have added up the sum total of me, mine,
all I ever was and will be with smug sure 
black and white like chalk on the boards
while flunking 365 true or false quizzes.

But not you, caresser of amassed details,
not data strokes, the airy waves of ideas
you throat-throw in fast, furious pitches
speeding in, aimed as weapon or homer,
at me batting less than top ranking 1000,
an average way below that .264, a mean,
the high and low of its streak of 9 no-hits;
I can never catch up, analyze every word
to track your wins from losses and defeat
the purpose, our aims on par, hole-in-one. 

We sport and play, linger and dally over
tenderous scars and spots, skin wounds
that narrate each misstep, spill or crash
we each separately, singly, absorbed in
seconds of lost sight, a blink of timeless
clicks of the clock in a silent living room
when we were youth without any history
past an endless future of anything goes.
But now, in lengthening hours, sun light
of sinless spins marks us immeasurably.

When you and I are old enough to know
that the feet we were, those inches along
the road miles we never traveled in truth
did not matter as many or few glimpses, 
insights into the relativity of relationships
fleeting and forever moving us in spaces,
places of perspectival generosity, a glee
of open doors, 1, 2 and 3, any alphabet
of understanding what counts, laughter,
touch, dream, a lantern glow in the mist.

I am a woman who drifts by the numbers,
ten by ten, mostly, often two by two-some,
just to tease the moment with complexity,
a game too many of us weak minded play.
“Age doesn’t matter,” you say, yet it does
to those who count; we count on them too
to whisper wordless songs in even tempo,
carrying the tune of eons engraving aural
flesh in a lilting lullaby, humming mindless
motion that apes the arrows of linear time.     

Posted on

Ode to a Bailiff

  



While the others scowled, flared and puffed
in practiced postures of professional despise
you, old and world weary wise, spoke true
chatter from the heart, a human reaching too.
Your limits were, like mine, of love and family
the mystery of marriage and the ache of lonely
failure at being the man of her unmaking sight.
Only your boots were polished and sturdy black
while my socked salmon sandal clotted dust
sliding along the crusted filth of our asphalt path
your cuffs clanking the metal of your burly belt
the ones that shhh-ould be clamping my wrists.


Our bridge was my crumbling past statuesque
in its esteemed alkalized marble cool pin-grey
and the advice from those harrowed halls of din.
“Be steady. She will know. I am sorry. So hard.”
While I slow-death paced back to churlish grins
we exchanged human trade in good will spirits,
you, speaking to me as if I mattered, I listening
as if I could care at that moment juggling misery
and hope and the doom of a mis-pieced puzzle
air born cluttering the fetid air with dizzying spin.


We both, in slow walks of dim bludgeoned halls,
wondered where we went wrong, a confusion’s
connection of human heart sunken inside echo
of conscience in the concrete confines’ meeting.
I loved you then like a mother’s son, my savior
only for your voice, even, pleading, wondrously
unprepossessing, acknowledging me breathing
as a fellow traveler, sharer of one crimson grief
barreled over the tide of ticks scratching at skin
burrowing inside the stream of killing us daily.
Blog at WordPress.com.