The Cult

Happy New Year

some sparks will fire
to dance out of control -
O how that thought relieves me

Fait Accompli

Such chapters over now
How will the words define us?

White rooms stand vacant now
Sharp corners to remind us

Bruises bloom in tandem
Just below the surface

From black to royal purple -
Only dew completes the Iris.

- Debbie Calverley

Intemperate (Take Two)

Stomach knots the way he left
me still wet with a grin
slightest of wind shifts
such blue cast eyes
over polar


such rules as hands retreat
from knees such hat-trick clouds
such impermanent shapes
stiff with sand


sticks and half-names
how slow creeps resentful
tide
Oh the tide --


yawns at dawn
greedy for everything

Here's Looking at You

Intemperate

All at sea with the way he left
me still standing with a grin
slightest of wind shifts
blue his net-cast eyes
out and over different directions

such slow retreat of hands
from the roundness of knees
such hat-trick clouds
such impermeable shapes

sticks stiff with sand
unfinished half-names
scrawled into tides

Oh the tide --
yawns wide
greedy for everything.

Hard Floors Feel Soft

time to feel nothing
but this grope of whispered word --
crawl to me through dark

Daisy Haiku

today he loves her
today he loves her not
tomorrow he might

Becoming Haiku

submerged in the bath
she lifts up her arms to trees -
branches drip with rain

Sketches of a Nightjar

Souls disguised as eyes
paint flat the backs of moths

flee unencumbered
into circlular sounds of moon

from deep inside a mix of woods
across brackish perch

a whippoorwill begins to tone
of death and twilight

whir of up-catch
transport to soul departing

silkworms devour
clothes of those still living

Günter Eich Apocrypha

A pretty girl asks
for my autograph,
delighted! Except
it's her cigarette
she wants signed,

then lighted. Think about it.
I do. And am
for a moment
the happiest man
that I have ever known—

I have seen my end
and it is someone else's
body, breath
and lovely
inspiration.

FRANZ WRIGHT

Found

Beneath scraps and heaps
an old lover's shoe

Christmas Haiku

turkey took 6 hours
I wonder how young it was?
they all leave older

Surprise Haiku

unexpected treat -
suddenly you were with me
even though you weren't

The Gift

The day my mother dropped a net
of oranges on the kitchen table
and the net broke and oranges
rolled and we snatched them,
my brother and I,
peeled back the skin and bit deep
to make the juice explode with our laughter,
and my father spun one orange in his palm
and said quietly, "This was Christmas, 1938,"
said it without bitterness or anger,
just observing his life
from far away, this tiny world
cupped in one palm,
I learned I had no way
to comprehend an orange.

SEAN LAUSE

Warmth

He needs to be happy -

as I wind stockings 'round
his craggy skull
he says:

That's all I ever wanted.

Outside the Window

Inside, we see her clutch at a blue towel
or it might be a small blanket. His hand
moves up towards her bent head, a lock
of hair is pushed aside. Her brow is furrowed
cheeks flushed, body tense and nervous.
He tilts her chin we see him mouthe words
either tender or vicious, we cannot tell.

It’s the way her eyes flash in the candlelight -
that line between hate and passion that we cannot
draw. She clutches his left hand, briefly as if
she may topple, for a split of a hair we think she
will crumple like a blue blanket into the wrinkled
circle of his arms. But then he pushes and she
staggers backwards, smacks her leg into the small
wooden table, The blanket falls to the ground.

All of the photographs
in their little silver frames shake
-as if he had fallen to his knees.

Letting Go Of

violet spills
lip to tongue
crystalline fires
fever pitch throws
gigantic mad shadows
candles on the pine
walls licked by magic
separate beds
dust collectors
everything nothing
chance not taken
-- not forgotten

Perched on Pisa

The Moon Observes a Snow Angel

She lay star-shaped
black coat
open
naked against
snow
melted on hot skin
softness fell
into her hair
white water stars
froze on her lashes
cradled
her mouth moved
against black skyscape
flakes teased her tongue
exposed hungry
to taste the night
lips charged wet
arms, legs
whirled into shapes

come closer

his face over hers
watched luminous
like a moon

He licked at her lips
and watched her
transform

Untitled

branches dry and brittle
her season turns cold
frost forms on windowpanes

Satellite of Love

Race to Dakar

She sits in front of the glow screen
watches the men race to Dakar
through dustbowls of death they race
wheels wobble engines groan eyes
circulate and re-circulate fear
desire and pure exhaustion and she
wonders if the race is like explosive
orgasm as his bike crashes as he pants
wheezes breathes swears shakes
ignores her text message to

play it safe

into the pure splash of knowing
that he could have just died

but goddamnit
not by her hand.

Dislocation

Such sudden change of season here
a thick blue spruce the only relief
from this snow blind world
of white everything.

My mind spirals back to a stone
path in Spain flanked with colours
awash with length of heat, a taste
of hollowed out melon filled with port.

At sunset, a rush of tide and we ran
to the balcony thrilled at the sight
noise and force, push and pull
musical suck of water into sand.

Sound of a shovel hitting ice
wakes me and I know -
I will always be turning corners
to never find you.

Sometimes

I will give you a slippery slope
a gravel road that takes you
down into ditches
if you drive too fast and don't
concentrate - please don't

stop

it will just ruin
everything.

Lost Haiku

It was there at 6 am
clear as a spring lake -
now lost in morning mist

The Beach

starfish on the beach at dawn
the tide rolls out --
such tiny breaking hearts

Quiet

She loves him quietly -
while all the world
screams at her to stop

Shy

when her night comes again
through thin shy curtains--
he will no longer be dead

Tide

Fuck ebb and flow
It's all about the wave ~~
Catch it.

Hab

If I don't get one soon
I'll surely die
from lack of heat

At Oscar Wilde's Tomb - Paris 2005

Untitled

At 3:00 in the morning
the phone rings --
her night explodes into voice

Snow

Sky has strewn diamonds
across the yards
such tiny unseen hands

Liqueur

drinking amaretto on Sunday
I really don't care
if he finds me too sweet

the Killers reply

But heaven ain't close in a place like this
Anything goes but don't blink you might miss
Cause heaven ain't close in a place like this

Slap

should only be heard
when a fish jumps -
in pure joy of a leap

How Do You Know He's Real?

He asked me
pointing to his chest he said -

I'm real.
I know you're real
I can see you.

How do you know he was real?

I could only close my eyes
and try to believe.

Frozen Gin

Now I keep my gin in the freezer
next to a book of poetry
that still holds all the heat of Greece

Watersheds

That afternoon I smuggled lavender
behind his ear the weather was full
of bad intentions, although the sun
appeared to crack a smile.

As clouds began to scud and form
poems we were decoding became nothing
but kaleidoscopes of light and shadow.

My eyes swept up to read his face
- but it had already changed to something
unreadable and I wondered if the story
that was my face was dividing too.

I knew there were no more words
only other sounds he will not utter -
spilling into different oceans.

Still

In the back of a cab
back of her neck responds--
his words glow so softly

Idle

empty car pulled to the side
door thrown open --
he walks the road alone

Buy Me Socks

Buy me socks, don't make me need you
I prefer to walk alone, woolen and warm
one foot on the ground, softly.

Don't look at me that way -
you're only blocking my view.
I might miss something, just there
behind your right ear, a frog prince leapt.

Stop talking so I might hear him
as he slaps his rubbery spread toes
splashing onto thick flat pads of purple lilies.

Please don't love me. It will just
turn into garbage day, mounds of old
musty newspapers full of such useless
recyclable drivel. Breakfast in bed

should not have much to do with food.
So go ahead, feel free
to devour.

the Killers

And the days are not full enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass

Ezra Pound

Poem as Physical

No longer are these words confined
to page, no longer flesh pinned to bone
no eyes boxed in blinders, all the world
has opened into delight of sudden horizon
once cloistered ships spun inside bottles
now smashed they gleam like parchment -

a fountain pen poised, tattoos tender skin
as gently, wind lifts tattered sails.

and now I want you --

Cult - Edie

John Donne, The Good Morrow

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.
- John Donne, The Good Morrow

The Farmer

Tonight the moon waxes yellow -
Over bent barbs of wheat shafts
Fields appear a little softer
As the last cricket fades by the creek.

The lone farmer in silhouette
Walks towards the familiar barn
It’s eaves and vanes casting unfamiliar
Shadows of slanted fences.

His thick boots crunch
The dying leaves along the path.
From deep within the horse begins to
Stamp and blow its nostrils flaring

Steam rises in clouds. Yellow moon
Obscured in haze, waxes home
A little softer even though the last light
Has long gone out. Oh, to hear her laugh;

The way she used to.

New

Sometimes
worlds grow out of nowhere
in sprouts and sprigs, in gentle nudges
nose rubs, spiral kisses that turn to sucking
until suddenly you're up against a wall
his tongue in your throat
your legs around his waist
desire pink as blush dawn
sun now coming
through thin shy curtains
and you wonder
what it was ever like
to feel dead.

Toe Cramps and other things of Nuisance

The sign read NO SWIMMING TODAY
The waves crashed as high as Trump Tower
The one in Chicago
The lifeguard was OFF DUTY
The clouds were low ferocious
The lightning struck just as I stroked
The waves frothed and came into me
The water took me furious and grey
The gull reeled encased in glass
The moon shook
The stars broke as my hand reached surface
The end is never predictable my friend -
The toe cramped
There was nothing I could do.

25,400 days, he said

if we're lucky
so we had another mimosa
cool in the sun

Float

He didn't leave he floated
away as if he'd just done
a line of cocaine

(not that she would know
what a line does to gravity)

No sound of footsteps
only

there she was
left floating too

(in Marilyn's favorite pool)

white fingers
stars pressed to a desert ceiling

How A Heart Feels On A Sleeve

A little vulnerable
A little brave
Quick-beats of not knowing
Red rag muscle gasps
Out there
Nude
Beautiful
Ugly
As if to say

Look here
I don’t belong
Bleeding lace onto cuffs

Exposed
Unprotected
Such undetected murmurs
Fear of sudden flat-line
Irregular pulse
Skips a beat to the last

thin voice singing

November 1, 2008

Contemplate distance
how near -
in patterns of rhythmic verse
span of breath, ardor of kiss
attrition of a marble staircase
treads bent to tales of journey.

How many travelers have felt
roughness of an artisan’s hand
as he placed each step with tenderness?
Who has let their thoughts linger
caressed iron rails or slipped against
each groove and notch of stone
leaned into cold walls alive with history
until they penetrate the corporeal?

If your life should mean a thing
- if my life should mean a thing
Dear Heart - let it be this.
Diminish distance even as it sinks
into twilight’s vapid mouth.

Midnight to midnight
it will always only be
-- you.

Olive (Take 2)

I am wild gypsy fruit bitter as Koroneiki
small and difficult to cultivate
limestone roots too close to salt -
wounds too near to risk of drought.

On war-torn shores I scorch and shelter
delight to flourish rare to one
who harvests, rolls pits against
teeth thick with oil, pungent with sea.

I am no Odysseus, I did not crawl between
two shoots grown from single stalk.
I am no legend, no tree in Crete
two-thousand rings around a wooden heart.

My outstretched hand is not a leaf --
I was not made to settle doves.

Prairie as a Fishbowl

It is world of parabolic
horizon, hastily razored fields
left-over stubble of unshaven farmers
where stooks stand at dawn. On the day

he is buried, land vibrates
knowing hands that have loved it
are returning.
Stands of poplars shake

their leafy lanterns unfold
sound crisp as linen, a memory
of dresses sweeping wooden floors.
Nothing can compare

to the way prairie breathes in
breathes out, embraces season
with sudden death, painfully labors
spring to green; and so it goes.

As he is lowered, no sound
but that of lowering, until the train -
its language leaving us before it begins.

- For REC - 1921 - 2008

Windmills

Sometimes, windmills cycle in my head
chase off the cotton batten with a clear
sweet puff of

alone ringed in a fringe of grass
staring up at infinite blue, sans skeleton
planes chasing each others tails, sans left-
over food smells wafting from the windows
no dance of bugs twirling tornadoes over me.

Nobody's words jam my ears with feedback
no useless verbs nudging my pen towards
my open fingers.

And this time, the girl gets the boy
the dish runs away with the spoon -
if I lie here long enough a spotted cow surely
will jump clear over the moon made of cheese.

Right now, only me in a fringe of grass
listening to the sound of windmills.
I don't care who might be taking their last breath.
Tomorrow, I will.

Black Spiders

They crawl on your walls in autumn
across your diseased breast
cling to the surface seeking out heat
because sometimes life outside is cold

even now black spiders creep
along walls to find somewhere
warm to hang --
their legs so fragile.

Nothing that delicate
can last.

Fly me to the moon
he said
Your nipples are so beautiful --

Use the Word Darling

Write me a little poem
use the word darling
don't tell anyone it's for me
put it in a little envelope
squish it between the floorboards
where everyone can walk on it
oblivious -
while I carry you in secret.

Michael - The oldest Gibralter Ape

47

It took her forty-seven
years to find out
what she'd been missing
-- all of those forty-seven
years.

Luncheon

Yellow, pink, blue, green
ties behind navy suits
everyone small-talking
convinced they want to be there
convinced they are important -
I can't wait to get out.
Instead I sit on a leather sofa
in the corner and write this poem.

It begins --
I hate this
life without you.

Space Girl

Tired of gravity she floats elsewhere
in a big translucent bubble blown
by a 5 year old at a birthday party
she just somehow made it inside
let it take her away, high up and over
all the fields being harvested this time
of year, everything golden and flatter
than flat should ever be. She drifts
west, nobody stops her, under the radar
she hovers and when no breeze arrives
she rides on tailwinds from big jet planes
all that technology when all anyone needs
is a bubble like hers.

Her in those silver space boots.
Her smile catching the last of the horizon's rays.

Come As We Are

Nothing left to give you but this
meagerness of poem, this pink heart
beat trapped below layers of skin
ribcage still as a cased violin
- so thin this rattle of bones.

To measure tick of winter's metronome
upon summer shoulders bare
to kiss the tremble from your hands
that once held spring toward me
- sprays of colour so many-petalled.

How to Not

write about it. Rewind backwards -
pen on the table, eyes fixed as if to
lift, as if to pick it up and write
finger twitch towards instead
just back away, leave it alone
don't say the way you feel don't
reveal just hide inside the chest
of gold you thought you'd finally
found, just hide there pretending
that every thing is OK
every thing alright

Yeah
Sure
- it's all good.

Lonley as the Sea

There is nothing more to write
than this lament of weeping gulls
nothing more to hear than wing-
fluttered air as it moves ever upward
away from everything we've ever known.
It cannot be matched, this etheral
blue that passes through all surface
permeates sea's glassy eye until awash
I become wave cresting reckless
ever further from home;

mouth full of broken shells
iron salt of lost coins.

Last Day of Summer

Long, dying light of September
sun-stretched fingers across my back
I'm in the lawn chair, exhausted -
tree shadows surround me as if to
embrace, and all I can do
is wonder where you are.

Poem on the London Underground

Western wind when wilt thou blow
the small rain down can rain
Christ if my love were in my arms
and I in my bed again

Anon (early 16th century)

Smaller Things

Geese at night cry forth to light
diminished, signal to winter's brief
distill that once again will widen
into something infinitely new.

Do we move towards smaller things
to see how large their utterance?
Worth of a dust-winged moth
depth of blackness at work in DNA?

Image isolated becomes poem
explodes into some other universe
brings us to our knees to think -
what births a star, what kills it?

Gravity pulls upon itself
lets nothing in, nothing out
until at the core, something small
begins to tunnel towards the taper

becomes embrace that in itself
holds all realization of departure.

Autumn

thoughts of your fingers
tangled in my hair -
mud and rain they come they go

Give Me

-- your tongue
thrust it down my throat
come bitter - fear;
salt lick all sadness
revel over sweet spots
until everything sour
be
comes

taste unexplainable
umami -
run your tongue all over mine.

Matisse - Joy of Life

Work in Progress

Were she to say
she loved you
what would happen then?
Why such word?
why now
such exposure of breast
such lickable sentence
there is nowhere to go
but here
that's what she said
just
here
he heard her say
that's all she wanted to say -
that's all he heard her say.

Man Behind the Curtain

Pay no attention
to the man behind the curtain

he's only there to fool
with his little box of doom -
it glitters in his hand to make you
look, to wonder what's inside
and all he has to ever do
is hold it there in the palm
of his hand, lid turned down
until you can't resist
the mind begins to twist
turn its nothing into some
thing green and slimy, or black
and deathly, until all you ever
see is the box, the glitter beginning
to form a name until you think
that box is yours and you should
climb inside, let it take you
down - once inside can't get out
there is no shine, there is no light
just all you ever thought it was
black and empty, full of doom
until the box becomes your brain
your brain becomes the box
and nothing can open
nobody can help
until the day you push against
the lid with the flat of your hand
and light fills the cavity
eyes adjust, you see her face
as she lifts up from the other side
at the precise time as the push -
she was about to climb in
the box had fooled her too
just as you were climbing out
together leave it all behind
become each others breath
discover glimmer in the truth of it
turn and laugh at curious shadows-
once you paid attention
to the man behind the curtain
--he was only there to fool.

Perhaps When I am Old

I will not cling but gather
with tired, withered arms
his fears collapsed in blooms of red
memories petals swept from stone

In single file, ghosts will pass
absorb into the softest moss
through eyes grown dimmer
I might see he -

who held then broke, such fracture
found in low sweet laugh, in tangled
thoughts, an ivy English scrambling
broken fences, my sad garden.

I may inherit -
heap of gravestones, burst
of poppies, my fingers crush
absorb the must, spill kept seeds

succumb such tulip
to stroke such length of tender stalk!
perhaps when we are old my love, perhaps.

Oasis

DeThrust

Oh subtle
Oh sudden!
closeness of withdraw
backwards slide over
hands and veins
liquid spills
until no squeeze
left to hold
you
uneager at thought
of such wet
open door softly
banging in hot breeze
don't need to go
only so many streets
to walk
only so many houses
with yellow lights
dark shapes caught in nets
still stale of curtains
a voice carries over
static on the line
static on the line

receivers drop
weep into my hands

Now was not the Time

to feel such hot breath
fanning my jugular
such reaction
the pulse there, just there

or to feel your sweat be -
coming into film noir lights
out, sprawled across such
wide sofa of discontent

the very one where she sat
or sits just as this very moment
her nostrils flaring ever so
towards the pungence of my scent.

The Archer

Her eyes two slits, precise as arrow
loops, turned parallel to earth and sky.
The plain was wide, horizon stretched
elastic as the linen string pulled taut
against her chest, her limbs as narrow
as the precious longbow made of yew
back to belly, sapwood to heart

chin cupped as soft as Cupid’s
iron adorned with Quail fletch
bound with sinew as if to bone, ivory
thumb-ring wrapped against pain of draw.
She stood erect, width of foot to width
of shoulder, left side to his, three
fingers poised as if to pluck a delicate
harp. She stood unconscious, blind

to sight– there was no noise, save for
sudden movement of their hidden
song, warm tongue of fleshy pull
whoosh of flight, an earthly thud.
Her form collapsed around itself
recoiled in the torment of her mark.
Two bodies fell together, softly
as purple clovers swathed black fields.

Pursuit

There are fields and fields of chases
countless poppies, wheat shafts
gopher holes littered like land mines
ready to twist any ankle that turns
around such entry to a home.

I will not chase you - no
instead, I will lie flat between
the golden heads, contemplate sky
listen for the sound of your feet
as you return slowly, weary of hunt
your long legs sinking tender over mine.

Inside my Outside

Gardens, full of us
sweet heads, yes nods
flesh of colour freckled
light soft, broad leaves.

No sting of thistle cloud
to scuttle whorl of petalled suns.
Here, press closer to ear
listen to thud of worms begin-
uproot of surface.

Honey

No whir of bee wings now
wax of empty honeycombs
no queen upon a throne of drones
no flowers spread in wait
no flick of tongue, no cry on entry
no prick, no swell
or itch or throb -

petals litter empty gardens
in tangled demise
of death's sweet sting.

Ode to Me.

Ok.

Let's be honest.
Both knees are shot
the left worse than the right.

I need reader glasses to see
if the filet mignon beats out
the salmon in ginger sauce.

I drink too much.

My ass is sagging.

What more would you like me
to say? It's only downhill from here?
I think not.

Darlin'
just don't say you love me - maybe -
there is still life in these knees.

Why I Hate Toast

Because it gets cold very fast
like a lover turned friend
no jam or jelly can mask
such a moment
when you bite down
expecting hot butter
strawberries
creamed honey -
nothing but frigid crust
no matter how intense the promise.

You would think by the time it popped
there would be something left to celebrate.

Downslide

My mind is awake and climbing.
It’s learning about gravel, embedded
in knees, it’s finding the grip when there
are no handholds. It is screaming
upside down with no rope, flayed skin
nerves exposed. How long will I live?
3 seconds. So much to do.

Please, unopen your arms
There is joy in this fall.

Parabola

Would the swallows hear
the shatter of eggs as they
fell from the nest?

I wondered as I lay prone
on the hard concrete sidewalk
in the middle of downtown
Chicago, because they said
if you lay there in front of that
particular building, you'd see it.
The parabolic curve looming
over you, was the only way
to capture the illusion.

Just the way you loomed over me
there was only one perspective.
Flat on my back - your form an arc,
such architectural strategy.
Everyone else just shoes and legs -
but hey, a girl has to get up
at some point - astonished
by the directrix of the view.

Mary, Mother of

Jane, who works in the coffee shop -
rough part of town. Her hair is dyed
for the sake of it, blows red flames
in the wind. Her skirts are too tight
she just doesn't care, what does it matter
in the end? She blows kisses into cups
just before serving, doesn't matter
if he's one of the regulars. It's due to
Mary never kissing her as a kid. Now
all Jane ever wants to do is kiss.
"All good things come to those who wait"
Mary always said. Just one more cup
even if he lies to her. God didn't
give her those big lips for nothin'.

Oil of Sweet Vitriol

Ghosts are here, smells of ether
dark in remembrance, never forgetting -
they float to surface every layer.

We stripped wallpaper in the kitchen
found the hole in the plumbing stack
after six years of pure stench, the diapers,
cat piss, kettle boiling dry on the stove.
Times we used to love, hard on the kitchen
floor while the wallpaper peeled away.
Sweet smells. Sweet nothings cling to me –
before day seeps in beneath night’s door.

Ghosts are here, smells of ether
dark in remembrance, never forgetting -
they float to surface every layer.

Atargatis (Derketo)

She lives below the great swells

still in unfathomable depths

of wounds so great cast down 

by weight of her own heart 

heavy with love of a mortal man.

She longs to disguise her shame as fish

no waters can conceal her beauty so.

She grows a tail, to not be touched between

what once had held his seed.

Her nakedness appears in waves

to sailors lost upon the sea, her long wet

hair wraps around their waists

she takes them down, embraced in loneliness

no knowledge that they cannot breathe

and so she mourns her syren song alive

in storms her cast off scales litter shores

where once they ran, whole
stripped and blameless.

Her Sorrow

Her sorrow is the song of birds

a nest, bits of string and paper

wound tight to the bough.

It is a swallow in river swoop

an instinct, a knowing.

It is whip-poor-will in moonlight

blood haunt at dawn, widened eyes.

It is red-winged blackbird

on the thin reed crying home.

It is sparrow that flies through

emptiness, search for roost

belfry, steeple, God.

It is rareness of a nightingale

caught deep in fury of thicket

her song a burst of heart

flutter of fingers

against furrow of brow;

sleep, sleep

your head on feathered pillows.

"take your seaside arms & write the next line"

Carrying a Torch

I was walking

furiously grey with morning sleep

that didn't come    rain

full of hip-hop     drum

beat on pavement    bass

mock to my discontent

hissssssssss 

on the coal

smoke from the chimneys

when I saw the sparrow

my tears fell hard

soft 

as the pile of feathers

cold on the dead ground

until nothing was dry

something had died -

O love,

where is your hand?

Sympathetic Magic

She was no shaman, cavewoman x

she spoke to her lover through unholy hands.

She lead him to the wall, his palm down

against the rough damp dark, began to trace

charcoal finger flutes both hers and his.

She drew herself, rare in the language of caves

rendered him, between their bodies - a heart, 

red ochre.  Behind the fire burned, light flickered

all eyes.  They raped each other in the guttural night

lost between echoes.  He left her full, awash

with sweat, her scent heavy upon him.

The next day he gifted fish wrapped in leaves.

She squatted to eat, adorned her hair with bones.

Nobody heard her voice as she began to sing.

like flowers

I would not run from you

for your shadow would follow me -

leaning tree where you carved my name

cast to the ground

lengthening long, a leafy umbrella

like the one you held over me 

when everything was rain.

bent by the wind

a field of grass whispers

I hear your name

See the beach reeling beneath the gulls 

as they swoop, cry for us.  

I know that is where you'll be waiting

along the shore, a map so worn 

I know every fold of your face 

every crease of your arms

hue of your eyes painted 

with the blue of the sea's own watery brush

How could I leave you?

I want to fill you with poems

words softly scented 

like flowers

Apical

My Spring -

my bud below the bark

unbroken root to stem

strung scent of unborn

flowers seep through

protrusions lateral

weaves a delicate lace

of seasons

past and those to come

the surface stirs:

a thousand dormant ladybirds

await the burst of flight.

Heart - Break

There is smoke in the hills

this vineyard is ravaged -

doves fly from my chest

sentinel

I am old and drunk

at the top of a hill -

nobody looks like you

Spain, 1519 (Victoria)

How could she not?  Love him.

That man of spices, circler of globes.

She was his carrack, heathen sprung from

a name so holy, her church still perched atop

his hill.

They left as one, hot August,

from the Spanish coast, his eyes grey

blustery as the wind that crossed

her lanteen sails.  Her ropes taut

his hands eager, keen upon the rudder.

Three years they fought, discovered, sunk

within the choice high seas.  She sailed

as one of five, to witness murder

in the Phillipines.  Her heart gave out

storms set in, her love lost upon the sea.

When he was gone, she almost toppled -

what kept her was her stable deck

their promise to deliver just 18 men

starved and filthy, her holds heavy with 

pungent spices, her wounded sides

that longed to sink.

That chilled September day she appeared

no surface was left uncelebrated, unflowered

untouched.  And yet she only saw him

as he sunk far below the surface

eternal anchor left to rust.   The smell of

cloves, all hands upon her -

never so alone.