P O E T I C --- P A I N T I N G S

"Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen" -- da Vinci

To write poetry, you must read and, read some more -- Me

Dec 30, 2007


I know who
you really are.

though euphemisms
may run and scurry
for cover, refusing
to abdicate desire.

I know the real you
on my lifeline
smooth and moist

With each nip
I watch you eclipse
from deep mad
to deeper anger,

you bleed into
yellow pulp;

and make me crave
you all the more
and covet your sweet

I sigh and groan
while your pregnant nectar
seeps pass my
parted lips.

Dec 28, 2007

It's 3AM

They sat across from each
other at the back of Fred's Bar
the corner was dim

and choked
with furls of cigarillos
screwing virginia slims.

An antique table hoisted
her elbows and white russians,

umbrellaed his sweat and drips
of long island iced teas.

Cracked red vinyl seats
knew their asses well
and groaned under
their shifting weights
wishing that it had a mouth.

No one else heard
drifts of sultry's whisper
or the succulence she promised

"Oh, you like it like that?"

he could only drool and nod
his eyes dulled,
his toes curled in a grip
as tenacious as a pit-bull.

"yeah, that's good, that's
the spot" he sputtered.

They shocked the salt
and pepper shakers
right over the edge.

"Let's go and finish
this else where" he pants
"no, not yet" she murmurs,

"come, let's dance" she
pouts her red-painted
botox shots.

She gets up, rearranges
the black wisp of a dress

grinds the air
as she sashays
towards the dance floor

"one more thing --
(she murmurs)

what did you say
your name was?"

Dec 26, 2007

What Ever

Back when whiteness was clinched
in rosebud’s fist and pine had yet turned to pity.
Every morning hope shined within sun's face,
each night faith spooned moon’s baldness
Now they've both surrendered and given up their ghosts.

I'm a free verse writer. Below is a definition of free verse, from Bob's byway -- for those who don't know or aren't sure what free verse is...I mean!

A fluid form which conforms to no set rules of traditional versification. The free in free verse refers to the freedom from fixed patterns of meter and rhyme, but writers of free verse employ familiar poetic devices such as assonance, alliteration, imagery, caesura, figures of speech etc., and their rhythmic effects are dependent on the syllabic cadences emerging from the context. The term is often used in its French language form, vers libre.

Dec 25, 2007

Weekly Poetic Terms

Also called head rhyme or initial rhyme, the repetition of the initial sounds (usually consonants) of stressed syllables in neighboring words or at short intervals within a line or passage, usually at word beginnings, as in "wild and woolly," or the line from Shelley's "The Cloud":

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
Sidelight: Alliteration has a gratifying effect on the sound, gives a reinforcement to stresses, and can also serve as a subtle connection or emphasis of key words in the line, but alliterated words should not "call attention" to themselves by strained usage.

I use alliteration when writing my poems. Being a free verse writer, I tend to stay away from rhyme. Alliteration is as close as I will get to rhyming even though it isn't quite rhyme -- If that makes sense.

the conversation

he is always near

that fleshless face
a delirium dialect
to antiseptic walls.

he pants, salivates for the last sip
that runs through my veins;

death always complains
about thirst,

he's the dehydrated
dog lapping
illusions of water
from a bowl.

oblivion will not
be satiated until
he cajoles my foot
to follow
its twin through
void’s stream,
where darkness

flows into itself.

Inane Platitudes

My obituary
shall read that I laid
stark in the dark
mooning the night

and that my soul
was a barren menopausal
womb, hysterectomized
by some diety’s shaky hand.

It will canonize
how I pantomimed
banal prayers;

sent shot-put mouthings
of inane platitudes
to a deaf




Dec 23, 2007


did you know

the holy book
you carry

(that one

tucked so ostentatious
under your couturier

speaks about
the small member

who defiles whole bodies
how its bubonic wag




does james’script condemn
the way your tiny organ



my ears
destroys my disposition

when you suggest
i've birthed canine

will matthew
luke and john

shun you

hold their saintly
noses from hell's
sulfured breath

so foul

(James 3:6 And the tongue [is] a fire, a world of iniquity:
so is the tongue among our members, that it defileth the whole body)

After I Leave

After I leave this lifelessness
to crash the home of worms
and other immaterial substances,
it'll be then sun and moon that will bow
in luminous mourning.

They'll bleach these bones,
force them to weep in their
marrow, absorb pithy sighs,

sponge moans of eulogies,
make rock neighbors knock
hallelujah choruses, stretch
root congregations
until they speak in tongues.

Only then, will I reach
for sporangium's quilt,
neatly folded among shifting faults,
and warm myself
when pulverized yesterdays
get lonely and cold.


it's irritating

the way you

sashay through church doors
on sunday mornings


birks’ haute couture
and dachet hat

then ceremoniously sit
the piously phony

and sing holy
holy holy


jump up and wantonly
dance and sway down

consecrated aisles

as if


can be seduced


like some saturday night

nameless lover

Dec 21, 2007

granules of sand

life's like the song of a siren
if one isn't careful
it'll slip through your fingers
like streaming granules of sand

Dec 18, 2007

Great Poetry, Ideas and Thoughts

This is a great site to visit if you just want to relax and enjoy some reading.You don't have to be serious ALL the time! Come kick your shoes off and enjoy reading the strange workings of a strange mind.

read more | digg story


Play coy will you?
As if you have never seen me;
pretend that we did not
just dance the horizontal tango.

Desperate seconds ago
you traced each goose bump,
touched “g’s” delicious spot;

--satiation’s reverberation--


your lips tease,
resuscitate, devour

the faint sigh lingering
on my tongue.

Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins

Billy Collins --One time U.S. Poet Laureate

I can't begin to tell you how much I love Billy Collins. His poetry is fresh and uplifting. His writing inspires my writing. Hopefully one day, I'll become a poet close to his caliber.

Now on to my favorite poem by Billy Collins --

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Dec 16, 2007

Weekly Poetic Terms

A poem in which certain letters of the lines, usually the first letters, form a word or message relating to the subject. Of ancient origin, examples of acrostic poems date back as far as the 4th century.


Hockey is my favorite sport

On the ice or street
Cool and fun
Keep on playing
Exercise and stronger
You should try


you will not fool
me this time
yes, I will

embrace you
rock you

in the arms of patience,

massage the bamboo
pricking, sticking,
up and down my legs;

I'll be brave enough to manipulate

the naked nerves
until each blistering
tendril calms,

no, I won't
be the bear caught
in a steel trap
off limbs, or the wolf
tangled in a wire snare

they're the ones
who self-amputate
making way for escape.


I will caress you

coddle you

cosset you

hate you.


I like the sound
of a word when it
from the tip of my tongue.

Take cerulean for instance,

it makes a right-turn squeal
in the middle of a spectrum
and crashes itself --bang
head on into Indigo's palette

then, they push and shove
until one of them
falls off my bottom lip.

You try it,

feel the word -- Cyrillic,

notice how
it makes your tongue
roll back as if it was
a woman's eye,

you know
that show of white when
she's hating you.

Now, try saying existentialism

pay attention to the way
it tangles in the blanket
of your teeth, kicking
and flailing its feet
trying to get out.

Then, there's logorrhea --
she's the mother of them all
she drops whelps everywhere,

there's no word-control in her
vocabulary they go on and on and…
well, you get
the picture.

Still, words are
hershey, zagnut
and snicker bars to my sight

I like --

the look of them
as they melt and slide along
the lines of a surface;

-- hearing
their snorts and grunts
while looking for somewhere
to go.

Dec 13, 2007

black shoes and riverdance

just when the bang,
bang, bang behind my eyes

sorrow's gluttons appear
wanting curtain-calls
from pounding

last time I heard

was river-dancing
black slip-ons
over the right half
of my frontal lobe)

you 300 hundred pound
word hogs
sumo readers
whose eyes grunt
and scratch for more.

you can't wait
to root
through the taps and stomps
careening along my capricious slope

to dig up glimpses

of fire-fighter's solemn,
soot-smudged faces

(they carry
death, you know)

to spy on them
over my fore head

trailing anquish
that drips off tired brows --

maybe you're thinking;

"I can dissect her hemispheres

find answers why
strangers will climb over
and through
rubble and debree
for life not their own"


little do you page-droppers
know --

it's not only Poe
with hidden secrets
to the dings, tings, rings

of bells,

and more bells.

Dec 11, 2007

Metaphors --Sylvia Plath

Sylvia Plath

I'm a riddle in nine syllables.
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off. --Sylvia Plath

This poem was written by Sylvia Plath. She was pregnant at the time and wrote of how she felt.

I think she beautifully described or showed how pregnancy affects many of us. The last line sums it up well..."boarded the train there's no getting off" This is an excellent piece of writing.

Dec 9, 2007

A Kiss…

What I saw in your eyes

was the lilt of a wordless

psalm, a silent cantata.

mesmerized, I rock,

sway to the rhythm

of whispered promises

from your

old spice and pipe-smoke

swirl of cherry civet.

then I purr,

and arc for the moment,

the moment…

Dec 7, 2007

and so. . .

this evening I will blanket
you with my flesh;
take off each breast
tuck one under your head,
stuff another under your feet,

for you to be comfortable
when absorbing the full effect
of the moon’s push and pull.

then I will crack open my rib cage
and remove the heart
place it on the nightstand
where you can watch its walls

pulsate and thump,
morph to a predominant blue;

(not pretty periwinkle
or poetic indigo,
or some such drivel)

insidious blue,
the color that slovenly
hovers over ash’s hue.

and so,
I will wait--

to see if you approve
of this matte that
has overtaken my
night within night,
night within day,

--for this perversion
to permeate and assimilate
again and again. . .

Censorship or Critique?

In the Houghlin/Mifflin, on-line dictionary censorship is: the act, process, or practicing of censoring.

So what is censoring? From the same on-line dictionary, censoring is: A person authorized to examine books, films, or other material and to remove or suppress what is considered morally, politically, or otherwise objectionable.

Everything in life, as we know it, has limits, censoring or censorship defines some of these limits. Since Biblical times humankind has been censored. Whether you believe in the Bible or not, its word has censored humankind actions for over two thousand years. I'm not writing about whether one subscribes to the idea that the Bible is God's word I am however, pointing out that these words are and have been an influence on what man-kind believes is right or wrong which, in a sense, is scriptural censorship over everyday human action/behavior towards one another.

Here in the United States the constitution could also be considered a text of censorship i.e., Amendment VII-- In suits at common law, where the value in controversy shall exceed twenty dollars, the right of trial by jury shall be preserved, and no fact tried by a jury, shall be otherwise reexamined in any court of the United States, than according to the rules of the common law. This is a type of censorship on the powers-that-be in this country.

Here and there seems, there seems to be quite a bit of commotion about censorship. Many self proclaimed writing aficionados spout off about stepping on "my freedom of speech" and the disrespect of a writer's first amendment rights. Here is what the first amendment says:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

So, where is the line drawn? Well, let us start with the definition of poetry and when is critiquing considered censoring.

Ah yes, the definition of poetry. We can go to the good old dictionary.com and get a generic definition: The art or work of a poet. 1. Poems regarded as forming a division of literature. 2. The poetic works of a given author, group, nation, or kind. A piece of literature written in meter; verse. What is a poem? Again, I will use the on-line generic definition from dictionary.com: 1. A verbal composition designed to convey experiences, ideas, or emotions in a vivid and imaginative way, characterized by the use of language chosen for its sound and suggestive power and by the use of literary techniques such as meter, metaphor, and rhyme. 2. A composition in verse rather than in prose. 3. A literary composition written with an intensity or beauty of language more characteristic of poetry than of prose. 4. A creation, object, or experience having beauty suggestive of poetry.

I could go on and on about what poetry is or isn't but I won't, what needs to be understood is poetry is not an exact science.

What I find hypocritical, no one voices objections to the critiquing by so-called poetry experts. The First Amendment does not give carte blanche to rudeness and downright mean spirit-ness. As I stated earlier, poetry is not an exact science and the beauty of any poem is in the eye of the reader. Here is an excerpt written by a poet/teacher about “bad” poetry:

One of the most severe blocks poets face is perfectionism. Too many poets and aspiring poets feel they have to write a great poem every time they set pen to paper. They get frustrated when something does not work or they do not bother to write at all, because they just do not feel ‘inspired’. This sort of thinking destroys creativity. It stops many poets, and many other writers, from even putting the first word on the page. Poetic perfection is a great goal, but a terrible standard. You are not going to produce a great poem every time you sit down to write. You may go for days or weeks without producing anything that you feel is good enough. It can be frustrating, but it should not be defeating. Writing bad poetry is simply a part of writing poetry. --John Hewitt

So, who determines whose freedom of speech is to be verbally annihilated, or dumped into the recycle bin, in the name of critique? When does critique cross into censorship? Who, or what, self-proclaimed critic says that their opinion on a written word is etched in stone? When is it just to crush a writer’s feelings because a particular poem defies society’s sense of versified decorum? Where is it written that they have the wild card to mutilate a person’s write (not right) under the guise of critique? Yet, that same select few will belly ache about not being allowed their vulgarity and crassness under the guise of poetry. Yelp about how their freedom of speech is being violated when others object to their questionable writing tastes.

If a person does not have a grasp on the English language and can only use one-syllable, four letter words in a poem does this make one think that somehow, somewhere, the educational system has failed or etiquette has been flushed down the proverbial crapper.

Critique and censorship is in the eye of the reader. Depending on how learned the reader or writer is in literature will determine how they will react to criticism -- is it a critique or is it down right censorship.

Dec 2, 2007


never perfected

we pluck and preen
each plume
of ourselves
before prying eyes

the peepers of page
voyeurs of feathered roots
suffixes, and prefixes

this makes sense --

even Will understood
that life's but a walking shadow
a poor player upon a stage

he knew that frets and loves
would dot the barbs floating
from our eyes

hollows spurt
word after word
of coffee induced verses
and 3AM sleeplessness
striving for perfection

and so

we scribble
until sounds and utterances
dry in our quills

with hopes that one day
we'll earn the right
to be called

a scribe

a versifier

a poet

Approachable Poetry or Not

I have learned that there are many different definitions of “good” poetry. Being a novice writer I strive to perfect my craft by reading and learning from professionals. With this thought in mind I have done a small bit of research and found that the question what is good poetry which, by the way is now being termed approachable poetry, is a hot topic among the ranks of writers. This topic is being debated all the way down the literary echelon, from the learned and professional poets to those of us who write poetry for personal use and self-gratification.

I am not sure why I was lead to write this column or article, however you readers want to categorize this, but I am. My favorite poet Billy Collins was scheduled to speak at a literary conference in Salt Lake City this weekend and seems to have caused an uproar (maybe that’s why I just love that man) among his literary peers. He has now been dubbed “the poster child of approachable poetry” in literary circles (Salt Lake City Tribune Sun. Sept. 11, 2005). Mr. Collins brought on the ire of some critics who believe that good poetry does not necessarily have to appeal to the masses and should not have to be explained. This argument, in literary circles, is about whether poets should write for the audiences or write to please themselves (Salt Lake City Tribune). This article went further to explain that many of the American people are no longer reading as much as they use to. Said article provided statistics gathered by Association of American Publishers to supplement this statement. My question is this: how will a Writer, Poet, Novelist etc… be a writer if they do not read the classics... novels, poetry, plays of established writers? My contention is and always has been, we should read poetry, write poetry, read poetry…

This same argument mentioned in the above paragraph has been broached on many poetry forums of different types in one way or another. I find it interesting that those of the academic and professional writing world are asking the same questions many of us novice-want-to-bes are asking, what is good or approachable poetry. How is it defined? If the professionals are debating the issue then, who is to say what is good and approachable writing. Is this subjectivity rearing its obscure head?

Deborah White

Salt Lake City Tribune Article


Nov 27, 2007

Poetry from the Trenches: Women Poets of WWI

There's a cliché that comes to mind when the subject of women writers is brought up: "A woman's work is never done", to that age old phrase the words under appreciated should be added -- Women's poetry of World War I is no exception.

As WWI raged, women stepped up and became a mighty force, a ridged backbone during the war effort. This was dark time in history for every man, woman, and child all over the world. Poetry was an outlet for many of these people but for the purpose of this essay I'm going to focus on women's poetry.

During this War of Nations, women left their homes to go to work in factories or actually became part of the war effort -- flying planes, making weapons, nursing the wounded, actually active in the trenches.

The women, who worked in factories or were left back home to wait and wonder about their loved ones, often wrote of their experiences and feelings in prose or poetry. Some of the notable women poets were: Madeline Ida Bedford, Eva Dobell, Marian Allen, and Jessie Pope to name a few.

Madeline Ida Bedford wrote the poem Munition Wages. In this piece she wrote about the wages she made working in a munitions factory. When reading the poem, she seems to be bragging how life was better working in the factory but I read a bit of irony between the lines. Her last stanza sums the meaning up powerfully -- Worth while, for tomorrow if I'm blown to the sky, I'll have repaid my wages, in death – and pass by. www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ltg/projects/jtap/tutorials/intro/women/#wages

Not much information can be found about Madeline Ida Bedford as with many poets, she disappeared from sight.

Jessie Pope wrote the poem The Call. I found this piece to be wistful and sad. She's writing about the lads of war and wondering about the thankfulness of those affected and writes prayers for those fighting the war: Two. I ain't ashamed o' prayers, They're only wishes sent ter God Bits o' plants from bloody sod Trailing up His golden stairs.
Ninety seconds – Well, who cares! One – No fife, no blare, no drum – Over the Top – to Kingdom Come!
She was an English poet and a pro-war propagandist who lived in Britain.

Eva Dobel was a British Nurse who was known to write poems about her patients. She wrote the poem Pluck; But when the dreaded moment's there He'll face us all, a soldier yet, Watch his bared wounds with unmoved air, (Though tell-tale lashes still are wet),
And smoke his Woodbine cigarette.

Marian Allen wrote the poem The Wind on the Downs: Flying, ever flying overhead,
Here still I see your khaki figure pass, And when I leave the meadow, almost wait
That you should open first the wooden gate.
In the above poem she wrote of the landscape and wrote with a naturalistic voice. Not much information can be found on this poet. She may have taken the way many poets of the time and disappeared.

As with all poets, these notable ladies wrote of pain, death, hopes, and dreams. They found poetry an escape mechanism from the bombs, and guns of reality. Even from the trenches of dirt and blood their muse aspired to live on page.

“Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these”-- Emily Dickinson

Author notes

Women Poets of WWI

oldpoetry.com/oauthor/show/Eva Dobell
oldpoetry.com/opoem/33907 ‘PLUCK’

oldpoetry.com/oauthor/show/Marian Allen
oldpoetry.com/opoem/50172 ‘THE WIND ON THE DOWNS’

oldpoetry.com/oauthor/show/Madeline Ida Bedford
oldpoetry.com/opoem/55288 MUNITION WAGES

oldpoetry.com/opoem/52139 THE CALL

Written July 19th, 2006

Nov 26, 2007

To Him She Bends

She's tired, wearied
from eons of maternal

always bent
soothing brothers, cousins,
and fathers

of Arnon or Jabbok or any wadi.

They all talk too much
and now he babbles too,

Mississippi's baby
in millenium infancy.

Willow's long suffering
stoops silent
with her flowing

ready to sweep away
frowns of currents

that trip over rocks
and gurgles from rips
of tides.

Over there

on a sunny bank
bluebells nod,

hyacinth wave approval
with aromatic accolades
to eternal motherliness,

gardenias and jasmine
stretch scents across his foaming froth
and slip through her fronds
to take her hand.

A Passing Cloud

some day I would like to lasso
a passing cloud

climb up the sunbeam that runs
along its edge

and step off

into the cushion
of fluffy white

I would look down as I float

wave goodbye
to all the little wind-up

as they scuffle around

looking for their corner
in a round room

Nov 22, 2007


this morning I rolled
in the fragrances of sage
and clover, let their
scents sex my skin;

I looked up past
the wingless mango
and asked infinity

how she felt
about her obscurity
and where her indigo
heads as she

travels through forever,
well beyond the sight
of God.

Notions and Thoughts

And I said to myself,
write something, canonize
anything: the rhythmic
swing of children

on rope-twined stars
hung low from the tip of
the moon; how they swish
to and fro in cadence

with lilts of cricket
chirps, monotonous
drones of cicadae, conducting
songs past the night-sky’s

vacuous bucket. Or how
the web-paned tips of treetops
drip a dewed farewell to Halley’s
vanishing vapor.

Write something, canonize
anything, I said to myself.

Of Legacy and Sustenance

It is difficult to scribe you, transfer
your etchings from my mind.
Yet, I know that you are the legacy
dictated before I was born.

Some deity’s hand transported
ultimate parturition
into capsules embedded in my loins.

Burning through the length
of me you stretched open
my portal and thrust from ethereal’s

serous coat and became
the antagonist, the protagonist,
the main character of my purpose.

I breathe and live off your essence,
you are the air that balloons my lungs,
the flexor and vexer that expands
and contracts my heart.

You are much bigger than
macrocosm, and sustain me
more than the “victuals
for my sustenance”
of which Swift daringly wrote.

Sachet In Secret Places

Sniff deep of me,

for I am the white
five point cluster
whose fragrance wafts
on a soft southern

of lazy afternoons
I border verandas,
sips of iced tea
or mint juleps.

This evening
it is the sun
who is ephemeral
and dips
behind mauve
and coral clouds;

my bouquet lingers,
covertly smiles
and drifts citrus scent;

unseen, my aroma will sachet
itself through your window
inundate senses,

perfume erogenous places
where once pale laced
hankies secretly slept
or a sensuous hand
slyly crept.

I am Magnolia.

Nov 21, 2007


It's possible that I'll find
you in the stew perking
on the stove

layered between the bubbling
of beef, sour cream
and mushrooms;

or gripped frantically
at the end of the cat's tail
holding on to self-preservation.

Often, I watch
you swagger
in with my beloved
at 6PM sharp

and listen to heated
debates with his zipper
over the frailty
of restraint's constitution.

But, normally, it'll be
on a rainy afternoon

while I sit in the oak rocker
while creaking to the rhythm

of pat, pat, pat
plate-glass complaints,

that you'll peek from Picasso
or Monet's brush stokes

reminding me
that they too,

were inspired
by someone else's

saturday, gale and marble

saturday's unhappy

she cried
for you this morning

made the sky-sweeps

and the moss squish

you see

gale just stomped
past the sun
with veins rippling across
her eighth ball

don't worry

she'll bake dry
matted fingers
comforting you

coax open
clinched fists

to tickle
ankles of firs

your name
etched in marble

Nov 20, 2007

Macabre: An Observation of T.S. Elliot's --The Waste Land

T.S. Elliot

It seems poets everywhere

(lounging in Bavarian coffee shops
and Teutonic kaffegeschäft,
to those swishing down
Austria’s sugar slopes)

are obsessed with excruciation.


Macabre I say, macabre.

Je ne sais rien
about bards who write
of blue-haired tortoises
slumped over rooks and queens,

pawns of humanity;

inevitable, unavoidable,
a plague infesting itself.

I am not stunned--
no, not now
Eliot’s Waste Land

is the down-trodden's
blood dripping
from his eyes;

their hunger, poverty,
and desperation;

the ink within his pen.

Nov 19, 2007


It's the bruise
with which, she speaks
that bothers me most.

This morning, like every

she watches
from her
gilded coffin settled
on the night-stand;

remember us,
her stare yells,
remember us;

don't forget
how painful was the mandate
of our expulsion;

daughter of my daughter's daughter

listen to the wind's silence;
no longer can you hear
shouts of warriors echo
across our lands

our voices have been
to wails of orphaned

The peach groves
and march of Dixie
are more red now,

our blood has dried
on the soles of their feet.

My lids grieve --

dear mother
of my many mothers

I feel your whisper
penning across
my skin --

how I wish
to have known you.

Nov 18, 2007

Immaterial Substance

You've worn me well,
or I -- you

immaterial substance.

I am that one lone leaf

(I've missed the wind)

dewless, cracked

Of no importance or relevance;
inconsequential and irrelevant.

I wake with you in the mornings
peel off your nights

slip back into your neon

one foot
at a time

again, to wear you well

or you -- me

Beauty Changing to More Beauty

Nov 16, 2007


When I live again,

I'll plant my syllabraries
on a hill and let them sweep
heaven for another 2000 years;

be a thorn
in the foot of Hephaestus
or Artemis or Zeus,

any one of those hedonists
who prop
their feet on the sun;

shade the trail
for Guadalupe Hildalgo
sneak drinks
from the Chetco river.

I'd name myself Sequoya;
be sentinel
for spots of owls,
and Murrelet's marbles;

become the core
of a Sparrow's Eye.