Wednesday, May 28, 2014

The God of Words (A Poem)

I long for a house on the dunes,
Stained-glass pagoda and
A sea luminous enough
To charm the stars,
Yet close enough to the white streets
Of a historical city,
Perhaps London or Budapest,
So rich in the tradition
Of its own persona
That I might lose myself,
Shadow mistress
of the tragic love affair,
Road maps in my back pocket,
Heap of books upon the table,
Intrinsic scribblings across
The towered walls of my journal,
Love letters to all the dead poets,
Bone-grip of my poems
Falling from hippie-gemmed fingers,
Each one a personal Messiah.


Written for a prompt at dVerse Poets.

The Poet and the Wordsmith (A Poem)

"The flowers to my hair"    Sometimes I like to fancy myself a flower child.  This is the outcome.   I actually wear a flower in my hair almost everyday...I have a whole collection of them in a drawer.  So there you have a random fact about me!  Heh.

We go together
Like Sonny and Cher,
Like the flowers to my hair,
A cool swig of sweet tea
On a humid 4th of July eve,
Blanket to the picnic,
Icing to the buttercream,
Double-shot latte to
My morning book,
Two magnetic poles
In a perfect opposites attraction
Pulling each other
Into the same time zone,
Omitting complete decades,
My toe tap to your guitar strum,
Like crimson is to clover,
Folding seconds, pulling strings.


**When I wrote this poem, I admit I was thinking about my crush on Bob Dylan, and a bit about the love affair I should have had with Bukowski...hahah.  But they are so much older, you might say?  Ah, their words are timeless and age is only a number (insert smile).  

Written for a prompt at Poets United.  

Monday, May 26, 2014

Mannequin Rivalry (A Poem)


162

My mother is the best shop-mate,
First morning of fall and we survey
The thrift shop, eyes as keen
As hungry pigeons in the
Shopping center parking lot,
We forage for the perfect find.
The building is about as old as time,
Store window facing the road,
My every step calls for a rickety squeak
From dampened corners, musty of mildew,
Dust bunnies fluttering like
The gray ghosts of butterflies.
Two rusty double doors the shop-keepers
sci-fi portal to some vintage paradise.
I smile, thinking this trip deserves a ticket,
Roomful of weird things,
A perfect meeting place for six decades
Worth of discarded memories, mummified.
Somewhere in a dusty drawer
There waits the perfect pair of blue jeans
Yet I sift through a shelf-full of books,
The gift of their reading retired now for years,
And pluck a volume of feminist poems
From its perch of paint chips and old prayers,
A fifty-cent treat to my muse.
Meantime, my mom spins a circular rack of clothing,
A sort of middle age dance of glory,
She thinks she needs another winter sweater.
Out of the corner of my eye
I notice the pale eyes of a mannequin,
She watches us from her shadowed corner perch,
Smiling between her pink 60’s lipstick,
Palms open and raised,
Cheaply dressed news lady reporting cooler days,
Fingers pointing upward,
Metal of her knuckles frozen that way by age
And I imagine her saying,
“Everyone who dies travels north,
Be leery of the freezing rain,
Wind-chill nearing zero.”


Written for Sunday Whirl and Magpie Tales.

Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Splitting Star Matter (A Poem)

“Beginnings are brutal, like this accident of stars colliding, mute explotions of colorful gasses…”
~Dorianne Laux

His left eye, blue as sky,
A nervous wring of cigarette-stained fingers
And always speaking to me
Clear as silence,
Opening my mind like
A lotus flower, full bloom,
And a raw innocence I’ve since
Been unable to tap into.
In those early days
Of shedding skin, I peeled
From within myself
Like an open blister,
And was unable to go back
To the silly thing I’d been before.
The night would churn itself,
Thick as creamed coffee,
Spinning us into its mausoleum
Of ancient elk and
The spiny thorns of pine.
He was the sophistication
To my school girl blues,
Reminding me that my best moments
Were still unspent as old coins.
His stories were pages
I could crawl into if I listened
Hard enough to the fancy enunciations
Of his Mid-Western drawl
on cozy winter nights,
too awake of caffeine,
The baby’s howl in my left ear,
Lightning strike in my right.
I was Alice trapped between two covers,
One side metaphor, the other distant memory,
When we burst across the sky
One hot July night,
Starving script-writer meets poet,
An explosion of two distant stars,
Spinning into the shiny matter
Of one another,
Planetary lovers, Neptune aligned,
The Cancer to my Pisces,
The psychics’ perfect match.
We were a brilliant concoction
Of cheap convenience-store beer
And the rusty midnight trains of Waits,
So rich you could almost drink us,
And too drunk on the prolific debates
That pulled us into each other
Like magnetic poles
Folding a complete universe together,
We’d talk ourselves into a 3am stupor
And awake with the enunciation
Of Elvis across our lips,
An eight-hour separation
Between Chicago and Kentucky
The splitting image
Of one star broken in half.


Written for  dVerse Poets. and Poetry Jam.

Monday, May 19, 2014

Coffee Talk (A Poem)

Plain people
In their tailored suits
And perfectly polished dress shoes,
They tap manicured fingers
While waiting for stiff drinks
And wonder what poets across the room
talk about over the messy edges of café tables,
Toppling bottles of half-drank wine,
And the coffee-stained pages
We exchange as if sharing secrets:
That an unleashed mind is a happy life,
How the whole world spins,
A shedding wilderness of words
From a vortex in the frontal lobes
Of our disheveled brains, so full
Of good films and literary autobiographies
That there’s no time left to lend to reality TV,
How fluid the body is when words
Become art and the pen fills the skin,
How sustainable love lives when veiled
In the expression of shameless creation.,
How strong the pull of death
Into so many notebooks,
Brash handwriting of well-lived moments,
The grand metamorphosis immortalized.
How meaningful the lonely moments
Of this night can stretch themselves
Into the star shine of a haiku or soliloquy,
Ink-covered hands and blood-shot eyes
Crossing themselves like prayers across
First drafts and pages full of paragraphs,
my crusted coffee cups spent of words,
Those blue, curvy mamas who open
morning windows and warm my wintered hands.

Written for a prompt at Magpie Tales.


**NOTE:  I've been away the past few weeks recuperating from an awful cold and a case of bronchial pneumonia.  Shew...thankfully finally am feeling much better.  I have missed the poetry community and all my wonderful writer friends/acquaintances.  I am happy to be back.