07292011

wild
white
silence.

07272011

i admire the elegance of flowers

they live so briefly

but rise so vibrantly

from an earth that grips them

inside its belly

like a womb grips its fetus

an earth that clutches them

with forceful might

delivers them the food of life

then stifles them

ever so swiftly

still they reach for the sun

for the sky

and secretly

they reach for the stars

that pierce the night

for the moon that hangs

pregnant with mystery

they reach like the lustful arms

of a yearning lover

before the naked beauty

of his immortal love

and i can’t help but reach back

and hold their pained vulnerability

between my adoring fingers

and beam at their beauty

so flighty

so sudden

so free

07252011

certain days

i am grateful

that certain things

are left to the imagination.

what chaos, if otherwise!

07202011

we sat together

you and i

sharing one dozen

chocolate violets

on a crowded sidewalk

of the grand’place in brussels

stopping traffic

literally

and losing one another’s faces

behind his dusk-hued legs

and her lust-rouged hands

while we licked

our violet-smudged fingers

and sought out one another’s eyes

and somewhere behind us

a pub door swung open

and for a few seconds

there was the voice of moby

uttering so solemnly something

about the sky breaking

and we looked at one another

and we cried

and we laughed

until we were crying again

and when morning came we were still there

and we drank the steel-blue sky for lunch

and we ate raw alligator for dinner

07192011

i have always been

superstitious

of certain numbers

11

22

33

44

and the counting continues

but today

i count

i pause

i breathe

and superstition

dissolves

evaporates

like mist in sunlight

07152011

on a hot summer day…

blue water curls on copper skin

sun rays pierce the raw surface

burnishing the liquid break

with bold radiance

cutting fluidity

not quite straight in the gut

but at an 80˚ angle

scorching heat

on mellow chill

…

some days

the dichotomy of it all

swallows me

flesh

and blood

and bone

inters me

and says a prayer

over my departed fragments

then, i am recreated

resurrected

as molten gold

07132011

yours is a grief

tinted with relief

i see, you see

i know you so well

and, oh, please don’t bother

trying to defend yourself

by telling me

there is no confusion

i know just how it goes

when the feeling of need

from another

becomes the need to preserve

onself

to keep aflame one’s sanity

i know just how it goes

i know, you know

so please don’t bother

there is nothing to defend

not the need to break

over the loss of… oh, loss

nor the need to heal

the crack in your wholeness

keep your grief

i say

and your relief

i beg

grief and relief

grief and relief

the one does not breathe

without the other

07102011

this morning

i cut a single rose

from its vibrant bush

of crimson roses

clipped its thorns

tucked it behind my ear

and smiled at my inner child

and while that rose sat

between my ear and my hair

teasing me with its presence

i was a girl

wanting to be a woman

a woman

wanting to be a girl

and i remembered

something inside me

i remembered

that other girl

and said to her

a penny for your thoughts

07082011

trying

to recreate memory

is illusion

is delusion

is betrayal

of the self

of the memory

like sacrilege

like touch

to a holy relic

with impure hands

07052011

life becomes most colorful

when the nightmare

becomes the obsession

. . .

i hunger

to enter

my dream

07032011

at dusk

watching arthritic tree trunks

change color

with the flaring hues

of sunset,
this:

after we’ve created what we call a ‘secret’

something private that you and i share

something we would never wish

to be revealed

to him

or her

or them

it’s as if the secret

takes on a life of its own

it’s as if

it becomes

possessed of a personality

it’s as if

it becomes

a living entity

that breathes its inspiration

inside our bones

and we acquire a burning desire

to share it with someone

a desire that chars our vitals

and we either succumb

to the coercion

or

we sit with the secret quietly

and coax it gently into submission

so the insane desire to share pretends to hide

and all that’s left quite brazenly

is the bruise-red flaming of held confidences

torturing us unto confession