Poem: So She Sings


Sarasvati: Hindu goddess of words

 

Snow shafts like ‘shroom stems
Shift slow so sleet stings
Slipshod shaped shadows
Slice straight through sun strings

Slung south since smooth skin
Sail silent sea springs
Side-saddle soldiers
Swing swords so steel stings

Sticks, stones, scabs, sutures
Sewn shut yet sap seeps
Sleep softly, soundly
Sweet song her soul sings

Sweet song her souls sings

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Poem: Winner, Winner


Image

Avery glared down at them
From above
In disgust
A bad taste in her mouth
In the candlelight

Eyesight moist
With the damp of the rain
Juicy droplets beading up
On wings
Rolling to her breasts
Over her thighs
And down her legs

From below the awning
They never noticed her there
As they laughed & chewed
Over stringy bits
Of white meat

Ignoring the one
In the dripping branches
Continuing their cheeky chatter
Over cheap wine
And chicken cordon bleu

Poem: Drinking Tails


Ripple rap-tap

         tip the scales

                      tartar sauce

                                     fishy tales

                                             fillet the truth

                                                      of minnows caught

                                                              weighing in

                                                                      on just-missed whales

 

Triple death-trap

              bait intact

                           Orion hunter

                                    seaside act

                                             ferocious beast

                                                      that swam away

                                                               recounting words

                                                                                 of twisted fact

 

Double danger

              on the brink

                         sharpened edge

                                    of thoughts you think

                                              experience

                                                       yet to happen

                                                                   shocking fake

                                                                               distilled in drink

Poem: Strings


His self-defined philanthropy
Marionette gift to me
   with strings
   attached

Not wanting bonds
I gave it up
   like rubber bands
   it snapped right back
   into my hands

Which reached for scissors
Nice and sharp
   to sever off
   the braided ropes

But found them made
Of hardened steel
   too thick
   to snip

Poem: Migh & Highty [for Spooner]


We think we’re so might & highty
tanging the chime
Fing sproward, Ball fack
One hour
yice a twear

Hying our dair
& fifting our laces
Electing sanother
to dighten or larken our skin-
ralter our aces

Stere I hand-
an example
Waying these sords
with paper & pen
Expressing dy mistaste

So might & highty
to offer opinion
athout being wasked
My fersonal peelings-
I wiv them gaway
Nonetheless

Poem: Sleepwalking vs. Lying Awake


Image

Sleepwalking

Why do I feel this, this
Orient–
disorientation–
Like the volume of
blue-smoke opium
creeping into my bones,
When all I’ve had
to drink
is a single cup of coffee
Which is hardly enough
to make the
hand-hold lashes
of my eyes
part
and regretfully
let go?

 

vs.

 

Lying Awake

Why do you think that, that
American–
completely categorized–
Like the depths
of red-clay cotton
landing on your skin,
When all you’ve ever
given up
is a thousand packs
of tobacco
Which is more than enough
to make the
siamese swelling [swelling]
of your lungs
snuggle
and accidentally
cave in?

Poem: Braille


My eyes, half-seeing, in the darkened room
      close to extinguish the foggy light
peeping in through the window

I am blind.

But my hands-
my hands see you lying there
with 20/20
and read over your body like braille

The hair freshly cut
on the back of your head
Synonymous softness
on your chest
your arms
your legs

My fingers read your warmth as “Welcome”
a comfortable couch to snuggle into
a tall glass of tea to be sipped
Your skin speaks to me in volumes:
Book 1: “Youthfulness”
Book 2: “Pleasure”
Book 3: “Playfulness”

Your lips, like romance novels,
tender under my touch,
part just enough
to let me in on your secrets

Goosebumps (like little sisters) tell on you-
give away your hidden meaning
in tangible moans
as I count them-
against your will

The braille of your body – vast volumes
too thick & numerous-
a library too expansive
for my hands to translate unassisted.

So I call for backup
from other parts
& index:
Every page
Every line
Every word-
      by touch alone

This poem is a true story. I drafted the bulk of it in my head while tracing the skin of a lover one morning. The light was streaming in the window. My lover’s chest was rising and falling in the easy breath of sleep. I simply enjoyed the play of light and shadow, reading the lines with my fingers, interpretin the sensation of touch into words, writing poetry in my head.