Poetry - WELL-RED CREATIONS

“. . . as one would press [a handkerchief]
against a wound from which life, all in one spurt,
is trying to escape—I held you close
till you were red with me.” - Rilke

Written by Su Red...

Thunderstorm

A poem in one sentence. One of my first poems, still a favorite.

When I was little
and there was
a thunderstorm at night,
I would run
from my room
across the hall to yours,
and stand
in your doorway
staring
at you
with my
wide, blue eyes
and pouty lower lip,
and you'd look up
from your book
smiling,
your big smile
revealing silver
braces
and say
"C'mon in!"
so i'd
crawl in your bed
snuggle close to you,
and pull the covers tight around us
while you read
to me
from your book
until my eyelids became heavy
at which point
you'd brush
the hair from my eyes,
push your lips
to my cheek
and gently hum the tune
of Brahm's lullaby
as together
we drifted off
to sleep...

Caffeinated
Current mood: animated
Category: Writing and Poetry

You my morning cup of coffee baby
bringin me to life, whether with a
good hard morning fuck or a
soft shake awake
I Love you baby
And when I'm alone
that awful ray of morning sunshine
wakes me as it
creeps through the ripped curtain
burning my eyes
and i squeeze the pillow
between my thighs, humping in
exhasperated sexual frustration
and as I quiver in orgasm and fall
back asleep, I think Folgers,
fucking folgers.
It does the job, but
it's not as sweet as you baby,
my morning cup of coffee

When the rains came
Current mood: breezy
Category: Writing and PoetryYour one strong storm baby

melancholy kiss no manners you swear

cherish our love be it joy or slander

you appear essential for one moment

Storm
Current mood: awake
Category: Writing and Poetry

surprise cocoon red moon thick cloud beneath loud morning

seasonal

he leaves like autumn
leaves like red
a last trace of my lips
upon his cheek now
covered by stubble
a thick overgrown lawn
which hides blossoming new life
waiting to spring forth
leaves like orange
flames devour
shreds of white
words mean nothing now
what matters is
the black soles
that get smaller
and smaller in
the distance

autumn swallows the sticky sweetness
of summer
spits sleet and hail
on the one
who nurtured it
if I was autumn
I could swallow him up
feel him dancing
in my tummy
spit him back up
when the music stopped
but I am not autumn
I am spring
napping on
the porch swing
my eyes open
to find
you stroking my hair
barefoot because
you have no place to go

Fold Your Hands and Pray, O Sinister One

Don't dance with ugly yesterday's
8 festive tomorrows still in place
for the merry cat whose name is the same
as the little old man here to blow your mind
in magnetic forever's that stink of death,
but taste great, like that 12 year old scotch
that somehow never left you hungover
A break from life, but your pressed for time
and long live a happy rhyme once number 9 comes

Boston Circa...

The empty spot next to me in bed
now belongs to a guitar
This is what you really wanted
for me to become intimate
with this instrument
the way we used to be intimate
Every time I start
to get it right,
feel the heat of the steel
strings on my fingertips
I turn and begin to say your name
before I remember you’re gone
Some of this lonliness
has helped me let the music in
but now I’m stuck
with no one to share it with
The stores in Davis sq
are decorated in my name
They seem to be screaming
“Love or leave!”, “Love or leave!”
I think of that 80’s song
and how true it is,
“Baby sometimes love just ain’t enough”
In that cafe where we met
nearly a year ago
I sit and write this
hoping you’ll walk in and join me
I watch a couple hold hands
across the table
I imagine going over to them
and telling them about us
They smile and tell me
how lucky we are
to have such a special story
Then I say we haven’t spoken in days
The man looks at me and says
“I’m sure he misses you.”
Across the street
the streetlights go out
as I tilt my head down and murmur
“No.” “No.” No?”

Illuminated By Love
for my Grandmother who died March 22, 2008

Yesterday's joy is not over,
nor is tomorrow's
We say your name, tell a story, sing a song...
you see these words like a painting in our minds
or feel them as kisses blown in the wind
We feel you listening
and our hearts have rhyme too
beating in a rhythm
perfect to dance to,
under the sunshine
with his warm, loving arms
wrapped around you
Us, we are sitting in the shade
where you can always see us
illuminated by love

Sketch of a Naked Lady

She lies here naked
no more than a pencil-thin line
of breath escapes his lips
as he draws her silhouette
everything is still
bathed in a thin light of longing
a replica of moments before they met
she lies here naked
perfectly still
not once does she reach for him
she lies here as he draws
they speak of nothing
as if there was nothing to speak of
they think of everything
she wonders if he lets himself miss
maybe its possible not to miss
in the midst of whatever
happens in the course of a day
she, she would never allow
herself not to miss
dammit, it hurts so much
right in the pit of the stomach
the part you feel
when you breathe, eat,
speak, or sing
also the part you wish from

Right at this moment of reflection
the lights dim
and she has a choice
to play the last chord
as E or G
E is a little sadder than G
the chord she plays,
she plays without questioning it
because in life
much like on stage
if you stop and question,
you miss the moment
worth applauding

Dagmar

or Jim and Meghan

Somewhere in a pale blue house
completely blocked from the city streets
by a tall weeping willow tree,
a baby girl is born
without a tear in her eye or
someone’s loving hand to caress her tiny thigh...
Slowly things become familiar,
clear water, mowed lawns,
birds who sing when they want and
shut up when people are listening...
Life as an observatory is
bittersweet...
The screens go by her eyes
in kaleidoscopic flashes...

Imagine the world in your fingertips,
spin it as fast as you like!
Some call this feeling dizziness,
I call it high definition poetry...
In a panorama of romance
she witnesses Love
between two humans,
flesh and blood like herself
and although she doesn’t
quite understand this interaction,
it somehow seems beautiful
because we are all born
with Love inside...
How do you define Love
when you’ve not learned any words?
For her it’s the way a ladybug
lands on the windowsill

with a perfectly red shell
illuminated in the sun and
gently raises its wings
to let her know there are other places to go to...
It’s this sweet knowledge that
let’s her begin to cry and
move her tiny lips into
what we call a smile...
A camera flashes from somewhere
in the distance,
capturing a close-up of her face...
This snapshot could end up
framed on a mantle or
blowing along the city streets,
stepped on by millions who’ve
lived day to day yet
never feel...

Still the smile never
leaves her lips because
Love has found her
unexpectedly in this city
where everyone else searches
for it everyday.

{Dagmar- (Scandinavian, German): maiden of daylight, Glorious Day}

Oral Sacredness

A couple lines of this are from a tea leaf, & I added to it

The beauty in
you
is your spirit
The strength in
you
is your endurance
The poetry in
you
is your vastness
The Love in
you
is your soul-
alive,
brave
and present

Paths

I have resurfaced many older poems of mine, this is one of them.

A   r a i n y   n i g h t   i n   B o s t o n .
T w o
t o o
d i s t a n t   r e l a t i v e s
s i t t i n g   s i d e   b y   s i d e
o n   s t i c k y   p l a s t i c   s e a t s
w h o s e   r i d g e s   f o r m e d
l a b y r i n t h   p a t t e r n s
a l o n g   o u r   t h i g h s .
A s   t h e   s t e a m
e v a p o r a t e d   o v e r   S a n k a ,
I   p e e r e d   t h r o u g h   g r e y   w i n d o w s
a t   s t o r m   c l o u d s
i n   t h e   d i s t a n c e ,
t h e   w a y   w e   w e r e   p l a n n i n g   t o   g o .
T h e   o p p o s i t e   d i r e c t i o n   h a d   c l e a r   s k i e s .
I   p a u s e d   f o r   a   m i n u t e ,
t h e n   h a n d e d   m y   u m b r e l l a
t o   t h e   o l d   m a n   w a i t i n g   b y   t h e   d o o r .
I   w o u l d n 't   b e   n e e d i n g   i t   a n y m o r e .

Bon Voyage

The poet packs
a suitcase that once
belonged to her grandmother.
Tattered and torn,
a deep red brown color
now known as the shade luggage
in Lands End catalogs.
It holds a few chapbooks,
a toothbrush, a tube of red lipstick,
several old movie stubs, 2 sweaters,
4 t-shirts, a pair of jeans and
a worn pair of pajama bottoms.
As she snaps the buckles closed
each one echoes
once twice...

Cozy Sweater

...

You're my
favorite
although
we
haven't been
together
that long.
Not cashmere,
just a blend
of wool
and cotton,
so soft
and warm,
not itchy.
I met you
in a second-
hand shop
in Montpelier, Vermont
on a damp
March afternoon.
The old salesman
with the
mustasche thick
as my neighbor's
unmowed lawn,
folded it carefully,
then dropped it
in a plastic bag
with a yellow smiley face
and the words
THANK YOU
printed on it.
"A girl 'round your age
brought this old thing in
few days go.”
he said.
" My eyesight ain't good,
but I coulda sworn
I saw a tear
in her eye.”

Good Love

often get asked why I say "Good Love" instead of "Good Luck".It's not that I see anything wrong with luck. To have things go your way due solely to random occurrences that can not be explained is indeed exciting However, it's much better to have things go your way because another human being is rooting for you with a love whose voice, even when silent, screams louder than the Red Sox fans in Fenway Park

Are You There?

...

Unfinished stories, empty wine glasses.
Old 45’s merrily go round my phonograph
with equestrian strides. Horseshoes are
supposed to be good luck I thought as
I crumpled yet another sheet of paper.

Sylvia’s ghost came to visit me that night,
a tall blonde figure standing over my bed.
I knew why she was there.
“They’re not here.”, I said.
“The words, I look for them,
but they’re just not here.”
She touched the stem of a sterling rose
in the vase on my nightstand,
ran her index finger along it until
something made her pull back.
She came closer to me,
reached out with the finger
that now had a drop of scarlet on it,
and touched it to my cheek.
I could feel the warm, moist spot it left.
“They’re not here as much as I’m
not here right now.”, she said.
Then she pressed her lips over
each of my eyelids until they were closed.
The next time I opened them, she was gone.

I rose and looked in the mirror.
The scarlet color was gone,
but I could see her fingerprint clearly.
That morning I wrote.
Poetry in my own words,
stories from my own experiences,
but it was her fingerprints on the paper.

True Colors

She was a true natural beauty, Judith. Long, thick mahagony colored hair that somehow never got tangled. She would just roll out of bed, clip it back with a faux pearl barrette, and men's tongues fumbled in her presence, like amateur football players trying to remember their own names. I smoked my first joint with her when I was twelve, in the girls bathroom of our school. The principal caught us, confiscated the joint and said he would call our parents. Later that afternoon, we went back to retrieve Judith's backpack which she had forgotten in his office and found him and Mrs. Rosemblum, the secretary, sitting on his desk smoking the joint.
We never heard about the incident again. One summer when I was 17 and she was 20, we were driving home from a Tori Amos concert in Judith's white VW bug. Top down, our hair blowing in the wind, we sang at the top of our lungs to the song "Cornflake Girl." We stopped at a red light where there were no other cars in sight, and completely out of the blue she reached over, took my face in her hands, and quickly pressed her lips to mine for a moment and a half. Then the light changed to green, she grabbed the clutch and said "Oh, I love this one!" as the next song came on. Later at home, I looked in the mirror
and saw the stain of her coral lipstick still on my lips. I hesitated a moment before wiping it away. 2 years later she got engaged to a Chinese man. People were always asking how they met. Judith told them she had spent hours as a child in her backyard trying to dig to China. So when he approached her in the restaurant where she waitressed, she knew right away it was him she had been looking for. They were married late July in an old Victorian church that was set to be torn down 2 weeks later. Her cream wedding gown matched the VW still in her driveway, and her cheeks, make-up free, had the perennial strawberry swirls that she swears sprouted the time she was six and her skirt fell down during a game of tag on the playground.
Judith and her husband adopted 2 children, an African American boy named Aiyetoro and a greek girl named Sapphira. After a while we lost touch, I don't remember why, until her husband rang me one day to tell me she had just been hospitalized. Juidith had Cancer. It spread fast, like cards from a carnival gypsy's hands, the death card face up. Judith looked at me from her bed and my eyelashes swatted at tears like they were flies at a picnic. although it had been nearly a year since we had spoken, neither one of us said anything for several moments. There was no need. Then Judith reached out her hands toward my face, lowered it to hers, and pressed her lips to mine like slow motion footage from that night years ago. A little crackly and staticy this time, then eventually the screen went blank.

On the same highway, the same VW with the top down, "Cornflake Girl" playing loud, my hair blew in the wind, Judith's ashes blew into the world.

Perennial

Way up high in these emerald mountains stands a tree, a naked tree, so bare and vulnerable yet she always stands sturdy and tall, ready for the season when she gets her cloak of leaves.     Most people only stop to look at trees

when they are already covered in leaves. I love to look at them right now in this fragile time- and I think you do too, with their anticipation of red, gold, yellow green, and brown, colors that suit them.     I’m staring at this one tree and imagining all the leaves

draped around her neck, across her chest, over her belly… You can touch it, she wants you to, just be gentle so as not to crush it.     Fall reminds us of things we fall into. We think that come winter we must fall out of them.     It’s true some things are meant to be
moments that dart across the finish line so fast all we get is a glimpse of their incredible beauty,     but what I leave you with now is the possibility that some of these moments could last forever if we are not afraid

to stand on our tip-toes, inhale some of this bittersweet New England air and look past these mountains.

Green Bug

“Oh my God!”
A green bug flew into my eye.
Not just any bug,
a big green bug.
The butch chic sitting
at the table next to mine
grins and says
“don’t worry,
she won’t bug you,
she’s just a lonely lesbian bug
out looking for love.”
Although I’m not gay,
I don’t mind girl talk over coffee,
so I look her way,
smile and say
“hey, you may be right
and I’ve always wanted someone
who could just fly me away.”

untitled

n the blink of an eye,
you could catch a glimpse of somebody
who could be
somebody.
Somebody
who could be different than everbody.
Somebody, some body.
Somebody attached to some body
that one day walked your way.

To Know and be Known

For Gary

Is it better to know or be known?

Sometimes to know.
Have it all laid out on the table.
The door is open,
sunlight shines in
illuminating all the answers
to things that seemed unknown to us.
The graphite draws a picture
that tells a story of all you wish to know.
Your hands are to credit.
The pen spills ink in the shape
of words that ask more questions.
The clock spins ahead to midnight,
your musical sound is
no longer a mystery to me.
Life is short.
Art is long.
Living with no regrets as to
what might have been
is longer.
The ride to the lumberyard
is much shorter
with someone sitting next to you.
This much is known
right now.

Being

Somewhere a heart truths
between a mountain of responsibility
and a lily-pad of desire
resting comfortably in reality
sometimes at the edge of the bed
or buried beneath a stack of papers
maybe even inside a D-hole
Never alone
Often exhausted
never too tired to BE
all it means to be
This is the little life secret
that's not shiny or sparkly
rather matte and ordinary
too often overlooked
it's right here, right there
for you

Fire Eyes

At the Burren, at the Burren
I knew you so well
before I knew you at all
I danced to music
you hadn't yet played
Pours Guinness, pours Smithwicks
Pours something I used to
keep bottled up inside
The barmaid winks
as she cautions
“Drink this one slowly.”
“We’re all Irish in here.”
“Our livers are ready for anything.”
“The heart might not be used to
the passion of a fire-eyed
soul like yours.”

Miss Muse

Her only flaw would be
trying to pretend she has no flaws
If we look really close,
we can see her patent flats
are from Payless, but
they're comfortable and she
wears them so well
All she can think about
is that she's fallen from grace,
but what I see is
the incredible state she's fallen from
Grace towering, surrounding, filling,
so even if she tried to look down
there grace would be smiling up at her
Lavender hair that dreads
into the clouds, aqua eyes
I like it best when she forgets
to put in the contacts
and opts for those cat-eye glasses
That is her,
so perfectly imperfect,
so utterly inspiring

Mediocre

The mediocrity of this life astounds me
In the distance, a Jamaican drummer
delights passerbys with delightful rhythms
his own deaf ears can't hear
Then there's the fly, who's born into this world
to only know of flying endless circles
around dirty animals
And even myself:
"Always be generous." Fuck that."
I've presented my heart on a silver platter
only to watch kittens become lions who
dig a plastic fork into my heart,
swallow the sweetest pieces
and spit the rest out onto the dirty floor

Maggie

. . . c u p p e d t i n y h a n d s
a r o u n d g l o w w o r m s
m i d J u l y n i g h t s
a n d s a i d
T h e y l l b e m y n i g h t l i g h t

t o n i g h t , t o m o r r o w
I l l s e t t h e m f r e e .
. . . p a s s e d b y p i n k
a n d w h i t e b a n a n a
s e a t b i c y c l e s , h e a d i n g
s t r a i g h t f o r r o y a l
b l u e j u n i o r h a r l e y s .
. . . P i g t a i l s b o u n c i n g ,
o u t r o d e e v e r y b o y ,
t o o k t h e b l u e r i b b o n
a n d s a i d p r o u d l y
I t m a t c h e s m y
e y e s , m o m m y ! ,
a s t h e b o y s
r o l l e d t h e i r e y e s .
. . . P u t a s m i l e o n
t h e f a c e s o f
t h e s t r i c t e s t n u n s
w h e n s h e k n e e l e d
s o l e m n f a c e d
a n d p r a y e d
G i v e u s t h i s d a y
o u r d a i l y b r e a d ,
a n d l e a d u s n o t
i n t o P e n n S t a t i o n .
. . . S h i n e s b r i g h t e r
o n m y h o r i z o n t h a n
a h u n d r e d g l o w w o r m s
. . . c a p t u r e d m y h e a r t
b u t u n l i k e t h e g l o w w o r m s
i t w o n t e v e r b e s e t f r e e .

She Chose to Wear the Blue Dress

I once saw the most beautiful sky in Salem, Mass. I know that sounds kinda yawningly poetic, but it was the deepest, darkest navy and at the same time so bright. It was so blue that it made me think about the beauty in blue. Something was beyond the sadness. As the darling Tori Amos said, "It must be worth losing if it is worth something." I still can picture that gorgeous sky as if it were above me this moment. I cried the last time I thought of it. I'll probably never see the sky like that again. I'm sure the sky in Salem turns that blue often, but I doubt I'll ever be there at the right moment again.

Real

If this isn’t real,
than why do I bleed,
why do i bitch?
in my sleep so much
that my muses pound
on the bedroom door
and yell “Shut up!”
“It’s not poetry anymore.”

Island of Dreams

L i t t l e s e c r e t s r u n
b e n e a t h s o u n d s l e e p
B a r e f o o t s o a s
n o t t o b e h e a r d ,
t h e y t r e a d t h e s o i l
o f u n c o n s c i o u s n e s s ,
l e a v i n g f o o t p r i n t s
t h a t c a n n e v e r
b e t r a c e d
T w o v a l e r i a n p i l l s l a t e r
a n d I t h i n k
I v e o u t r u n t h e m
B u t I a w a k e n
t o f i n d e v e r y o n e o f
m y p o r e s e r u p t e d ,
l e a v i n g n o s u r v i v o r s
o n t h e I s l a n d o f D r e a m s

Nature Un-Enthsiast

A s w e t r i e d t o p i t c h t h e t e n t
t h e s u n p l a y e d p e e k - a - b o o
t h r e a t e n i n g t o s e t b e f o r e w e f i n i s h e d

N e a r b y t w o b l a c k b i r d s f e a s t e d u n m e r c i f u l l y
o n a c a r c u s s o d e s t r o y e d
i t w a s i m p o s s i b l e t o t e l l w h a t a n i m a l i t h a d b e e n

S t a r t i n g a f i r e w a s n o e a s i e r
t h a n p i t c h i n g t h e t e n t
s i n c e a m a t e u r s t h a t w e w e r e
w e ' d f o r g o t t e n t o b r i n g m a t c h e s

O u r l a t e d i n n e r c o n s i s t e d
o f p r e - p a c k e d f r a n k f u r t e r s a n d b e a n s
s i n c e n e i t h e r o f u s w o u l d e v e r h u n t

I n b e t w e e n b i t e s
w e s w a t t e d a t g n a t s a n d m o s q u i t o e s
w h o t a s t e d m o r e o f o u r f o o d
t h a n w e d i d

L a t e r w e b a t h e d i n s l i m y , g r e e n i s h w a t e r
t h a t l e f t u s t e n t i m e s f i l t h i e r
t h a n w e ' d b e e n b e f o r e

A c t u a l l y , I l o v e t h e w i l d e r n e s s
a n d h a v e s p e n t m a n y e n j o y a b l e h o u r s
s p r a w l e d o n m y s o f a , s i p p i n g d a i q u i r i s
w h i l e w a t c h i n g T h e N a t u r e C h a n n e l

B u t t h e r e i s s o m e t h i n g v e r y u n s e t t l i n g
a b o u t b e i n g p a c k e d i n a s l e e p i n g b a g
s n u g a s t h e b u g s c r e e p i n g u p m y l e g s ,
w h i l e l i s t e n i n g t o h u n g r y b e a r s a n d w o l v e s
s e a r c h i n g f o r t h e i r n i g h t t i m e s n a c k

w e h a d t o v e n t u r e i n t o t h e w o o d s
t o u s e t h e r e s t r o o m w e s h a r e d w i t h t h o s e a n i m a l s
a n d w e c o u l d o n l y h o p e
t h e l e a v e s t h a t b r u s h e d a g a i n s t o u r s k i n
w e r e n o t p o i s o n i v y

B y s u n r i s e , t h e t e n t h a d c o l l a p s e d o n u s ,
s e v e r a l r a c c o o n s w e r e d e v o u r i n g o u r b r e a k f a s t ,
a n d I h a d e n o u g h i t c h y , s w o l l e n b i t e s t o s c a r m e
f r o m e v e r l e a v i n g t h e c o m f o r t s o f h o m e a g a i n

W e w o u l d h a v e a b a n d o n e d t h o s e w o o d s
i m m e d i a t ely i f n o t f o r t h e s k u n k
s i t t i n g n e x t t o m y b a c k p a c k

A m o n g t h o s e I a d m i r e t h e m o s t
t h e f i r e f i g h t e r , t h e s u r g e o n ,
t h e n a t u r e e n t h u s i a s t

This Place

This Place
The suns rays can not begin to touch the surface.
A full moons light is no greater than
a single match.
In this place where I am.

Groundhogs burrow above me,
so high above me, it could be heaven.
And I am below Hellrquote s flames.
I feel no warmth, but not cold either.
I feel nothing except futile awareness
that I continue to exist in this place
where existence is a philosophy
ping-ponged by Agnostics.

No one knows I am here
except for you.
But you are so far away
no one knows that you know.
So you can leave me here
in this place if you choose.
Your distance is so great
that you see me as no larger than an ant
who gets crushed by heavy soles
unaware of the tiny, light as air souls
they destroy in the process.

Still in some place in your heart
although as distant as myself,
you do see me where no one else can,
in this place where I am.
And the closer you look
the clearer Irquote ll become
until finally I rise to the surface,
shake the dirt from my red hair
and take a first step forward
in my Birkenstock clad feet
with you at my side.

Sacred Self

When you enter into your sacred space
for a minute, a moment, or a mile,
may you be deep inside yourself
at the core of your womb
See where you’ve been
and look through to see
where you’re going
Walk the path alone
for a few steps
without stumbling
and then come home
come home to find a light on for you

Chessboard

And here is a chessboard
an ordinary, not so ordinary
chessboard
that is now a work of art
It's got red and gold
and brightly colored crystals
It's even more beautiful
than whatever the last
most beautiful thing you saw was
What was the last most
beautiful thing you saw?
And I saw 2 blue jays
stop and admire it
because they know to
stop and smile in the rain
They know I'll write something
about their presence
because their presence
is amazing
and this chessboard
that reminds us
to play and have unordinary fun
in an ordinary place
that we thought we'd grown tired of

Genius

Trying to find
Her way
Through his brain
A tiny white mouse
Inappropriately dressed
In a pinstripe suit
And patent leather shoes
Fumbling through a maze
Finally she makes
Her way through
Only to find
A moldy piece of cheese
Time and time again
She’d ask him
His thoughts
About love
And he spat out
Something about
How seagulls fly
In circles
Over the ocean
When the light is not on
In the lighthouse

Obsession

Based on Tori Amos' 'Scarlet's Walk' tour

I saw her in a car once
on a highway in Montana.
We were stopped
at a red light
and I looked over
towards the passenger side
of a pale blue Mustang.
The first thing I saw
was the red waves
tumbling down her head
and crashing upon the pages
of what looked like
yesterday’s newspaper.
I wanted to knock
on my window
to try to get her attention,
but before I could make a fist
the light was green
and she was gone.
It wasn’t her
I continue to
tell myself,
but I can’t fight
my feelings,
strong as two
boxers in the ring,
challenging me
to admit that it was.
A mile down that highway
we stopped in a
tiny shack with a
blinking “Diner” sign on top.
We were greeted
by a middle aged
woman with a jet black
Aqua Net helmet
on her head
and a name tag that read
“Shirley.”
“Good ta see ya ladies”, she said.
“You folks are the first car
to come down this road
all day.”

Hand Me Downs

We walk around
like strangers in
this foreign land,
hand in hand.
We see two gold coins
at the bottom of
a trash can.
Neither of us bothers
to reach for them
for fear we might
dirty our hands.
A delightful melody drifts
through the air as
a street jazz musician
tickles his saxophone.
He plays so well
we think it would be
beneath him to accept
our spare change.
Little do we know
at every local joint
he has auditioned,
they shook his hand
and said “Thank you,
but not this year.”
If we were ghosts
we could stretch our arms
way out into his,
tickle that same saxophone,
feel how it’s a lover
you try so damn hard to please
but who makes you feel
you are never good enough,
really know how he feels
to be at home
yet so far away from
where his heart is.
Instead, naïve natives cackle
at us with their
wicked European lilt
as we dance a clumsy Lambada
in shoes too tight
because we were unsure
of the size conversion.
A gypsy reads my palm
and says my life line
indicates I am uncertain
of my place in the world
at this moment.
I have to hand it to her,
that is accurate.

Poem For America

M y   h e a r t   l e a p s
i n t o   m y   t h r o a t ,
h o l d i n g   m y   m o u t h
w i d e   o p e n
T h i s   f e e l i n g   i s   u n m i s t a k a b l e ,
I   a m   i n   l o v e
N o t   w i t h   a   b o y ,
a   m a n ,   o r
a n y   o f   t h e
w r e t c h e d   i n - b e t w e e n s ,
b u t   w i t h   t h i s   p l a c e
T h i s   p l a c e   w h e r e
r e d   w a g o n s     r o l l
o v e r     o r a n g e   s u n s ,
d e l i v e r i n g   h o p e
w i t h   e v e r y   m o r n i n g   p a p e r
T h e s e   p u r p l e   m o u n t a i n s
c r o w n e d   b y   d i a m o n d   c l o u d s ,
s e t   i n   t e a l   s k i e s
t h a t   b r e a t h e   l i f e
u p o n   t h e   t r i - c o l o r e d   c l o t h
t h a t     b l a n k e t s   a   n a t i o n

Not Yet Titled

H a r d r a i n
s t o m p e d o n t h e r o o f
l i k e a h u n d r e d
h o r n y j a c k r a b b i t s

M y s k i n s c e n t e d
w i t h t h e f i n e s t
l i q u i d b o u q u e t
H i s s h a v e d s m o o t h

M y c l o c k w a s b e i n g
r e s e t t o m i l i t a r y t i m e
a s s t e r n s o l d i e r s s e n t
b y m y f a t h e r a n d
t h e n u n s f r o m g r a m m a r s c h o o
l
s t o r m e d i n t o c h a l l e n g e
t h e j a c k r a b b i t s

H i s c l o c k w a s
e a s y t o r e a d ,
t h e d i g i t a l k i n d t h a t
g l o w s i n t h e d a r k

A n d s o w e a r r i v e d ,
V - A - C - A - N - C - Y
f l a s h i n g a s w i d e
a s h i s s m i l e

S i g n i n g m y n a m e
o n t h e r e g i s t e r ,
b r i g h t s c a r l e t l e t t e r s
g l a r i n g b a c k a t m e -

t h e s a m e s c a r l e t
a s t h e s p o t
I s o o n d i s c o v e r e d
i n m y p a n t i e s

S i t t i n g f u l l y c l o t h e d
o n s a t i n s h e e t s ,
s t a r i n g a t a n
u n o p e n e d b o t t l e o f w i n e
a n d h i m a s l e e p n e x t t o m e
I c l o s e d m y e y e s
a n d c o u l d s e e
m y f a t h e r a n d t h e n u n s ,
l a u g h i n g j o y f u l l y
w h i l e t h e y a t e
f r e s h h a s e n p f e f f er

What If?

what if everything and everyone

was ok all of the time?

would i worry about why it was all so perfect and why i didn't have to worry?

what if these cobblestone roads took my feet to him

instead of these pubs and clubs where everyone is on the make

not even thinking about what they're making?

what if this wine glass magically refilled itself, how much would i drink? (Thank you, Ava, for the free wine tonight and for [trying] to re-assure me that I'm miss-able!)

what if the dinosaurs on my childhood blanket came alive and made love to me as good as he?

would i still miss him?

let me pause over another sip of red wine (although i could answer right away), yes, yes i would!

i hate not knowing things, like if the glue on my favourite book doesn't hold and all the pages fall to the floor, why, why wasn't it strong enough?

and why, why would most people just stick the pages loosely back in, instead of gluing them back in with a stronger glue?

and why the local band I just saw didn't have a better bass player

Negativity

That was the morning
soap and water
dirtied my skin,
toothpaste turned my teeth black
and all 12 eggs were cracked
when I opened the carton
It’s strange,
all the thoughts
that ran through my mind
in the 2 minutes
it took for me
to lose that which
I never had.
The 2 seconds it took
for our eyes to meet
last February,
2 wine glasses,
to remain half empty
2 lovers,
2 soulmates?
I thought I had
the answer
a few months ago.
I thought I’d react differently
to the answer
I got this morning
from an inanimate object
2 minutes past 8.

untitled

stuck on a pin
outside a cathedral
pouring a cup of tea
for the woman in the black wool jacket
she doesn't ask where
the teapot came from
I don't offer that information
But she does ask if I
have Earl Grey instead of Darjeeling
and as my chapped lips
begin to utter "sorry ma'am"
packets of Earl Grey begin
to fall from the sky
just as the church bells
start to chime and I
take her hand to escort her
past the stained glass windows
towards an empty pew
while I continue on
to the altar

Needle in the Haystack

o tonight you're not here,
last night you weren't either and I
can't sleep because that needle in the haystack
is poking me in the back
I think a grown-up girl needs her
teddy bear these nights more than ever
the one with the broken eye
that can't see me all too well
perhaps I'm nothing but trouble
and she gives you no trouble at all
but perhaps if you find no trouble at all
you're trying too hard
I like the sort of things you find
in coffee shops and the basement
of an old bookshop
rare warmth to the lips
pages of a love story
the binding slightly undone

untitled

High in the sky,
the Gods look down upon her
holding their blessings
in oversized coffee mugs
She has something to say
but her lips are locked
as tight as a cemetery gate
He who holds the key
fears handing it over,
because even now
he is beginning to smell
the scent of things
slowly surrendering

Milk and Cookies

Staring at your happy expression,
I think of the saying “Frozen in Time”
I wish i could freeze that smile,
so no matter where you are
you would always be happy
But the word frozen makes me think
you might be cold
I look at the blue mitten
lying on the counter
I stare into your eyes,
small balck and white specs here,
always big and chestnut colored to me
The song “Hungry Eyes” comes to mind,
not sure why,
and i think you might be hungry
So I set a plate of cookies
next to the milk carton-
wanting you to have your favorite snack

Time

is a neon haze
that sticks to us likes velcro

Growing up in the suburbs
all us girls
wore Kanga-Roos sneakers,
the ones with the
little pockets on the side
and velcro closures
We played hopscotch for hours
on the playground
behind our grammar school
Hopscotch was the name of
my pet rabbit
who died this past year
i miss her very much

My boyfriend died his hair
neon orange last month
and went on the road
with his alternative rock band
Yesterday was my birthday
A package came from him today,
a white gold rolex,
the inscription reads
“To our time”,
the card says
“I Miss you”
My parents ahve a small house
in the country
Every night they look up at the stars
through the same telescope
i first saw the Big Dipper through
I used to feel sad
that they had such a boring life,
but now there are times I
think it would be nice
to sit up on the roof
of my apartment
and look up at the stars
but i remember
Jim, my landlord
saying that the middle aged
Italian couple in 304
goes up there sometimes
to have sex
and that’s not something I
want to catch a glimpse of

I came across a store filled with
those magic eye posters yesterday
One in particular caught
my eye because
i liked the colors in it,
neon shades mixed
with muted ones
I stood there staring at it
for about 20 minutes,
frustrated, not able
to even catch a glimpse
of what the magic image could be
Than i though of an email
I’d received the day before from my friend
quoting a line from a song I’d never heard of -
“If you look for it,
you’re never gonna find it”
I bought the poster
and hung it next to
my other inspiration posters-
one of Albert Einstein and one
of Woody Allen
I call it my “life” poster
because i spend
a lot of time
looking for things
I think I’m supposed to have already fopund,
instead of enjoying life
as it is for me right now
I still have no idea what
the magic image is,
but i’m happy because it looks
great on my wall.

Yesterday's

the flowers are black
covered in gold glitter
from yesterdays festival
eternal optimism
never leads one anywhere
except eternal solitude
I watched the pigeon
pick at yesterdays trash
and it was beautiful
because it was ordinary
and it reminded me
of home and you
and the way you’d hold my hand
My wallet is filled with
many memories, very little money
and I’ve got nothing to lose
but the salavation army
shirt on my back

The Guitar

I took it out
of its hard case
and began to play,
the same way I'd always played,
but there was something
different about the melody,
something significant about the way
my pinky plunged into the steel
and stayed put
Even as my shoulders swayed,
my fingers stayed
The guitar bumped in rhythm
with my body
This music I was experiencing
was music I would play
again and again
for years to come
What I didn't know
was that I would never
play it the same
as I was playing it just then
Someone, somewhere was listening
for these sounds,
the first sounds of a guitar player

The Wind

She's talkative,
a storyteller
who shares words your skin feels
She gets bored easily
and likes movement, especially dancing
She carries candles with her,
the flames warm but never burn
As a child, she tickled my belly
and introduced me to her sister, laughter
As a woman, I sip chocolate martini's
with her and our good friend, inspiration

It Only Says Yeats

for Sylvia

On the blue plaque
outside the door at
23 Fitzroy Road,
but some of us know.
I knew.
That’s why I was there,
far away from
the Central lights
my last night in London.
And there you were,
very much a stranger,
very much the red-haired
girl looking in your window,
very much the card of strength,
stroking the lion’s hair,
showing me where
he scratched you.
You were beautiful
not as blue.
Ready to be new.
I unfolded your wings.
We took
the black and white
photographs everyone else has seen,
threw them in the fierce flames
where they burned.
Ashes to ashes,
dust to dust,
the soul of every poet
will return.

Magnolia

n memory of my grandfather who died November 25, 2005

Just yesterday
they seemed so alive,
the magnolias
Today
the petals fell
to the ground
'I love you', 'I love you', 'I love you'...
not enough
to bring the magnolias
back to life
I saw my father cry
for the first time
and thought all
our tears could
save the magnolias
but no
The tears served no purpose
except to wash
the hands of
the wind goddess
who gathered the petals
in her palms
and took flight