They are small gods
Who tumble so easily
When Lila woke to find
Blood on her sheets
They pitched and must not
Have been so powerful
To begin with
How could they have been
If it went so quietly
In the night time whispering its
Way out of existence
All of the never-wills
And the would-have-beens went
Crashing through her mind
Took her by the spine and
Reverberated there
Quaking then crumbling the pedestals
Those gods were too small
To do anything but gape
Fumble with the keys and
Blink too many times
As between her legs
Echoed
A stillborn alleluia
19 March, 2009
12 March, 2009
2 verses of A Song About Theresa
Theresa gives more than she’s taken
All she asks is for a prayer along the road
She’s serving pancakes, her Hispanic lover
Can never keep up with her
He tries, though, with te amos in the cold
Theresa’s flown across the ocean
I haven’t seen her now for days and days and days
In Venizia she greets me with that stare
Says, “I’d know you anywhere”
And somehow, somehow it’s all okay
All she asks is for a prayer along the road
She’s serving pancakes, her Hispanic lover
Can never keep up with her
He tries, though, with te amos in the cold
Theresa’s flown across the ocean
I haven’t seen her now for days and days and days
In Venizia she greets me with that stare
Says, “I’d know you anywhere”
And somehow, somehow it’s all okay
09 March, 2009
Venus Envy submission
Number 52
The women will rise
Eyes lifted and jaws set
They breathe slowly and expand
From a crouch
They will brush the grass
Fingers over pebbles and aphids
Tense the muscles of their thighs
And spring upward
In their flight are screams
Dredged from the marrow of their bones
Now carried by vast lungs
The women have ancient tusks
In them is genesis
And in their wide arms the world
They will rise, the women
With the specters of fallen sisters
They will rise together
And will not be put asunder
The women will rise
Eyes lifted and jaws set
They breathe slowly and expand
From a crouch
They will brush the grass
Fingers over pebbles and aphids
Tense the muscles of their thighs
And spring upward
In their flight are screams
Dredged from the marrow of their bones
Now carried by vast lungs
The women have ancient tusks
In them is genesis
And in their wide arms the world
They will rise, the women
With the specters of fallen sisters
They will rise together
And will not be put asunder
07 March, 2009
An oldie (but goodie?)
Guitar Sonnet
I, so often, wish that I could
Be made of only strings and wood
And have your hands begin their trek
Pressed lightly at my arching neck
And make a slow but steady trail
By working down my major scale
So stringed melodic I would croon
And then my eyes to your eyes tune
That you would find it no ado
For a bright minstrel such as you
To wrap your arms around my hips
And strum me with your fingertips
And I would find it bliss by far
To be but used as your guitar
I, so often, wish that I could
Be made of only strings and wood
And have your hands begin their trek
Pressed lightly at my arching neck
And make a slow but steady trail
By working down my major scale
So stringed melodic I would croon
And then my eyes to your eyes tune
That you would find it no ado
For a bright minstrel such as you
To wrap your arms around my hips
And strum me with your fingertips
And I would find it bliss by far
To be but used as your guitar
The first bit of A Song About Theresa
Theresa's flown across the ocean
I haven't seen her now for days and days and days
In Venizia she greets me with that stare
Says, "I'd know you anywhere."
And somehow, somehow it's all okay.
I haven't seen her now for days and days and days
In Venizia she greets me with that stare
Says, "I'd know you anywhere."
And somehow, somehow it's all okay.
The Why
It is very early in the morning, which means that I am thinking crookedly.
Robin convinced me that a blog is a brilliant plan, but I cannot imagine how it serves any purpose but feeding my vanity.
At half past midnight, I decided that feeding my vanity was reason enough.
Conclusion: I shall use this space ostensibly for posting poems and soon-to-be poems, and happily accept feedback from you, the interwebs masses (I can tell! YOU are itching to make literary criticisms! Tell me more about myself!)
How strange the internet and its possibilities are.
Robin convinced me that a blog is a brilliant plan, but I cannot imagine how it serves any purpose but feeding my vanity.
At half past midnight, I decided that feeding my vanity was reason enough.
Conclusion: I shall use this space ostensibly for posting poems and soon-to-be poems, and happily accept feedback from you, the interwebs masses (I can tell! YOU are itching to make literary criticisms! Tell me more about myself!)
How strange the internet and its possibilities are.
Number 32, in the works
Her tragedies span lives
But not lifetimes
They are small, personal
They are not this heaving
No tidal waves of grief, no monument
Grains of sand, she knows
And still
And still
It is ancient, this calling in her bones
This ache, this want
Lately crafted into a Byzantine symptom
But not lifetimes
They are small, personal
They are not this heaving
No tidal waves of grief, no monument
Grains of sand, she knows
And still
And still
It is ancient, this calling in her bones
This ache, this want
Lately crafted into a Byzantine symptom
Number 12
Whether it was tomorrow or had been before
(Or would be this minute)
I can’t say that it mattered
Since I am certain
Tenses change when I am with you
So you and I stay
With spaghetti hair and slouched backs
If we had been smokers, there’d have been
Gray strata hanging ruthlessly
Turning my vision to smudges
But we are not
Or I am not, and you might have been
But wouldn’t say, because I am (or have been or can be)
Disapproving
So as it were, you and I just stay
And you are leaning (ruthlessly) against a column
With last week’s shirt and nothing to do with your hands
Unimportant words drifted out of you
Words about change and movement
They would become languid boats
On the decks of which I could sprawl
Palms open to stagnant air
You will trace patterns in dust on the table
Before laying me there
Then rest your head in the crook of my elbow
We find shapes in the popcorn of the yellowed ceiling
And make up adventures for the shapes to have
Even if I weren’t or wouldn't be happy
I wouldn’t have wished for the ruthless time
Insisting, as it does, on moving
To go faster
Since you (curled against my side)
Seemed like enough
At the time
(Or would be this minute)
I can’t say that it mattered
Since I am certain
Tenses change when I am with you
So you and I stay
With spaghetti hair and slouched backs
If we had been smokers, there’d have been
Gray strata hanging ruthlessly
Turning my vision to smudges
But we are not
Or I am not, and you might have been
But wouldn’t say, because I am (or have been or can be)
Disapproving
So as it were, you and I just stay
And you are leaning (ruthlessly) against a column
With last week’s shirt and nothing to do with your hands
Unimportant words drifted out of you
Words about change and movement
They would become languid boats
On the decks of which I could sprawl
Palms open to stagnant air
You will trace patterns in dust on the table
Before laying me there
Then rest your head in the crook of my elbow
We find shapes in the popcorn of the yellowed ceiling
And make up adventures for the shapes to have
Even if I weren’t or wouldn't be happy
I wouldn’t have wished for the ruthless time
Insisting, as it does, on moving
To go faster
Since you (curled against my side)
Seemed like enough
At the time
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