Sunday, July 31, 2005

the summer of 68


half empty bottle of Boone's Farm apple
blue jeans soft with the scent of patchuli
he looked up at me, crumpled
the yellow sheet of notebook paper
tossed it back at my face

said i was a "fucking genius"
as if he had said i was a narc
then he got up from the shade of
the only tree around, snatched the poem up

smoothed the wrinkles against his thigh
handed it back and smiled. i, well
i said i was " just fucking nuts, is all."


"but babe, it really does suit you."
yeah, did back in 68
still does, yeah, damn straight it does!
" Happiness: a good bank account, a good cook and a good digestion."

Jean Jacques Rousseau


me, well, my bank account is anemic, my digestion poor BUT i'm a damn fine cook! s
just an update, the wedding i mentioned, it was amazing , 20 people in the bridal party, not counting the bride and groom! they were beautifully oufitted and the food was wonderful. me, i was happiest at the cookie table!

in italian-american families around here there's a tradition of having a huge table filled with mounds of the most delicious home made cookies. they take tons of work, but usually everyone from the grandmas on down pitch in(and i'm not being sexist here, one of my favorite cousins was a pastry chef,now executive chef, i think, at a very nice hotel)

this cookie table was exceptional and i've been attending weddings for many years, delicate, beautifully decorated cookies and an assortment that made me tingle(yeah, goodies will do that for me too!!!)

so you see, i went just looking for a few smiles and was happily surprised.
sometimes the fates smile upon me. i hope they smile for you as well! s

Saturday, July 30, 2005

"experience is simply what we call our mistakes."

oscar wilde
one woman's planting season

i am still
rich with the scent of
dark, moist earth, the promise
of green leaves and curling tendrils

a fertile field opened to your plow
your seed,
and when

i am no longer,
as time goes by
and winds shift direction

i will become a meadow
bright with purples and pinks
alive with bees and butterflies.

Friday, July 29, 2005

another weekend, a wedding to attend, a graduation to acknowledge, the sun is shining, oh but even the sun has to go down sometime. i can hope for a starry night and a few smiles. i don't require much anymore. s
when i was quite ill a few years back, i wrote down what i wanted for my wake, no funeral, no viewing, a cremation and a party. the plans were lost in a flood. i haven't felt the need to write anything down yet, to rewrite or change plans. it doesn't much matter to me anymore other than my ashes are scattered in a beautiful woods and that this be my funeral poem, tho no one will be there to read it. i love neruda. this poem, it really has special meaning . KNOW.



Tonight I Can Write




Tonight I can write the saddest lines.


Write, for example, ' the night is starry

and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance'




The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.




Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.





Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.


She loved me, sometimes i loved her too.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.




Tonight,I can write the saddest lines.

To think that i do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.



To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.




What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

The night is starry and she is not with me.




This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.




My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.

My heart looks for her and she is not with me.




The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.



I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.



Another's, she will be another's. As she was before my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.




Because through nights like this one i held her in my arms

my soul is not satisfied that i lost her.


Though this be the last pain she makes me suffer

and these the last verses that I write for her.





pablo neruda,


from the book, TWENTY LOVE SONGS AND A SONG OF DESPAIR



no, i think it better left unread at my funeral, but held in someone's, heart.
"In three words i can sum up what i've learned about life. it goes on."

robert frost



yes, it goes on and if we can just come to a true understanding of ALL that those three words encompass, we might be better off, or not. what do YOU think? s
traces

oh yes, there's a
little bit of me
in everything of you, there's
a whisper of me around each corner
there i am , sitting
at your table , here i am

smiling in your bathroom mirror, is
that my scent on your pillow
the feel of my skin, remembered
on your fingertips? yes
the taste of me is in your mouth.

what was that?
what brushed against your heart in passing?
that was me,
in everything of you.
this de la Rochefoucauld has been in my thoughts quite a bit of late. it's a thought worth dwelling on. s
" Absence diminishes mediocre passions and increases great ones, as the wind extinguishes candles and fans fires."

Francois de la Rochefoucauld

Thursday, July 28, 2005

i am very excited to have another guest poet. his name is gary blankenship. gary is a grand poet and can do something ,with skill and heart, that i will not even attempt. he pens amazing haiku and other forms of Asian poetry. he also writes of his home and his life with words that give the reader the simple beauty of his day to day life and his travels. these are two of his poems that i picked to share with my readers. more of his work can be found on his website and on the links there to other sites he works in.

his site is, www.mindfirerenew.com



this poem is a favorite of mine.


The Father Poem

I have no father
poem. Blood or step.

I have
no mother poem,
though i should. She
canned pickles and spoke
her mind.

I have a grandfather
poem - where
his barn burns when he no longer
owns the barn.

I have a grandmother
poem. She was a saint
and raised seventeen children
on chicory and buttermilk biscuits.

I have started a poem
about my children. They will not
write a father poem.




Winter Comes Round Every Year


In the green bright growth of spring,
all the world seems to blossom,
all the sounds are voices of the young.
In spring, winds may topple nests,
rain may drench gardens,
but there is always time for games,
always a place to play.

In the high hard heat of summer,
all the petals seem to melt,
even thunder's voice is hoarse.
In summer, the earth may parch
and growth may slow to a crawl,
but there is always ground to clear,
always fruit to pick.

In the low yellow haze of autumn,
all the dress seems tattered rage,
all the voices muddled mutes.
In autumn, frost may chill our bones
and the days seem much too short,
but there's always wood to stack,
always memories to sort.

When winter comes around
around too soon again,
always bare to black bone,
always silent as white jays.
We forget where we were,
where we are,
and how to get where we are going.


thanks again gary

this came yesterday. It is a wonderful and well deserved appointment for Dr. Jim Bennett. The head of my poetry workgroup.


in august 2005 Jim Bennett will be taking up post for two years as port of Liverpool poet in residence under the auspices of world heritage historic waterfronts and land falls group. Part of his duties will be to hold readings and workshops on the subject of the historic waterfront and to produce a " poetry sculpture" which will be exhibited at the pier head during 2008 when Liverpool will become the European capital of culture.

from October 2005 until July 2006 Jim will also serve as visiting writer for new York harbor. The intention is to tie these two places together in a book which will be written and collated by Jim and published together with drawings and photographs of new York harbor and Liverpool water front.

Alex Simons of world heritage said " combining these two posts presents an exciting artistic opportunity. We are sure that a poet of jim's ability will produce a piece of work which will be outstanding and present a real contribution to the cultural links between these two great harbor cities."

between 1996 and 1998 Jim Bennett was poet in residence for the Seaside Heritage Trust and as a result produced an acclaimed collection of poems published as "Drums at New Brighton" ( starwood 1998 ) he was born in Liverpool and lives only five minutes drive from the city centre. He teaches at the University of Liverpool and for the WEA and is managing editor of the internet site "the poetry kit" and he is known internationally as a prize winning poet and performer. His book of poetry "the man who tried to hug clouds" (bluechrome 2004 reprinted 2005 ) won the prize for the best poetry book 2004 at the Berlin festival. Jim has won three DADA fest awards for performance and has twice won the BEAT festival award for poetry.

jim's site, http://www.poetrykit.org/jim

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

salvation 97 in black on white

he asked
"WHAT do you need ALL this paper for?"

to write my sanity
i thought with eyes averted

"just, stuff."

is what i said, in
all lower case letters.

seeking salvation,

on the page.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

" creativity requires the courage to let go of certainties."

erich fromm
" When I hear music,I fear no danger. I am invulnerable. I see no foe. I am related to the earliest times, and to the latest."

henry david thoreau
our shadows

yours is on me
taller than my own
it tugs at me
pulling mine up
and pushing it
out of your way.
brown eyes

your fingers, touched
my face, pushed through
to my soul.

i ache
to slow dance in your eyes

and live my life
in the corner of your smile.
ah today, god, it's hot. s
6 o' clock news/ porn

sitting in flickering dark
watching the 6 o'clock news
on a 32 inch screen

human degradation in
bright colors
and stereo surround sound

fire and flood
closeup bloody murder
telepromters read by

pretty people
far removed
from the whole dirty business
of real life

well paid pimps
for all us news johns
getting cheap thrills from

the agony whores
going down on the screen
sucking us off each night at 6.
i wrote ,"6 o'clock news/porn", because i am a news junkie and it struck me that the news has become more graphic for the sake of ratings which of course means money. that the producers demand and the on air talent has to perform. that we are like the johns, in the dark, anxious and horny for release, or perhaps as i said, junkies, looking for that fix. s

Sunday, July 24, 2005

neighborhood whore

i knew a whore once, didn't know that she was
not at first, can't judge a book, ya know.

she was a
tiny , blue eyed
blonde, never
had a chipped nail
or a run in her stockings

white teeth, red lipped, perfect pout
dimpled smile
soft voiced she was.

odd it seemed to me
that she had so many boyfriends, some coming
3 or 4 or more a day, except

on sundays, she was a church going woman
mass every sunday, still

she used the men like kleenex
yeah, she was a whore, after all.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

thought i'd write a bit about how i want my poems to be taken. i try to write poems that let each reader bring their own experiences into the piece. i try not to be too specific. i do go over and over each poem to see to it that i as the poet am not preaching or trying to teach a point of view . i'd like to think my works can be universally felt. that every person that reads a poem of mine can relate to it in some way, if only to fantasize how they might feel or react.

i really try to evoke feeling in my readers, more than demonstrate my ablities(small, i admit) to craft along a certain form or specific rule. i remember back (many years ago, i admit to that as well!) in grade school, i could diagram the hell out of a sentence, down the blackboard and onto the floor if need be! now, i have come to the stage, and age, where i want emotions, i want feelings. when i am gone, no one will care, nor will i have touched anyone with diagraming sentences, but i just may have given someone, somewhere, a smile, or a laugh or a fist clenched in rage or indignation, or made someone shake their head in bewilderment or given someone a memory or a fantasy and a bit of pleasure in the sensuality of life and love or just the heat of a good sexy read. enjoy, s.
valentine' s dinner

the words are carefully chosen, pleasingly placed
like the knives and forks, silver serving pieces, artfully
folded linen napkins. waterford goblets hold intentions
fresh flowers, arranged low enough for
pleasant spoken nothings. a table, set to be admired
but i look close and find spots of dried egg on the
knife edge and small black bugs hide in the pale green
leaves.

Friday, July 22, 2005

"love never dies a natural death. it dies because we don't know how to replenish it's source. it dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. it dies of illness and wounds ; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings." anais nin
showtimes

lee lee keeps her sex
in a drawer, right alongside
torn ticket stubs and unopened condoms.

she wears black bras, lace panties
and feels wicked

dreaming of
coming attractions and
hot buttered popcorn.

the images on film
her lovers

more stubs to stuff
in the bedside drawer,
pushing aside the trojans.

Thursday, July 21, 2005

" We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another, unevenly.We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, foreward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations."

anais nin
a day promising rain. a heat too bright, too thirsty to be quenched. s.
dreams, a small word

a fragile word, so
few letters
small space on the page
hard to write about, but
easy to rip up
tear up, a throw away word.

tiny thing, a
better off staying
on the point of my pencil word.

needs, in black on white, a
little thing, but an exquisitely
painful word most times
dreams.

torn and crumpled
tossed out.
too small to matter,
much.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

"there is no remedy for love, but to love more."

henry david thoreau
this is one of my MOST favorite things, so, i want to share it. good things should be shared and enjoyed.


Long night : unable to sleep
The moonlight, how breakingly bright.
Calling, someone seems calling.
Into the empty air, I answer "yes?"


anonymous ( # 4 of the Zi Ye series ) translated by Wai - Lim Yip


this has a very personal meaning for me. i know, i just know, i came across this because i was meant to find it.
the poem, these words, MY words, seems simple, but crafting poems on the subjects of poems and poem writing usually is much harder than it would seem. poems on poems can be annoying and sappy at best and godawful at their worst, but i've written two so far ( i can be self destructive at times! ). this and one published in an on-line anthology from the pk list. that poem is called , MY WORDS. it is in the pk anthology 2004, "in no particular order" i am proud that i managed in my years writing to have come up with two passable poems on poems.
these words, MY words


are in your face
words, hey
feel THIS words
come on, feel it, isn't it something?
FEEL this and cry
feel it
and die, just a little bit
just, enough
you, yes, YOU
crawl into my bed words
let me words
DO ME, words
dance me, sing you
MY words
be me, words
FUCK YOU
words
need me, love me, even
hate me words, it doesn't
matter words, just read, just READ
my words.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

mom's eyes

are my eyes, my daughter's eyes
are mine.
mother's look straight ahead, caught forever
in a child's face that always stares at me when
i dust the mahogany "whatnot" that holds
photos and bric a brac. old
but not antique memories.
her shiny black hair in a bowl cut,
a three year old crosslegged in
a too big chair, her high buttoned shoes make me
think of my grandma and the time she must have had
every day, button hook in hand, patience at an end.
i look at my mom's eyes and wonder,
was i what she wanted from life?


(am i what my daughter hoped? )

just a little thing...

i have been listening to a new CD. " THE STONE MONKEY"

by kazu matsui, he plays an instrument called the shakuhachi.
this CD is so unlike anything i've really listened to before.

i really recommend it.
the man down the street

he owns nothing, but
holds on to it tight, fears a thief.
knows, even less
than that
still finds time
to correct others.
has no life of his own
he lives, looking
through my open blinds.



my thanks to james, from the pk list for his help in editing this poem.
to my readers, please remember to hit "ARCHIVES" to read all the posts. my poetry blog has become too large for just one page. (it seems i am i am entranced with this blogging thing ) one of the poems i've gotten the most and most positive feedback on over the years is in the archives, "pool night..." it is intense and intimate and mine.

thanks much. sherry

Monday, July 18, 2005

& write


write & write and
read other's poetry &
think their's better
& tear mine
into itty bitty
pieces & write more
& fall asleep, waking with words
that taste bad in my mouth
so i spit them onto the page
& rinse my mouth.
" to accomplish great things, we must not only act, but also dream; not only plan, but also believe," anatole france



" dreams are necessary to life. " anais nin
a beautiful little quote.




"whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."

emily bronte


this touches my heart.

Sunday, July 17, 2005

" a single rose can be my garden... a single friend, my world." leo buscaglia
these dead of mine


i know them well
and they know me.
who are yours,
do they come in sleep or waking
to comfort or to curse things done
too late or not at all, with
tender smiles or earned disdain?

will they come
at life's last gasp and rattle
to guide with gentle hands?

i know my dead
too well,
and they know me.
my head aches ( a love poem? )

my head aches
coming off a dream

drunk with the
taste of you, still

in my mouth
brain swollen to

bursting, full
of imagined touches

kisses that swallowed us
whole, promises

tender and rich
flowing from

you to me

i wrap myself around them
holding them inside, legs

shut tight as i
will them to grow.
this poem, my head aches (a love poem) was an old mini challenge poem on the subject of love from the pk list. i found it in my files, reworked it a bit and here it is. it is one i'm pretty fond of.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

another quote or two, o.k. three really.


"the language of friendship is not words but meanings." thoreau


" who looks outside, dreams ; who looks inside awakes." carl jung


" always laugh when you can. it is cheap medicine." lord byron

Friday, July 15, 2005

a collection


a bare foot. two
tiptoes
a silence winces
turns away
a bruise, a thank you
when no one does.
an unknown word
swallowed. one breath
two, ten, some uncounted
adding to the pile.
child in the dark

in the dark
hugging my knees to my chest
forehead almost touches them

wrapping myself
in a little package
trying to disappear

feeling like the child
i never was

listening to the 3 a.m. quiet
choosing what to pray for

and wondering
if it matters.
amputation

heartache dims but is not
forgotten, like phantom pain
from severed limb it

creeps up on a soul,
unaware

and brings the amputation,
fresh and bloody

nerves sing the knife's song
anew

it renders us undone and begging

all the while, we know
in our gut, a lost cause

it is over before

our mind forms the
first plea,

or tries to strike
a bargin
with god.


this was first published in alchemy, online poetry magazine, in 1999

Thursday, July 14, 2005

no poem today, just a quote or two. this is from a letter written by thomas jefferson to mrs. h. harrison in 1816. " i never told my own religion nor scrutinized that of another. i never attempted to make a convert, nor wished to change another's creed. i am satisfied that yours must be an excellent religion to have produced a life of such exemplary virtue and correctness. for it is by our lives and not our words that our religion must be judged." and this one from the Buddha on belief from the kalama sutta, is one of my favorites. " do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. do not believe simply because it has been handed down for many generations. do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken or rumored by many. do not believe in anything simply because it is written in holy scriptures. do not believe in anything merely on the authority of teachers, elders or wise men. believe only after careful observation and analysis, when you find that it agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all. then accept it and live up to it." just a few things to mull over.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005

rhyme

some poems rhyme
have make believe lives
pretty words, hiding lies
my poems don't wear thin
disguises, rhyme seldom
often raw and bleeding
why
should they rhyme?
when there is
no reason
there is

no rhyme.
still working the bugs out and working on a photo, plus trying to line up some very good poets to lend a poem or two. one has already lent me 3 to start with. thanks much.

i haven't as yet asked to link my site to anyone elses, but as soon as i am pleased with my efforts here i will. smiling, sherry
a note for anyone looking at all of the really worthwhile charities out there and trying to decide which one to send those hard earned dollars to, one of the really fine ones for the patients with a genetic disease few really know much about and that is woefully undervalued and terribly misunderstood even tho it is more prevalent than most other genetic diseases combined, one in every 4000 births, is NF1, neurofibromatosis aka wrongly, as elephant man's disease. a wonderful site for research on a cure and info for families is, www.ctf.org , children's tumor foundation, check it out.
one last poem of mick's, because this says so much.


Rwanda


10 years old
with an AK 47
his tribe have killed their tribe
back and forth
across the frontline
that used to be a road
running between the villages
but now it's a frontier
littered with flyblown corpses
including those of his parents
the journalist asked him
" why are you a soldier?"
the kid didn't know
" i just am."
two poems here by a guest poet/artist/singer songwriter that i am pleased to claim as a friend tho we've never met face to face. his name is mick moss and he lives in england. i hope you enjoy them. they are" Funeral of a Dead Good Poet" and "Butterfly Rage"



Funeral of a Good Dead Poet


When your light had gone
We came to see you off
at the great sand stone edifice
battered by a bitter wind
and cold as death inside

the mock gothic vaulted cavernous space
echoed with appropriately poetic words
as poet followed writer followed poet
with tales of a life lived large
eulogy for a fat boy bullied
but creative and curious
who wanted to paint everything
even the paving slabs in Canning Street
who believed that communication was bigger
than the limitations of language

a trumpeter played a muted blues
the last jazz rites
and i thought of angry young men
rule breakers and risk takers
a generation who were among the first
to say "fuck you"
only eloquently

i misread the programme and could have sworn
" commendation " read " comedian "
one wouldn't have been out of place
as top turn after top turn read or played or sang
I wasn't the only one of the capacity crowd
who felt the desire to applaud
Roger McGough reminded us that Dylan Thomas begged us

not to go quietly when our light goes

I came away feeling
like I always do after a funeral
That they are not for the dead
nor about death
but for the living
and about life.




Butterfly Rage

In my English garden
a gentle summer breeze
as a delicate little butterfly
fluttered on a rose

It cost a fortune
to rebuild my house
in the Caribbean
so i squashed
the little bastard.

(there's a good explaination for this poem. you can ask mick himself. )

mick's website with links to his songs, artwork etc. is www.geocities.com/emcsquareduk



i'm hoping for more of my fellow poets to allow me to post a few of their works here as well.
just waiting for some e-mail replies.

hope you enjoyed mick's poems.
he's a keeper.

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

got this today in my e-mail. it's a keeper! "if we could sell our experiences for what they cost us, we'd all be millionaires." abigail van buren
holiday

stacked up the newspapers
the last three days still folded
neatly unread.
my good high heels lay on the floor
one, half under the bed. don't care
black silk skirt a dark stain in the corner.
i can feel the damp white linen of my blouse
sticking to my breasts, the back of a pearl earring
pokes at me, guess i put it on to tightly this morning
just now realizing how annoying it has been,
like a buzzing fly
determined.
i think i'll close my eyes, and go away.

Monday, July 11, 2005

people ask


" what do you do?" not,
" how are you?"
how are you, seems too intimate anymore
or maybe, just could be
they just don't care,
to pretend to care, but

"what do you do?" well,at least
that could be interesting.
never know when the answer might be
" CEO" of blah blah." or
"i'm the president of a third world banana republic!"
(take your pick of countries, most suck at geography or world affairs)
OR the answer might even be "convicted felon." perhaps
"pervert!"

"what do YOU do?" i'm asked, usually while trying
to get a drink from the bartender or find the ladies room
without looking like i need it. " what DO you do?"

"me?"

well, lets see, "nothing, i don't DO much of anything."
why bother explaining that i'm a poet. that i write, that
i fucking stay up nights looking for just THE right word
the PERFECT word. typing and deleting and retyping
printing it out, ripping it up. sweaty and working on
another ulcer. beating myself up and wondering.
WHY?


"what do you do?" smarmy, well dressed, over educated
male or female, really doesn't matter who.
"what do i do?"

"i make bricks."
poems read by dead poets. a christmas gift

something odd and awful, unexpected
on silvered discs.
the voices of dead poets
their words, as familiar as morning coffee and buttered toast
their voices unexpected, unpleasant as
the corpse of a fly hidden in the blackberry jam.
river rocks

waves, knife edged
steel grey sharpness
slicing away at the river rocks.
cold raw silverskied day
you can see them
tightly packed
under the bridges of the three rivers.
dirty blankets, stained cardboard
muted colors, dulled hopes endure.
eyes as hard as the wet stones
staying
while the river flows away.
the phone call

a harsh jangle
i knew
it was you,
you called
not to talk or
explain, comfort or even
qualify the sin, try to lessen my guilt, no
you called
to inflict
to infect,
called to blame me
because i loved you
too much.



one note, these poems, for the most part are about adult experiences, written for adult readers. just a fair warning.
most of the poets that i know have websites along with some who have chapbooks or books published. i worked on getting a website up and running. it gave me headaches trying to work it out. then i found blogging. this seemed to suit not only my desire to get my poems out there on my own, previously they were published on other's e-zines or in indie lit mags . most are still in my files some have been edited or rewritten with the wonderful help of the amazing and amazingly different and talented poets from the pk list. i recommend researching the main poetry kit site and go from there. it is crammed full of things that will be of great benefit to anyone that loves words. so, i will post poems and thoughts about poetry and whatever might come to mind.
sparrow

i've seen angels smile as
scabby junkies shared a
blood stained needle
and huddled close, seeking heaven.
watched and written pretty words
as devils danced in delight
outside a hospital room while
sacred words in mumbled monotone
sped a soul to heaven.
saw christ in a drunk's
sloppy grin and found buddha's calm
in the bottom of a shot glass.
it's been written that
god sees the sparrow fall,
but does he look for me?

hey god, do you look and
smile at me,
trying to find heaven.




patterns

your tongue is sharp
honed to a fine edge.
the things you say
slash me at times, wounds
deep and gaping.
the bones of my soul show
white under red.
but most often the words are
tiny nicks,
scratches here and there,
patterns,
tattooed on my self esteem.
tribal scarifications
brand me yours.


pool night 1996

i sit quiet in the corner
just a bit of darker shadow
turned sideways from the light
coming yellow down on the
one decent pool table.

watching you laugh, drinking
with the rest. you stroke your stick
i can see you like the feel
of it's smooth wood
familiar to your fingers.

me, i'm thinking
i wanna be the pool table, soft
worn felt you're leaning across,
want you to be that stick.

the shot, as you stroke.
wanna be the corner pocket.

i swallow hard when you
tilt your coors up and
drink deep. i need to be your thirst.

shifting my weight a bit on my seat
i think about you
being that bar stool.

i would be the smokey air that
you suck in before the click of
the balls hitting. hell
i'd settle for being the cigarette
between your lips.

2 a.m. by the grimy neon clock
behind the bar, another pool night done.
you won a few of your games, i
haven't played at all.





after reading again, bukowski

his love, was i think
that dog from hell.
i think that.
times he fucked lovelessly
times he fucked loveless
times he loved
fuckless.
sometimes i think he wasn't
but most times i think he was
bukowski.



a date with neruda

after work on a friday, a
quick stop at a bookshop down the street
unlocking the backdoor, coat tossed at the
kitchen table, misses
who cares, as i
hurry up the narrow stars to
my small bedroom, turning on the
lights
as i head for the bed and
the intimacy of pillows and mattress,
the book is hard in my hands and the pleasures i
seek, fullfilled as i read,
me and pablo, between the sheets.



wicked fingers

bruised sky
swells around
the rising moon
backlight
for sharpened branches,
dark wicked fingers
point toward heaven
accusing god.



jewel box

each stolen moment, every
glance with head tilted so
no one notices
a brush of hand against hand
as we pass, warm
skin to skin
quick opened mouth kisses
wet and too few
strung together
i wear as jewelry
more costly that pearls.



these are poems that i must thank 2 of my fellow pk poets for their help in reworking and making my original drafts so much better. they are, "sparrow" thanks david and "patterns", thanks gary and dam.
morning shower

heavy steam in layers

surround

as the water beats
against glass shower doors and

nakedness


washing the night and your scent away

hot soapy water running down
my legs, you

swirling down the drain.
some thoughts on poems and on my poems. i think all poems just as all paintings or acting or any of the arts that one does, contain bits and pieces of one's personality , life experiences and a healthy dose of imagination. the ablity to put oneself in another's shoes, or at least attempt to do so helps, as does an empathetic inclination, tho not always. some artists have been and are childishly self centered and egotistical, but still there has to be something in them that can bring words or brush strokes or notes of music or dance to move others or they would fall by the wayside and give up. my poems are bits and pieces, of me, of others i've encountered on my path through this life or of people and things that i've read about mixed in with a good imagination(i hope) i know other poets that work differently, but there is, at least that i have seen, bits of them that shine through.
freedom

my cat sits
on the sill
licking at the cold glass
and i
wonder does she
lick to feel the smoothness
of the glass against her
rough tongue or
to taste the impossiblity
of freedom.

(first published in APJ, 1999 )



jeans


you take my
small
hips, in your
big hands, too
big hands and

pull me on
to
you, fit me

to you,on
you, over
you like putting
on

socks, or a pair
of
jeans, with just as much
thought you

wear me, like
you bought
me
at
k mart.


been


i was a granddaughter
until eight years ago. i am
a daughter for maybe
a year or two more
perhaps three.

i have been a mother
these thirty years past, a grandmother
possibly, never.

i was a good wife, until
i realized that wife meant
less than i could be.

i was, i've been, i
am, everything
but me.




my hands

oh lord, are turning into
my grandma's hands,
not my mother's, oh no.
her's were too harsh, too quick with
angry movement. no.
my hands are my grandma's,
endless twistings
in silent rosary pleadings.
i pray, without the beads
using grandma's hands.



180 lbs.


ribs and hipbones, too white skin
nipples turned upward
from flat childlike breasts.
i am almost a child agian,
almost.
i laugh like a child,
thinking that it is this child's form
with a woman's eyes, unblinking,
knowing
that you would have me under you
almost hidden by you, and your heated
needful push.
where were you, when i looked like a woman?
where was the fucking lust when i weighed
180 lbs.


anorexia

little deaths
tiny bites
from a life

inch by inch
eating myself up

year after year
haute couture suicide

slow and oh,
so chic.


(two notes. i was flattered when i submitted this for comments and critique to my poetry group because more than one member thought that i must be anorexic to have written about it in such a way and well. i'm not, never have been. also a note of interest pointed out to me by a member"little deaths" translates to,"petit mort" in french and is used to discribe an orgasm. puts an interesting spin to the poem.)


angel at the bar

i paint my nails
black
and drink white russians

i dance just
to feel another's touch
making myself smile to
see

what it feels like


learning to fly with a broken
wing


and god, i'm getting over you.

(this is one of a series of " bar room" poems that will someday become a booklength work.)