Wednesday, August 31, 2005

" Life is like playing a violin in public and learning the instrument as one goes on."

Samuel Butler
living, free? verse

a madness rumored
storied pain, tales of lust
and perfect love
cries in rage and shame,
enough, ah, enough.

laughing children in the yard, some
gone a bloody way,
a youth of brittle glass
senior proms,yes, looking down from bridges.

middle aged regret , still
taunting death while
teasing life, hollow prayers echo

redemption , a renewal, tho
afraid today, to start another


scribble.

i've been watching the news, watching the devestation from the hurricane down south, watching the rain from the last of it pour down here, all the way in pittsburgh. i'm hoping for no flooding here. this area can't take another flood, too soon after the floods of last september when all these little mill towns suffered the worst of it. the creeks and streams here still haven't been dredged of muck from then due to every gov. agency passing the buck! be back later. s.

Monday, August 29, 2005

as always, you can e-mail me at, afterthebridge@ hotmail.com


relevant comments, questions, welcomed. s.
there has been some trouble with the pk list website, not the main poetry kit site, this one, that has direct links to caught in the net and other pk list things. it seems to have had the gremlins banished now tho! the address for the pk list site is. www.poetrykit.org/pkl/index.htm


it really is worth a visit. s.
a poem from a guest poet, D.M. Swendsen. it is , i feel, a beautiful and true piece, that captures a mother's love for her child.


I Thought I Knew


I thought I knew joy
but then I met you
when you scrunch up your tiny face
and smile at me
when you offer me a wet Cheerio
and then eat it yourself
when you laugh at a game of Peek - A - Boo
then I know joy

I thought I knew sadness
but then I met you
when you wake up crying
your face swollen and wet from tears
and I can't make the nightmares go away
when you hurt
I hurt
then I know sadness

I thought I knew anger
but then I met you
when you wake up scared
because someone lit an M-80
when I hear stories about abuse and neglect
i know I would slaughter thousands
to protect you
then, I know anger

I thought I knew love
but then I met you
when I rock you in my arms
and feel your heat
and hear your breath
when you smile & run to me
when I care for you
comfort you
hold you
play with you
when I am with you
I know love.
late summer, hazy moon

the night clings to me
like fresh cut grass on bare legs
fragrant, sweet on my flesh

it clings, soft touches on bare shoulders
like a cool forefinger. this night
traces my backbone. shadows from oak trees

kiss my neck as they move down
tease, tempt thoughts
this night clings and makes me ache
because i am alone, but i remember.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

" The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." carl jung

or to my way of thinking, ingredients in a mouth watering meal.
this goes with the poem, cream. love and sensuality, sex, is food in a way, it is as needed, if not moreso than food, but being italian/american, having been raised in a good part by my grandparents , this quote is so very true.food and it's preparation is love, to dine with a lover, to watch them in the act of eating, to share food, to place a morsel from your fingers into their mouth, it is intimacy, it is an act of sensuality in itself.


"Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly." M.F.K. Fisher
cream


late summer sun comes
through white lace curtains
soft designs on warmed flesh
a smile, settles gentle on my mouth
your eyes close
i open myself up
kiss your lashes
line your curves and angles with my fingers
nuzzling at your heat
like a cat, i drink in the scent
lapping it up,
a saucer of cream.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

"half awake" is sort of how i feel this dreary morning. had about 3 hours sleep. the little club that i belong to, a fraternal organization/bar, had a wiring problem last night. the cable t.v. people had to be called. the cable was actually smoking on the side of the building. the electric company, to check the wiring in the building, the local fire and police, the Alarm system people, who knows who, i forget, there were so many. then, as we are outside and the firemen are investigating the inside, it begins to rain, AND a skunk decides to treat us to his happy little hello! we dragged generators into the building to keep the fridges and freezers going (as fate would have it, the annual picnic for the members is TODAY, so there was and is tons of food in the kitchen that needed to be saved.) oh, it was an experience. so, this a.m. i pawed through my files for a poem somehow related to lack of sleep(didn't have a damn one about skunk odor in the rain, but i'll BET there's a COUNTRY song out there, somewhere about it!!!) and so, that's why, the poem, half awake. s.
half awake

with the imagined taste
of copper penny blood in
my mouth.

i probe molars
with my tongue,
knowing the solidness
i find.

i've lost those teeth in bloody
dreams before
and still i check, unsure
with stiffened tongue
just to see if Freud was wrong.

Friday, August 26, 2005

a little something i found in the,"wireless" catalogue. it's a plaque, i'd love to buy it.

(actually, i found a ring in another catalogue that i'd really love, but hey, no lottery win yet, ha! and yes, this does sort of tie in with my poem about brown eggs. s.)

i'm going to type it out for anyone that needs a smile this weekend, like me. s


" May the light always find you on a dreary day.When you need to be home may you find your way.May you always have the courage to take a chance. And never find frogs in your underpants."

oh, i don't know about that, ribbit,ribbit!!!!
" No one gossips about other people's secret virtues." Bertrand Russell


"There is so much good in the worst of us,
and so much bad in the best of us,
that it hardly behooves any of us
to talk about the rest of us." Edward Wallis Hoch





" A rumor without a leg to stand on will get around some other way." John Tudor


i write this because of another dumb study , probably funded by us, the tax payer, that says gossip is good because(i'm paraphrasing here) it keeps a society in line!!!


frankly, it smacks of an excuse for repression, a fear mongering totalitarian mentality and "the scarlet letter" part two, at best.
" Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people."

Eleanor Roosevelt


and sad, nasty people with things of their own to hide, trash people.
i guess they don't realize that when they talk badly about people, other people start to discuss all the skeletons in the gossiper's closet and in their family's and friend's closets as well.
insomnia

night walker
moon's silver
reflected in dark
eyes

whisper wanders
through each room
wrapped thick
in silence
soft breath tiptoes
looking for sleep.
just because it is supposed to be hot and humid this weekend,

my most favorite ice cream flavor in the world is ben and jerry's "phish food."

yeah, i know it is not a yummy sounding name for ice cream BUT it is chocolate ice cream with little solid chocolate fishies, marshmallow and caramel swirls and just toe curling GOOD! s
goodmorning, still monkeying with files. i found this poem written for me back in 02. it was written by my friend mick moss. he used to write poems for people on request via his website. i don't know if he still does or not. this poem is a play on my name, sherry. hope you like it, i do. s


sherry

when it's cold outside
it fortifies
and warms our insides
bringing strangers
closer together
and making colleagues
loquacious
with a tall glass
of amber Amontillado
smelling of hazelnuts
smooth and light on the palate
or an old Oloroso
(fragrant by name)
full bodied and brave
but maybe a Manzilla
straw colored and smooth
from the exotically sounding
cellars of Sanlocar de Barrameda
but my favorite
is always Fino
the color of golden straw
delicately almondish
it slips down like elixer
from the Gods
of celebration.


thanks again mick! s

Thursday, August 25, 2005

this is a poem done for a national poetry day in england. i can not for the life of me, remember if it was celebrated here in the u.s.a. in our national poetry month. my files are in the middle of a major ( and long overdue ) overhauling so i can not find anything that i need at the moment. it doesn't really matter tho. a poem is a poem, is a poem . unless it's a duck! s
NPD and a poem in ordinary time

no rhyme, just words
free verse on a mundane day
swept up tidy with my broom
a few shoved into
the washing machine along with
dirty sheets and regrets

a poem, sharp with
fresh cracked black pepper in
the evening's stew. words thought
but unspoken, swallowed with each spoonful
traced with a forefinger into
the cooled broth at the bottom of the bowl

committed to memory, the only rhyme
this day,
the ancient mariner. my albatross
a dull glint around my ring finger.

no rhyme or reason for it.
just a poem in ordinary time.
dark outside now, can't see the words
holding my breath, feigning sleep.
clay

soft with kisses
warmed from
knowing fingers
your need
molds me to fit
shapes me this way or that
i wear your fingerprints
you sign your name.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

" Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives."
A. Sachs

Barbara lived, oh she lived , she was a force, a presence, a blessing. s
a sad note, i received word today that a fellow PK poet and a truly exceptional human being, Barbara Ostrander, passed on aug. 12th. she was a gifted writer, but so much more. she was as she wrote in her bio, a wife, a mother of four an ICU nurse, involved in international crisis relief. she worked in Africa, in truly frightening times, loved people and traveling. she always had kind words and lifted me up, and anyone that needed encouragement or a smile, she was there. on her last trip to the mountains she loved, she wrote to tell me she spoke my name into the air halfway round the world from here, because she knew that i don't travel much. that will be in my heart, forever.


a biography of her can be found on DESERT MOON REVIEW www.desertmoonreview.com


she will be missed and thought of with love and respect by many. s

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

" The relationship between commitment and doubt is by no means an antagonistic one. Commitment is healthiest when it is not without doubt but in spite of doubt." Rollo May


i think that it means that if you commit blindly, it couldn't , doesn't, wouldn't, mean as much as if one commits to a something or a someone , having enough intelligence to look at things honestly and clearly and STILL giving a commitment because it is deserved. s
an older poem. one published in, caught in the net. something, while i work on new poems. see, honesty at work, it's too nice of a day here in pittsburgh to be sitting inside and beating my head against the wall, forcing my muse.



stoney fields


oh christ,
i can not stand this, this nothingness
it feels as if you don't exist for me anymore, as if you
never did
a few days of silence and the eternity of my imagination runs
riot, barefoot and bleeding
through the stoney field of my insecurities
what and with who, and
was she better, better than
me? did you ever care? the
lies told, needing to be believed in those heated moments come
back now, sharp and shiny with the cold
my heart and the nearness of your smile not warming them into
comfortable whiteness
they stand dark, demanding to be asked about, picked apart
word by word and you
nowhere to answer, for you never existed after all, perhaps a
good thing, a
blessing, for what could you say but another lie or
worse,
the truth, and then?


2 quotes that mean more than at first read. 2 quotes about honesty, a thing , a quality that seems to have become a liability , an inconvenience, a bad habit to be overcome for a lot of people lately.


" Where is there dignity unless there is honesty?"
Cicero


" Our lives improve when we take chances - and the first and most difficult risk we can take is to be honest with ourselves." Walter Anderson

Monday, August 22, 2005

the best place i've found(and it was akin in my life to finding the holy grail) is the DSW shoe warehouse!

when i was young, well, up until about 10 years ago, shoes were a luxury. i had 1 pair of "good" shoes, 1 pair of sneakers and 1 pair of "sturdy" shoes or boots for bad weather. now, having been turned on to DSW, well, yeah, i go a little crazy a few times a year! s.
red shoes

bought myself
red shoes
first pair ever
after 51 years
red shoes,
maryjanes with
3 inch heels
short legs
ya know
good legs
men say
" oh honey,
you should ALWAYS wear skirts!"

but to me,
good legs will
always be twiggy's legs
waiflike,
elven.
me,
five three
with good legs that
everyone seems to see
but me,
and so
i bought
red shoes.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

a thought for today because this was a magickal weekend.



Immature love says: 'I love you because I need you.'
Mature love says ' I need you because I love you.'

Erich Fromm

Saturday, August 20, 2005

wonderful news, another guest poet. philip johnson. he is a quirky (and aren't we all? ) but very talented poet from england. philip writes wonderful short pieces that have meanings on top of meanings with each read. he thinks fast on his feet so to speak, often taking bits of news about people and making up poems on the spot. taking a paragraph or sentence from e-mails and making them into art. check out his site. i hope you enjoy,

Take That Poetry

horrors
on the shelf ignored
the thirty page paperback
remains unopened
undisturbed

gold under dust
dwarfed by the novel
shaded beneath the space trilogy
the tasty dish cookbook.



i always like that one! s.




Some Bored Anthology

buried treasure
untouched
unwanted by the browser
pleads for the comfort of a more
studious hand

sketches
brief lines
words that ignite the imagination
let readers create their own adventure
rough and tumble from the page

like all inpatient poets
i want that first edition to be picked up
opened so i can strike out
from the page and send a reader
whirling on to purchase heaven.




The Fifteen Minute Poem

I watch it appear
like a bus from the mist


headlights first.



philip wrote this next one for me when i had a bout of the "my writing sucks, i am worthless" that seems to strike every writer i have ever known at least once or twice (sometimes once or twice a month! god, even a period only messes with you once a damn month! ) he has a way to make people feel better.

The Ju Ju Weaved By Angels

Rubbish you're redundant!
Like wine takes time to ferment
as the garden we throw shit on
the chapters to your progression
develop like diamonds over the years
you make your mark in poetics
poachers like me steal to gain kisses
or belly laughs at a jogger's fashion
footsteps to dessert horizons seem pointless
beyond there is the shimmering oasis
around which life evolves in random chaos
all inter reaction like a mad laboratory experiment
sweet Sherry you may age yet slake the thirst of man
letter by letter by line which build like Pittsburgh skyward.

( sometimes we never see it coming until it hits us full in the face
and then, we find ourselves wearing it like it was made to measure. p. )


philip has his own website, it's, http://www.philipjohnson.org.uk

Friday, August 19, 2005

scuffed black boots

grainy film,the reel turns over, over
flip/blip/flip,
memories of you, gone 30 years and more.
sunlight on blonde hair, scuffed black boots
face to face on tender green grass
touches barely heard
but whispered back in return
kisses like breath between us.
fitting a life into a 17th summer.
our mouths move but the words
are lost with time that
moves you farther away each year.


my thanks to philip, barbara, and dear lynn, for their help in the rewrite of this. s
a few thoughts, after reading the obits this morning and finding quite a few my age or a few years older. i looked at the pictures, i read of their families, their accomplishments, their wellheeled zipcodes, lives that seem well lived, but were they? i hope so because tho bumper stickers say,

" he who dies with the most toys, wins!" it is also true that,


"he who dies with the most toys is still DEAD! "

(and someone ELSE will be playing with all their stuff!!! )


think about that. just what or who, is important to us?

i hope it's a "who" and not "what." s
the daily number

when i win the lottery
i will buy brown eggs
just because i like the look of them
i won't have to worry
about a few extra cents.
i will bring home fresh flowers
roses, red or white
or maybe salmon colored tulips
in big bunches.
when i win
i will order things i don't need
from the stacks of catalogues i read
like the latest best sellers. and when
the delivery man rings
i'll invite him in for scrambled eggs.


my thanks to chris and gary and jim for their c & c on this one. s

Thursday, August 18, 2005

the push up mountain range
(somewhere north of belly button cavern)


my mountains have become
molehills

once full b's
now, just about a's

purple mountain's majesty
courtesy of the angels of
victoria's secret.


bless em!



Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Finally, a cooler night. i sense fall beginning to edge out from behind the brights of august.

i remember moments that catch and hold me, light blue, worn and faded jeans, moccasined feet, bare ankles moments, a smile like a little boy's smile, remembrances . moments that catch, memories that hold me fast. s
thinking of you

it's like getting the sleeve of my coat caught
on the handle of a storm door. sometimes
a memory catches

itself, just the same
twists around, holding me in place

makes me feel just a little foolish
as i try to get loose and
not be noticed.

to go with the poem, " an orange, truth in segments", this little recipe from "the webtender" OVER 21 YEARS OF AGE PLEASE...


HEARTBREAKER'S SPECIAL

1/3 OZ VODKA
1/3 OZ PASSOA

1 PART PINEAPPLE JUICE
1 PART ORANGE JUICE

CRUSHED ICE

POUR VODKA, PASSOA, ORANGE JUICE AND PINEAPPLE JUICE INTO BLENDER, ADD CRUSHED ICE AND ORANGE RIND, BLEND WELL.


i don't drink much but i have a feeling after one or two of these, there'd be no secrets ! s

an orange. truth in segments

come, sit closer
our thighs touching , thoughts entagled
warmth shared.
sit with me awhile
let us show our meanings
dividing truth like a peeled orange
one for you
one for me, sticky with the juice running
smelling tasty,
closer
i will talk and you will smile, i will listen
and you will cry.
i will tell all of me and hear all of you.
we will eat our truths
like an orange.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

this was published in "the writer's hood" anyone that ever had their property reassessed for school tax purposes or filled out an application to work in any type of government job, or looked for a loan of any kind, well, you understand.


government forms & # 2 pencils

and here i sit staring, another form
tiny print and
little rectangular boxes
please use # 2 pencil and fill in completely, so
much like the SAT'S from my
high school days, nothing's changed,
not really
and then it just comes to me, i am just
caught up in the stupidity of it all

race, a box for it, well, no more boxes for
me, i'm gonna give 'em a form, oh!

race, well sir, since dale sr. died all they are is
a bunch of rednecks driving fast and turning left, ha! i
print in tiny # 2 penciled letters

sex, ah, there's a question,
as often and as varied as possible, and wouldn't you like
to know all about the 3 midgets that bring a big
jar of creamy smooth peanut butter with them, it's hell getting
peanut butter off my walls, my floors
my, nevermind!
the farm animals?
send another form.

what style house, year built, rooms?

1950's brick ranch, 8 rooms all painted primary colors,
like in a crayon box, and while we
are on the subject, just
so you know, i have spent many hours
trying to answer the question,
"if you were a crayon, what color would you be?" sometimes i can lose whole
DAYS on that one!

religion, oh god.
shall i scribble on? yes,
they asked.
eclectic. go earn your pay figuring that one out!
let's just say that while all
the holier than thou's, the ones with all the answers are
fenced off with
their own kind in the afterlife, bleating like
sheep, i will be
dancing with dragons and druids, having tea with the buddha
and writing down a date for a late supper with jesus
(using pen with purple ink, all the # 2 pencils be fueling the fires of hell,
for government clerks like you ) and god, i HOPE he's not serving fish again!

then the cramp in my
fingers brings me round, but
i haven't filled in one damn box, not one, unless
you count the graphite smears on the page, the
form,is filled with my block printing
both sides, there are # 2 smudges
on my forehead from pushing sweaty bangs away, but
not one filled box i'm proud to see!

and as i poke around my desk for
a stamp to mail
this epic in sarcasm and # 2 pencil, i
look around and say out loud to no one
but myself and the cat.
" fuck 'em if they can't take a joke!"



it's an odd thing, this forced rummaging through my files. i had completely forgottten writing "erasers", forgot that i had submitted it for c&c to my workshop, "the poetry kit list" reading the comments and suggestions i also realized how many people have come and gone, some to return, some never again. some moved on, some passed over. i miss them all. they were and are wonderfully talented and sharing people.

the other thing that struck me were the poems that i just simply forgot about, mine and some of the other's work that i printed out for my own enjoyment. i'm rediscovering some truly fine poems from people that i respect and admire, even the prickly ones, the rabble rousers, perhaps their work and comments most of all. thanks. s
another from 02


erasers

it's so much safer on paper
neater, manageable
no pain, easily rearranged.
no guilt.
written to fit.
no bad endings.
no muss, fuss.
instant gratification,
and an eraser,
in case i get bored,
with you!
" though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending."

carl bard


i just found this in my e-mail now and it about sums it all up for me. s

Monday, August 15, 2005

november 2nd. 2004

we flipped the switches
turned off the enlightenment

tripped over our egos.
yes, there are those times when i feel like the poem below. i submitted it for comments and critique to my workshop back in 02. there are poets from around the world in my group including a few that have been making a good living at it. i was and yet, wasn't, surprised at how many of us shared the feelings in this poem. not always, no, thankfully, not always, but it seems a pretty common feeling at times. it is a need tho, like air, poetry is a need. s
published

why, oh

for the love of god
why?

what sort of person lets
complete strangers in on
their lives, every

dirty little secret, petty need
twisted desire

who

would practically get on their knees,
begging
to be judged by the words they write

the pieces of themselves they
give away

who?

me, you, all
of us
sick little puppies

with pencils in our hands.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

" every individual is at once the beneficiary and the victim of the linguistic tradition into which he was born- the beneficiary inasmuch as language gives access to the accumulated records of other people's experience, the victim in so far as it confirms him in the belief that reduced awareness is the only awareness and it bedevils his sense of reality, so that he is all too apt to take his concepts for data, his word for actual things."

aldous huxley



" we don't see things as they are, we see them as we are."

anais nin


and so , abracadabra, a poem

Friday, August 12, 2005

abracadabra, a poem

sits, like a toad, blinking
silent, on the back of my tongue
nubby warts hidden from the light.

a poem, afraid
of what it might say, knowing
the old words

" abraq ad habra"
"i will create as i speak."

and so, it choose
silence and
status quo.
yes, there are left and right political sides, BUT there are left and right sides of a different sort...


on my left side, please

just stand behind me
and kiss my neck, oh
the left side,in the soft pulsing curve
opened mouth, let me feel your breath
warm, moist, yours
make me, yes
arch my back
reach behind myself
to touch you.




see, there are better lefts and rights at times than politics, no matter WHAT the 24 hour a day cable news channels would have you believe! s.
Two things to ponder this weekend. two books to recommend. one i've read and reread, one i intend to buy.

the first, i've read and read again whenever i get a little tired of groups trying to claim that they have the only way, that theirs is the only truth. "ONE HEART" wisdom from the world's scriptures. it shows by examples how most of the world's religions have the same tenants.

and


the one i intend to buy (as soon as i save up the money for it)

LISTEN TO HER VOICE: WOMEN OF THE HEBREW BIBLE. by miki raver this is an excerpt that caught my attention.

in the Torah, two names are used for the divine. one is Elohim, which was translated to english as " God " the name is actually plural in the original hebrew; it means " powers " and encompasses both femine and masculine genders. through the years, it was almost forgotten that the name Elohim has both masculine and femine sides.

it looks interesting, i myself am eclectic and i know i haven't all the answers so i follow my path and try to treat other's as i wish to be treated.

i wish for peace.
anew

the weight of spring rains
makes my chest hurt
my breath taste old

grey clouds press low
my shoulders curve down
hollow bones, trying

to touch the ground
like forsythia
able to grow from the soil,
young again.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

it's an odd thing, i always want to fiddle with my work, even the poems already published. i have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself. i know i could rewrite this, perhaps make it better, maybe screw the hell out of it, who knows?

another note, my line breaks are funky to say the least, but i decided to keep the breaks as i see them. i mentioned before about a worthwhile charity being, www. ctf.org it's the children's tumor foundation. a neurofibromatosis research and info site. nf 1 and 2 (and i've heard there is a third type, newly discovered) causes a myriad of medical conditions, some more easily recognized than others, all bad. i have some odd learning disablities due to this disease along with some more common things. so typed or written things move around on me, takes a beat or two longer for me to arrange the words in my mind on the page and so i decided, why fight it. it may be a happy gift from the fates. makes my,"voice" a little different. hell, i AM a little different, but interesting, among other things i've been credited with! s.
by the way, since i mentioned nf1, it's a defect on the 17th chromosome. if anyone sees a 17th chromosome up for sale on E bay, give me a call! hey, they sold a virgin mary grilled cheese sandwich (and the pan it was fried in!) so, i figure, any day now, body parts!!! ho, ho! s.
because i am still in that tender mood, i found this old one in my files. it was published a few years ago, but it is a favorite and i did get fan letters on this so it holds a special place in my heart.

in the hours

in the hours of the
angels
all alone, i feel warm
breath

sweet damp
caress

your touch
on white wings brushes
soft against my

flesh, in the hours
of the angels, in
the dark untouched

by dawn a
feather stroke and gone

traces of your coming
only left inside my
soul.



Wednesday, August 10, 2005

twilight, the crickets have begun their songs, two things, this night.


"hope is a waking dream."
aristotle

and this,


" one must desire something to be alive."
m.deland

goodnight. s
just because , this hot summer day is like that day, so long ago, and my thoughts are tender and some moments treasured.


revelations of a kind

he was my epiphany that summer
wearing a bright smile
illumination that frightened him
yet soothed me,
the more accepting but then
i had always been the seer
he, the master of self deception
always closing himself to avoid opening the wound
or perhaps turning away
the fearsome possibility of joy


HOT,HOT,HOT!!! that buster poindexter song comes to mind.
the bird's haven't been singing for a few weeks now, unless it rains a bit and the temps drop. the locusts and the crickets carry on all night. tempers are shorter and even i have taken to wearing tank tops instead of my usual long sleeves or sweaters.


and yet, the steeler's preseason starts soon, gaaaawwwwwdddd!
at dusk


i see red rimmed clouds
a twilight like fading bruises
and remember my childhood.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

insert name here -------------

some days
i say your name over and over
silently, in my thoughts

some nights
those kind of nights
i whisper it

a talisman
protection from
myself.
in the spirit of bill clinton (and yes, i STILL like the man) who said he did it just because he could, here's a chicken joke for you this morning while i sift through my files.


why did the chicken cross the road?

the confluence of events in the cultural gestalt necessitated that indvidual chickens cross roads at this historical junture, and therefore synchronicitously brought such occurrences into being. carl jung

OR

to boldly go where no chicken has gone before! captain james t. kirk

Monday, August 08, 2005

yes, got my picture taken and put on my little blog here, sent out some pleas to friends, family and acquaintances asking for some honest feedback on my efforts, applied to have my blog listed in some directories and now i'm just trying to give you my best efforts. so, welcome to my words. i hope you find things that make you feel, something, anything. a kiss , a caress or a wicked jab. that's up to you and what you bring with you here. just feel, because i realized, just in time, if you don't walk down from that bridge, you won't feel a thing. s
" To fear love is to fear life and those that fear life are already three parts dead."

Bertrand Russell
sweet dreams ( is this what patsy cline meant? )

three a.m. quiet
no house sounds
no clock tick, tick
no wind, just my breath
moist
dreamself tangled up
in your embrace
sleepwarm body
i hold my breath
struggle to stay
half asleep , mostly awake
i can almost, ah
almost
taste the salt of your skin
and feel you move
inside me.

Saturday, August 06, 2005

" and if you gaze for too long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

nietzche
" Heaven is high, Earth Wide. Bitter between them flies my sorrow."

Li Po

Friday, August 05, 2005

this is one from way back in 02. my thanks to jim for his help in his critique and suggestions.


shopping carts

in my everyday there
are poems
in shopping carts
and cleaning litter pans
sweeping up the glass i broke
or doing 5 loads of laundry while
burning the toast
eating soggy cornflakes
slaughtering dust bunnies
t.v. reruns, voting for
another lousy politician or
shaving my legs, buying
sympathy cards, oh, and
hot, wet sex. oh yeah.
just my average/everyday.

DO DAH DO DAH !(oh de, dodah, day)
aridus

dusty breath catches, chokes
i cough, spit out
the last of your scent.
rub dry eyes, tears
have turned to grit,
scratched memories into scars.
hot winds blow across
an arid soul, whip cruel
curl and peel the thin layers of self esteem
they flake and slowly fall away.
my lips, cracked and scabbed black
split, taste like a copper penny
too bitter for another's mouth.
a heart, turned to ash.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

hooray, the computer gremlins that were making faces at me this morning and mocking my attempts to type out my poem aren't back from lunch yet.

i wanted to post this old poem because they are at it again. in this heat and humidity, risking heat stroke and irritable drivers, as they chug on down the road in search of perfection.
"the older i grow the more i distrust the familiar doctrine that age brings wisdom."

h.l. mencken
yankee doodle dandies

everyday, rain or shine
running red faced
huffing and wheezing past my porch.
in hundred dollar shoes,
color coordinated in silky side slit shorts
sunken chested
blue knotted vericosed legs pumping.

sweat shined fortysomethings
trying to out run time
racing for that american dream!
i've found mine just sitting in my chair,
sipping coffee and waving to them as they chug by.
can't seem to get a poem printed this morning! the print keeps disappearing on the screen. maybe it's an omen? perhaps i should rethink the poem i was going to post today. still working on getting my photo taken and posted here, then i will send the address out into the cosmos (and my friend's e-mail, ha!) going to be 94 degrees today. that is damn hot for pittsburgh. the blue skies are beautiful but rare here. we are used to tones of grey. steel grey skies for the city that had it's steel robbed from us at the point of an economic gun! s.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

thanks to grant for help in editing the poem, "girl children in the 50's" s
girl children in the 50's

bra burners of the 60's
weighted down with childhood parables
slogged on in our attempt

goals in sight, if not in grasp
strained within ourselves
to be allowed to be

yet, for some it came to naught
thought too uppity,in this pursuit of equality
we opted to buy push up bras
and remember things differently.
" I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do because i notice it always coincides with their own desires."

susan b. anthony

Monday, August 01, 2005

"Meminerunt omnia amantes." Ovid

love remembers everything.


aeternus ( everlasting )