A Love Poem

When I was a child
trust wasn’t even a word
that appeared in my dictionary. I didn’t need it.
A vocabulary of innocence brought me
to your cities, your forests, your imaginations...
As we played together,
you taught me and through our intimacies,
I learned the holiness of smiles and deep belly-laughs,
how prayers come easily when together we walk hand in hand
and dance the macarena.

Time aged me irreparably, I’m afraid.
I don’t look the same, tortured and twisted
in my infectious loneliness and narcissism.
I slipped off the path,
stumbled into vanity and fame-seeking
and learned the sweet cocaine dust of admiration.

You never changed.

And so while trust must now appear
a truth I learn through wavering, awkward steps,
a toddler at such an advanced age,
you steady me. Whisper things that make me blush.
Goodness overwhelms me.
Drunk on your moon, on the cloud-studded night sky,
the scattered confetti of the cities’ stars,
sun gold that illuminates what a terrible housekeeper
I am in the dust flecks that play ballerina in the front room...
Neither the laziness or the selfishness seem to surprise you.
You’re not running away.

And while I love you different than I did
the force of time has strengthened our bonds
this commitment I cannot break
you are cemented in my blood and to deny you
is to negate me...

A Love Poem

When I was a child
trust wasn’t even a word
that appeared in my dictionary. I didn’t need it.
A vocabulary of innocence brought me
to your cities, your forests, your imaginations...
As we played together,
you taught me and through our intimacies,
I learned the holiness of smiles and deep belly-laughs,
how prayers come easily when together we walk hand in hand
and dance the macarena.

Time aged me irreparably, I’m afraid.
I don’t look the same, tortured and twisted
in my infectious loneliness and narcissism.
I slipped off the path,
stumbled into vanity and fame-seeking
and learned the sweet cocaine dust of admiration.

You never changed.

And so while trust must now appear
a truth I learn through wavering, awkward steps,
a toddler at such an advanced age,
you steady me. Whisper things that make me blush.
Goodness overwhelms me.
Drunk on your moon, on the cloud-studded night sky,
the scattered confetti of the cities’ stars,
sun gold that illuminates what a terrible housekeeper
I am in the dust flecks that play ballerina in the front room...
Neither the laziness or the selfishness seem to surprise you.
You’re not running away.

And while I love you different than I did
the force of time has strengthened our bonds
this commitment I cannot break
you are cemented in my blood and to deny you
is to negate me...

Poetry Thursday

I just discovered a new website with writing prompts... and this is the poem that resulted:

Notebooks are orange and made of fingernail clippings
ground into powder, wrung clean
left slightly crusty for better writing
Clean them with a broom,
wipe them with the dustpan
the dirtier the better
lets the light in.
I wrap my purse around my neck and walk out
on the telephone.

Paradise Poems

I'm working on a series of poems loosely dealing with Adam/Eve, the Fall, and mankind's subsequent distance not only from God but also from each other. The "distance" poems have proven easy to write...I'm still working on reconciliation!
Here are two...


Evelyn:

In the beginning,
I was lonely. Now
I’m bored.
Which is worse?
The fault lines lie
across both our hearts.
Both of us, we’re unwilling
to admit
culpability. So we’ll
blame another and pretend
like there will be
no more
earthquakes.

Adam: The Sometimes

Sometimes I just sit in the field
run clods of soil through these
rough fingers and watch the sky
change color.

Sometimes I chew grass,
talk to my tractor,
watch squirrels break
the laws of gravity flying from
tree to tree.

Sometimes I don’t know what to say
and so I don’t.
Naming took most of my words
and I’d prefer to watch.

Sometimes I see her
and I know she’s sad,
but every step I take just pushes
her farther and farther from me.
No one taught me rejection
until she tore from my chest.

Sometimes overwhelm me.

"Some cowboys

came upon Indian families without their men present.
The cowboys gave pursuit, planning to rape the squaws,
as was the custom. One woman, however,
pushed sand into her vagina to thwart her pursuers."

I see her in the sharp
shadows of time,
scraping a hide
perhaps
preparing some corn,
feeding the baby.
Husband away
when the raiders come.
Worst fears turn to bile
and vomit in her mouth
tongue dry
these men on horses,
with guns and beards
and evil intentions.
She can hear the screams of
her sisters
thrown to the ground and casually attacked.
There is one, not far off, advancing across
the sand, hot under the midday sun.
No time for modesty,
pulling up her skirt to press fistfuls
of the burning grit
deep into the one part of her body they want.
Chastity preserved through sand,
for weeks lacerated, rough, but pure.
Remembering his stunned expression
in her triumphant pain
before fleet feet took her beyond his reach.
Years later, his letter of curiosity
burns into memories ashamed of grandfathers.


(the quote is from "Lies My Teacher Told Me" and it is from another book that I need to look up...I'm so terrible at referencing things! The story haunted me for weeks.)

Felt Mysteries

Felt mysteries
Silicon balls falling out of her hair
skin
eyes
wherever she walks, they fall,
personal confetti.

A capoeira dancer
dark in white and lean
making the smoothest motion
of the cross-
both a petition and a prayer-
as she rolls into the circle of dance and death.

Men’s eyes changing for love
and a woman’s heart turned from stone
to burning flesh.

Betrayal right under the tongue
mixing with wine
spilling out in lines and lines
of silver,

And between these edges
forgiveness
solid like granite
and smooth
cutting the bars and chains we’ve become
intimately acquainted with...

Untitled Night

There are seven, crosslegged on the carpet
candlelights illumine the boxes and bodies.

A thing of glass and copper, smoke and mirrors,
it the center, we the spokes,
sharing air in this thin lifeline.

Drawing in slow, releasing, breathing
mango, apple, and gray.  This is the last goodbye.

We kiss in the air
and watch the smoke carry away these memories.

Eminent Domain

Nathan rebuked David for his taking
Jezebel was thrown from the window
Lessons poorly learned
even now,
after all that bloodshed. 
Money talks, shouts, demands
and easily mutes the poor.
Economic incentives are fancy words
for greed.
Theft is gilded, approved, and sanctioned by
the highest courts in the land.
What judge will rule with justice?



(because the headlines are always fodder for a line or two...)

little i now grown

Memory evanesces
transitory experiences pass
in the beat of the hummingbird
heatwaves ripple
on the sea of mind,
disappearing before maturity.

The slumber of a floating leaf
and the loss,
maddening,
creates more void,
as if more thought could erase
the black hole where my thoughts escape.

Foolishly, I chase them,
they leave only their shimmering dust on
my hands,
soft flakes that taste of cloud and sadness.

I lift my hand to my mouth
sample the manna
hoping against hope that some magic will bring back
the misplaced, the lost
yet on my tongue,
just air.

And in my eyes, tears spill salty lines
chalked on skin like ancient tracks
forshadowing hollows that wait only on years
death and age stored in the corner,
biding their time as I play the
circus clown,
juggling these roles,
pretending this amnesia is not serious.

alien

shined shoes at immigration
forget their own heritage.
looking down the barrel of a
scowling pen stains this poor man's
only shirt brown with fear.

it wasn't so long ago that we were
the martians landing on these shores
scalping, raping, stealing food and land and girls.
it's cottoncovered and silverplated now-
forgetfulness is a national virtue.

Webster puts it simply,
"belonging to another."
perhaps we should all be
cautious, dealing bad hands
and worse language to men and women
who are claimed by god.

in one form or another,
we are all of us illegal aliens.


(i've been reading a lot of history books recently...some of these poems are really rough drafts, so any comments are appreciated!)

Perfeicao

smooth, rambles through life like
fudge ribbon in my ice cream
cool on the tongue
you are
unreasonably easy
doors open on cue
to a wink to a blink
women stumble and fall
over their closed toes
and greek wraps
to watch you waltz or jive
or whatever it is you do
with those
long long daddylonglegs
when the pavement spreads
unrumpled skin for your majesty
taking this earth by storm
you are like a thundergod
before the rain...

(don't ask...i forgot to date this one...i don't even know who, if anyone, it's referring to. but i like some of the rhythms.)

Hannah

Frankincense worn into wood like varnish
spiced marble halls echo
demonscreams
petitions
thick beat of angel wings in cramped space
slow drip of tears, mourner's bench
worn grooves of ancient knees and dry wombs
are open for mothers-to-be
and wishers alike
emotion recast as drunkenness
reeling from another lover's blow
black eye-pools refect rich pain
tortured, crushing thoughts
as facedown on an empty belly

she loves.

Deuteronomy 20:19

"Are the trees of the field people, that you should besiege them?" - God

Jazz and the crash of bulldozers
beating fruit orchards into desert
razing trees amidst the soldier's tears,
the cries of the deprived. Dates scatter.
32 families, 50, stare in shock as
uniforms retaliate and ignore.
Watch starvation and poverty descend
in dust clouds that roil among
Caterpillars and corporals,
just following orders.
just following orders.
just following orders.

[for more information, google keywords "bulldozing," "fruit orchards," and "iraq." a main source seems to be from The Independent...I have taken liberties...]

Untitled 1.1

Lust is a toy we give
to our children
multicolored eyecatcher
dreamstealer
fuels hungers that burn
long after the meal is over.

Lust is a toy I thought
I could buy
use, discard.
But it bought me
now I live its lie
drink its intoxicants
deny deny deny.

Lust is a toy
a dress
a suit with a man inside
never satisfied
idolatry personified
and it eats me

alive.

Messiah

you have come
to the back ways
to the dark streets
you have come
to the bleeding
to the oozing, pus-filled,
open sored humanity
that we are.

you let your arms be dirtied
your cleanliness soiled
diaperless children sat in your lap
you did not shame them when they
baptized your robe.

you have come.
you are here and...
there,
still.
you have come,
and so,
with stumbling steps,
falteringly slow,

i follow.

welcome to the library

I'm stealing a little from everyone here...I read somewhere that creative literary types are just collage artists, snagging bits and pieces from others, putting it together in new ways, and just dancing around the edges of plagarism. I'll try to avoid the last pitfall... The title is half stolen from James Joyce's "Finnegans Wake," which I am working through one glorious page at a time. Perhaps I'll finish it before I die...the poetry is comprised of various detritus that floats into my brain...

I am currently on a musical diet of: Zap Mama's "Ancestry" album, Ani DiFranco, and Luciana Mello, with occasional doses of "vozvoixvoice," an out-of-this world modern album I picked up in Rio. My poems always come out better when I'm into music no one else seems to be listening to...