Tag Archives: Poetry

the turkey and the chef

17 Nov

In the pan

browning on all sides of

my cubist self–forward, back, and side at once.

edge living

is hot!

 

at times I try to jump from the flame,

my own juice

basting over my head

a humiliating baptism to the one

who has forgotten

the agreement of what’s for dinner.

the hairs on my arms seek like radars

trying to read the flames’ intention; even though,

I signed a waiver.

 

veins pulse while

the heart is in its throws–

 

with or without me along.

I’m  cooked so long

falling off the bone

tender

tender

who sees the anxious fingers

slip into the pan

to satisfy the longing

for a preview bite

of this upcoming feast?

 

 

 

 

 

pain and joy got married

14 Aug

 

Can pain and discomfort glove the hand of plenty bearing gifts?
Joy exists not in spite of but because of obstacles – I assert this morning.
What do we have in the end, after bouts of illness and love, but just ourselves?
And the gift of this self is won in a simple marathon.
Outlasting our every thought, we still exist –
and in the ending miles,
we learn to be there in whatever way we are,
accumulated skeletons,
in need of nothing,
ready for any errand,
sitting in dull evening light,
a raging sunset escaping in rays between our ribs.

brita with legs

3 Apr

the water coming out is pure (sweet even)

some days,

no matter what goes in,

you might have started to notice.

such is the goal; even though,

the process is not understood.

it’s felt,

allowed.

we’re charcoal,

filters of fine mesh,

pulses of electricity,

forward momentum and reversing, too,

which can at times be experienced like plumbing problems

-street elbows full of hairy regret, sludged up, huh?, valves corroded with Why Me?

until it can be felt

deep in a body of an advanced engineering

of nerve pipes dumping

into muscle-sadness storehouses

long ago designed for purification,

yet decommissioned until the managers could awaken

in these Holy Water Manufacturing Plants.

the debris cleared out is not even our own.

the pain

processed

is not personal.

the tears the shudder

the retching

our service

at last,

just working it through

trickling out pure water at times.

thank you and you’re welcome.

 

 

 

parenting by powerpoint

17 Mar

Everyday bad things happen, so-

I’ve drawn you a flow chart

to take you from point a to z

with arrows to the short cuts

so roughly won by me.

Let me help you jump over ditches

and avoid the dead-end streets.

Watch my greatest hits of

heartache, thought addiction, faux pas, shame, fear, regret,

so you can save yourself the trouble.

Look, simply, I can help you

avoid the ramifications of not heeding good advice.

I didn’t even know I had it in me, as non-linear as I can be,

to map it out for you, but I did;  I’ve a crash course on not crashing.

But I’m being asked another task, much different than what I’ve done.

The night now asks me to have a courage I don’t know how to muster –

I’m now to be the watcher and not the player and not the coach.

I’m now to calm my plotting mind.

I’m instructed not to imagine trains flying off of their tracks

even while I feel the lurch and screech

of the metal momentum – see sparking in the air.

I’m to observe as boats sink, as elevators release and fall,

as villains creep most uncartoon-like in dark shadows when you pass by;

who orchestrates such visions – where are the views of nature walks, of laughter,

of joy?   Why the fear, why the wrecks, why the destruction?

Why am I thinking of how my parents must have ached and quaked

sitting in hospital rooms, listening to white coat protocol-

powerless

except to release a real-life child to death, to unthinkable death.

I mouthed the words but I didn’t register the meaning –

because I’m still on the simpler fare—

that love is holding the tongue

and squeezing my own trembling body while

I watch and allow.

I am unable to live for another,

unable to undo words,

unable to iron out the wrinkles

of the kinks forming in the plan.

The night brings what the day allows me to hide.

The learning is only ever mine

and it can only be postponed, never avoided altogether;

now or later is  the only choice I get to make.

 

all for what

30 Jan

There are spells cast

by whom I do not know

causing hours, sometimes days,

in the world to be annoying.

I suspect a conspiracy of ill will

toward a me who is just trying to get by.

This powerless creature in the corner

fights back, as any small creature does,

nail and tooth – oblivious to any other possibility.

It is a self-created corner, but do not tell that to the rat,

who vaguely recalls the days of cheese and finish lines.

Deus ex machina is in order in this corner –

Bring in the crane and lift her out,

goes out to the stage hands —

for the rat who has forgotten

where to find the elevator button;

she has forgotten the hidden zipper

in her little rat suit.

She is scratching at walls, smelling dead end corners,

biting hands that feed her.

Forgotten has she that she designed the maze

to promptly fall into

in order to be found.

There are hours, and sometimes days,

of maze running

of squinting eyes and cheese hoarding –

clips boards hovering overhead.

What is this course,

this confusing path with walls,

this capacity of ours to exist in so many

places and in so many ways

at once so fully in each?

the rat – the funder – the designer – the observer –  ocean

the mind – a sticky note storm – a hurricane the size of Africa – Om – ocean

the body –  a straight jacket – a secret word – the breath –  ocean

May we all fall into the ocean from every where.

May Jacob’s ladder be thrown from a helicopter

into our wayward dreams.

The only interesting thing is the wonder.

Where does the helicopter fly from here

when questions fall away,

when my scratching pen ceases to mark the trail?

The sky to the maze is the ground just for liftoff –

dropped is the story of chase and chased.

What comes next a mystery lived.

 

 

know it when I feel it

6 Jan

I am 1 –

a pin point on the map

where a push pin could be put

and if I download the app Find My Phone

and I walk around with this distracting device,

I would be a pulsing red (or is it blue?) circle

going from home to work to grocery to deepest woods

where even there persists the drone of cars

full

of other 1-s going to their work and their homes.

I am a pulsing circle of 1 in my bed for hours each night

secretly escaping my locale

beyond the perception

of such surveillance

in the secret room that monitors all the 1-s goings and comings,

yet

the lotus blooming in the heart of 1-s is invisible.

Caesar still collects his coins;

he never stopped, you know, and

the body gives its flesh and bones to the dirt,

but the lotus heart blossoms alone,

pulses outside detection

in this plane

beaconing to the 1 distance

that cannot be measured.

You and I are already meeting there

and here,  in our skybox seats

disguised in words

pretending to play along.

 

 

Thom York dances it…

 

Lotus Flower (Radiohead):

I will shake myself into your pocket
Invisible
Do what you want
Do what you want

I will sink and I will disappear
I will slip into the groove
And cut me off
Cut me off

There’s an empty space inside my heart
Where the weeds take root
And now I’ll set you free
I’ll set you free

There’s an empty space inside my heart
Where the weeds take root
So now I’ll set you free
I’ll set you free

Slowly we unfurl as lotus flowers
‘Cause all I want is the moon upon a stick
Just to see what if, just to see what is
I can’t kick your habit
Just to feed your fast ballooning head
Listen to your heart

We will shake and we’ll be quiet as mice
And while the cat is away
Do what we want
Do what we want

There’s an empty space inside my heart
Where the weeds take root
So now I’ll set you free
I’ll set you free

‘Cause all I want is the moon upon a stick
Just to see what if, just to see what is
The bird that’s flown into my room

Slowly we unfurl as lotus flowers
‘Cause all I want is the moon upon a stick
I dance around the pit, the darkness is beneath
I can’t kick your habit
Just to feed your fast ballooning head
Listen to your heart

 

moments

10 Nov

my gut tightens from a sound

angry voices rise outside

peering out the peep hole

giving space to work things out

i’ll check for my mail later

*****************************

sensing something’s wrong

is the start to make it right

all are welcome here

****************************

muscles in the jaw

set our teeth for war in cars

throw away the clock

****************************

corners of my eyes

wabi sabi wrinkles

I’m folding into me

****************************

all i see is good

always has it been –

just just –

twinkle berry

flower cactus

solo cat

its time for tea

again

%d bloggers like this: