My thoughts are gridlocked.
Red travesties everywhere,
Blue regrets blurring
Into a wistfulness that tastes
Of honey and old soap.
The dark force is here again,
Its claws reaching from my
Quivering core to silence
The voice I have watered daily
For 30 anxious years.
How can I trample someone
With more arms and legs than I?
Depression as spider winding webs
All over the courtyard of my once ebullient mind.
Creativity needs me like the sun needs
Photosynthesis-
Which is to say she doesn’t,
But I need her desperately.
Peel the purposeless purple prose
From my prodigious mind.
Help me unearth truth,
Swimming as she does
Beneath us all
In the water table.
Tag: poem
And I Wept
Circular dreams circumnavigate my life,
Forever rolling away to a lulling dreamland
Where my name makes love on the beach
To herself and my flagrant ineptitude.
Dreams are lavender fields,
The hand of God running over them,
Plucking his favorite from the crowd.
After that it’s all up up up.
God is height,
Is depth.
The stillbirth of my ambitions
Haunts me while I scrub the sand
Off the deserted desert.
Wind writes to me,
The party was fantastic!
I waltzed with Purpose.
He touched my clit
And I wept.
Caramel dreams stretch over my
Inebriated mind
With the same kind of power
A drop of water has
Eating at a rock,
Distempered Time,
Take me back to that first
Autumn morning
When Possibility held me in his arms.
Eternal and Ripe
The fog is a fixture of water’s confusion as it bleeds into and against itself. The sultry coolness like an ice cube in a lover’s mouth strokes the water. Water is eternal and ripe. The iconic fragrance of frost lingers over the fog coated world, teaching us what it means to rest and give rest. The lamentations of the marigolds can be heard as a soft velvet hum.
“Til Human Voices Wake Us and We Drown
My boat is small and rickety. It’s just me and the vast blue sea. Suddenly a violent swelling – a wave rising. At first I think the wave will be large and crash momentarily, so I brace myself for impact. But then the wave doesn’t crash down. It becomes ginormous. It looms over me, watching me. “When you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.” It boils up to a height that makes me miniscule. Then, stillness. So still. If this wave falls down on me, I will drown. But it doesn’t move. It only watches. Until the sound of voices…
Math
The butterscotch center,
That rippled source of math,
Draws me in.
Analytical paintings of crime and punishment
Line the walls.
This old house feels it when I stroke
The lace curtains like a jealous lover.
In the storm cellar,.
Cider and a rift in space time.
Prose Poem – Us
Her wet voice is the breeze among the lilacs. Her face turned upward like a graph, displaying shiny information encoded in cotton skin. My body is a bridge between two worlds. I dream of the sweet number tattooed on the past.
Micro Poem – Her
I send the savanna to her
In her bunched hour,
The lion redacted.
There is a hymn in her hair.
Veiled Woman
The memory disease is tiny,
Born on the wind like pollen,
pus scented.
One inhale from frail lungs,
and the disease enters like a rockstar.
Makes its way through the splendid cavern
that is the body,
til it reaches the brain
I wear a veil over my hair
to conceal my secrets.
What is sacred is veiled.
The Tabernacle.
The woman.
Beneath a mirror sky
Daughter upon daughter dances.
The meek and the bold
Both drowned in the Flood.
Sometimes,
In my dreams,
A gigantic wave towers over me,
Watches me,
Waits for the right moment to come
crashing down.
I wake to the sounds of
A deceitful beach.
Same dream for 10 years.
One day the sea will ensnare me.
I veil the sun,
Bar graphs,
Music.
The seagulls on this beach
hunt whales.
The sun,
Jealous of my youth,
Paints me the texture of old age.
What is Holy will be revealed
at the Emerald throne.
The greenery gets a vote.
In the old shed I call girlhood,
a slingshot and a rock.
Mother Mary was sighted
at the Thanksgiving parade.
Prayer settles on me like dust.
I cough half remembered scripture.
At the seashore,
a locket with a picture of
myself
(A red dictionary of moods),
and Christ
(A fisher of Men).
The World Bleeds Poppies
Sunlight scrapes the Earth.
The world bleeds poppies.
Home is a red ribbon around my neck.
The blue appetites of mountains
must be slaked
with a frozen peppering of
explorers.
We know the cost of everything
and the value of nothing.
Out of each exit wound,
a salty, sloshing sea
of serendipity and light.
Depression
My thoughts are gridlocked.
Red travesties everywhere,
Blue regrets blurring
Into a wistfulness that tastes
Of honey and old soap.
The dark force is here again,
Its claws reaching from my
Quivering core to silence
The voice I have watered daily
For 30 anxious years.
How can I trample someone
With more arms and legs than I?
Depression as spider winding webs
All over the courtyard of my once ebullient mind.
Creativity needs me like the sun needs
Photosynthesis-
Which is to say she doesn’t,
But I need her desperately.
Peel the purposeless purple prose
From my prodigious mind.
Help me unearth truth,
Swimming as she does
Beneath us all
In the water table.
* Please ignore that the first lines are all capitalized. I can’t figure out how to fix that formatting problem on WordPress or in Word. It will be fixed before my book is published. This is a rough draft.
Miniature Moon 