see the wooden statues,
how they walk about,
locked inside, their
heartwood screams
to be cut free of doubt

watch the alabaster statues,
dance around the room,
their translucent skin
masks the beauty of
roses' passionate bloom

break the marble statues,
real beauty's trapped inside,
chisel away, bright flames ablaze,
with light too bright to hide


melt your bronzened statue,
show me your true form,
though lovely,copper and tin
will never compare
to the gold that shines within


--bruised orange

oh muse!

your true light thus, to me, imparts
by scattered moon dust upon my heart
commences your aery lyre's string
now from you flows the magical springs

i quaff your mystical wine, and sing


--bruised orange

i seem to have lost words again.
the sense of desperation i feel over this is palpable.
i wonder, where did they go? who can i blame?
and will they ever return to me?

oh muse, you are an unfaithful lover
i gave my heart to you and you've taken
it and skipped town.

Lonely is the heart that sings alone.

She beats steady on,
But her song,
Half-written,
Lingers lonely.

She hovers near memories,
Not yet created,
Not yet sung.

that withered body,
twisted by time
sits still, subjected to
whim or care of
those around you.

you are spoon fed
platitudes,
condescension
served alongside your dinner.

eyes, with a diminished view,
your voice locked inside,
unable to sing those songs
of yesteryear.

hope dies a slower death
than these bodies, than this mind.

recognition reaches across
that enshrouded mist.

that tender moment,
your hand seeking mine

you are still an effective beauty.

yes, i see you


--bruised orange

deep and wide
this river i must float
(though fording i'd prefer)

swirling eddies
mark its dangerous
course

and how long to reach
the distant bank?

traversing these sharp rocks
and slippery stones,
i must tread carefully.

and having arrived,
will i find
my wagon train's
moved on
and their trail grown cold?

--bruised orange

how far i must travel into the bowels of my land to recapture that castle
'once more unto the breach...once more'*



i see you there trying your best to obscure,
your hulking frame still enshrouds my mind

yet, 'tis i who pierce the veil this time
your own night terrors, will soon reveal

fear and tremble, dragon
your storybook enchantments
draw quick their close

i will smite you down with my raging pen
my hounds have sniffed you out

i am no longer your enchanted
princess, fumbling with stolen
jewels in your dank lair

you no longer have refuge in my cave
this land, my noble birthright

i'm coming for you next, thieving one
i will take my careful aim

and you?
you shall hear my crack of doom

i've locked away my love
behind steel bars of remorse
(i forgot my pen was in your pocket)
and now i've swallowed the key.

muse sits and laughs at my predicament.

i stand against the cold stone walls
of a prison cell i never meant to back into,
wondering about the cruel hands of fate
and other such nonsense and predictable phrases.

phrases that make me want to *****.

i stick my fingers down my throat and gag,
wretched heart, too full in my mouth,
that copper penny flavor,
this poor man's meal.

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
its surging depths, a frightening display

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
tide's pull would have me drowned

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
breathless within its fathomless measure

i lock this ocean away inside my shell
but you may hold me to your ear
and hear it still, and hear it still.

whispering, whispering
(for who can contain an ocean?)

Today is a hollow day.
I am a shallow voice
in a tin cup.

I rattle and clang.

I am five copper pennies
wanting to add up to more
than a nickel.

Brother, can you spare some change?

i love your voice.

your words sing
my heart

they fly up,
connect with my soul

you are the ink
to my pen


--bruised orange

tides pull, stars burn
comets chase their tails

waves that break upon the shore
return to ocean ever more

sun shines down on shadow land
cleaves the clouds, the darkened band

moon rises, star falls
comet streaks the sky

sun shines down on shadow land
burns the clouds, tips the hand

I crack the brickle bone and then carve back
through muscle taut with cell memory,
past tendons that could never teach us love.

We were bone on bone all the way.

I slice past ridges where my fingertips once danced,
filet the contours of youthful sighs, where repeated
good-byes were a chance to begin again.

This carcass is rotting, and the back and forth sawing
from a knife that's grown too dull for its mauling
has left my hands itching from the putrid remains.

Stand by, watch the blood congeal on the ground.

I guess you can never cleanly cleave the meat that's been
hanging so long in your backyard.
Just let it drop:
the roast,
the ****.

See how the bones settle into the soil.
Who knows what might grow there?

the lines that fall apart and end up in the trash
are part of this poet's repertoire as well.  perhaps,
if i brought them out and sang songs to them they
would feel loved enough to complete themselves.

i want to be more than incomplete.  i want to begin
at the beginning, and run on through to the end, in
satisfaction.

but sometimes, it is within the spaces, within the stops
and starts and crumpled paper disappointments that we
find the very thing that we need to be at peace.

I dream of beautiful things,
Sounds of a warm spring.
A life of joy.
Mimicry.

I want to melt into worlds of beginnings,
Listen to the music of presence.

I want to be.

https://youtu.be/HXD3StsKCJk

how do you take an ocean and hold it in your heart?
won't it leak, won't it spill, won't it leave you exploded on the shore?

how do you keep an ocean locked away inside?
won't it drown you? won't it leave you surging in its depths?

how do you receive an ocean and not be able to give it back?
won't it sink you? won't it just break your heart?

this boat just floats and floats in this fathomless ocean
no rudder, no rudder,  no bay here in which to drop anchor.

there are locked boxes inside my closet

here is fear, loathsome and cold.
with icy fingers that ply the hasp

this one is joy, i bring it out from time to time,
watch it dance around the room

here is anger, with a fire's breath, burning away the sacred
it lives next to the fear, it is a patient one.

this one, love, slipped out when i wasn't looking.
hard to put back, how did it fit inside this tiny box?

i try to shove it back in, but it keeps just spilling out.
slippery love, velvet and warm, is a liquid form
i am unable to contain.

as you walk on through your dark night,
remember, love, your pale shaded color
will gleam again brilliance in morning's light.

i have no answers for you, and cannot pull
you from your sadness.  yet i fly in circles
surrounding you, these slow tracing wings
feather soft and fluttering nearby.

if you can hear my words whispering quiet
calm upon your tender, broken places,
listen now, and know you are loved.

walk on through to me, love.  i will wipe those
crystalline tears from your eyes, and cover over the
torn places of your crepe paper heart.

this silence is the other sort.
not the silence of stillness born,
that meditative calm that washes
you when morning's light shyly
peeks through your curtains.

no, this is the malignant sort, an out of
control cellular growth that pushes out
other thought and claims the territories
of your mind all for himself.

this silence screams at you, "listen to me!"
and you can't do anything but hear his absent voice.

this is the silence that shoves his way into your brain
and demands attention, stamps his foot and shouts
"look at me!" and all you can do is stare at his
invisible face.

you wonder, "who are you, to invade my sanctuary?"

but then you remember, you left your key laying casually
on the window sill outside your door, red ribbon tied on,
an exclamation point.

no, you can't blame this silence.
you are the one who left the light burning in your window all night long.

you are spring showers
upon my parched earth.

i soak you in
and drink you up

your nourishment giving me            
something i've craved                          

i soak you in
and drink you up

i soak you in
and drink you up.

listen,

you, who are of my heart
you, who still the breaking waves upon my shore

i am but a scratchy grain of sand,
yet i knit the pearl of your longing

crack the oyster shell you cling to
and know your beauty

see that your heart's desire
has been within you all along

We walked along and I thought about
the green birds I wanted to show you,
the crunch of crushed red granite beneath my feet,
and the way your hand lightly bumped into mine,
asking the question your mouth could not.

and the moon came down from the sky
long enough to listen to your story.

did you remember to give voice to your dreams?
were you brave enough to speak them aloud?

this fire, this fire
how it burns!

too close i brought my hand;
i've backed into the burner
now, without a thought or plan.

rages, rages, now consumes,
this blazing fire, how it looms!

burned up my curtains,
the veil's been rent
my joy, it seems,
has all been spent

smoke it chokes
and stings my eyes
this fire,
my searing
reprise

this music plays on and on,
and the melodies i hear are the
sweetest taste upon my tongue

i kiss the pen that sings to me
and embrace the lover who
whispers stardust into my ear

yesterday i gave away
the last hoard that had
been my husband's

he had left it here
after his final storm
(in his rage it had been forgotten)

i had stored it this long
having too much guilt
(or fear?) to pass it to another

but yesterday i gave it away
it now belongs to some other

i can't believe how much
lighter i feel, to have
finally done this deed

no longer will i bear the name
Storehouse for his Debris


--bruised orange

Who's getting ready for NaPo?  
Is anyone as giddy as me?

Thirty days of thirsty words,
I'll be on a drunken spree.

Are you ready for NaPo?
Do you even know what it is?

National Poetry Writer's Month
A veritable poetry writing crunch!

Join me, join me! This I plea
A poem a day from me, you'll see!

A poem a day from me, from you?!

and here it comes again,
the cold winter chill
darkness falls and icy
fingers are never far from me

feel the crack of breaking,
the aching of my need
taste the bitter sweetness
that makes the poet bleed

the rain sheets upon my window,
drives away my joy
breaking aching tasting
the loneliness of need

within a single letter
of a single word
of a single phrase
of a single line
of a single verse
of a single heart

there lies enshrined
all the stars of the
heaven of understanding

what mysteries there are
enfolded within all of creation

how many the parallels
that may be drawn

how deep and wide
flows this river of
connection

how vast this ocean
of remembrance

I sit in this chair, reading words until my teeth become barbs piercing my clotted mouth,  leaving my tongue bloodied, and I'm waiting for the rain of inspiration-NO-

I'm waiting for a thunderstorm, a ******* hurricane, driving torrents, a monsoon of words and phrases to wash-NO-

to drench my mouth and fill my throat-my blood filled throat,

I've been choking on words for so long, I need a flash flood to come purge me clean.

So I can eat again.
So I can breathe again.
So I can write.

His love is eager, pure, and real.

He is all that is good in the world.
Purple Wysteria, tangled in my hair,
And I am drunk on his scent.

I lose myself in him each day, as he tells me of

His worries,
                                    
                                            hopes,

                                                                              dreams.


He opens to me like a flower,
Revealing to me those delicate, soft places.
Oh yes, he is so solidly, so tenderly human.

And I am pixie dust, wanting to fly him to the moon;
I want to give him wings.

Oh, he is love warmed to perfection,
And I am his oven.

No, I have failed at this.
Failed, at loving you.

Your twice remembered lines,
So precious, the first time,
Have grown still.

I won't be loving you again.
Won't be loving you.

the lonely pilgrim fell asleep on his pillow of dreams,
as minstrel sung songs that floated on air.
he struggled to wake from his trance like state,
as he found himself deep in the quagmire of regret,
wondering how he had found himself wandering
in green valleys, how he had been so easily lulled to sleep.

he wondered, too, if dreams are ever real, and what he
would see at morning's light.

minstrel sang on, into the night, singing all good things
into his heart, breathing love into his pillow, playing for
light, playing the tune of her heart strings that night.

she was not sure what song she sang anymore, but
wanted to sing, and sing some more.

I spin plates on a stick to strike a balance,
But I become a stone that tips the scale.

Now mark the steady ticking of the clock,
How the hand is slower than the I.

The chiming of the bells at the Hour of None is a prayer whispered in my hurried chest:

Of desire,
That road is best travelled as a pilgrim.

Of fulfillment,
There are no shortcuts,

Only meandering paths of slow,
And you.