so i'm standing outside the coffee shop
staring through the large plate glass windows.

it's one of those intimate,
quirky little places.
pressed tin ceiling,
art (originals) on the walls,
pieces of furniture that look more like they belong in a bedroom
than any public place.  

maybe that's my problem.

maybe it isn't impersonal enough.  

because i can't seem to get
my feet
to move
over
the
threshold.

i'm just standing here on the street,
staring through to
                        
                                                     the other side.

on the other side
sit the group of poets
i am supposed to be joining.  
they talk easily with each other,
they share their works.  

i'm wondering at this point,
what sort of poets they are,

they are smiling,
laughing
talking easily with each other.  

these are definitely not
my type
of poets.  

i'm wondering
what kind of poetry
these easy talkers
have inside themselves.  
what could they possibly
have to say?  

probably poems about
flowers
and butterflies
and trees
and stuff.  

this is not the group for me.


i turn and walk on down the street.  

a *****, crumpled sheet of newspaper bounces along the sidewalk in front me.

bring your hammer and mutes.
temper my just intervals and
i'll beat a sweet harmonic series.

stretch my octaves,
correct my dissonance,
fine-tune my enthusiasm,

i'll play you some smooth sounds

a crack of light shines into the dungeon of my heart.
i see the dust motes float on by.

this too shall pass whispers across my room,
and the dust motes float on by.

i am a leaky faucet.
the crescent wrench of control
tightens,

righty tighty

but i drip, drip, drip.
a stronger hand has gripped my handle.

lefty loosy, let it flow

my dripping waters spill into your ears,
where earth flower seeds fell in late summer sun

oh, quick! quick! knock out the dirt
somebody call a plumber

blossoms like these
won't survive the coming frost.

*blossoms like these
will make your head explode.

In the garden she digs furrows
with her broken clock hands,
plants time in fallow fields.

On hands and knees,
the moist crumbling soil
spills through determined fingers.

With watchful gaze
they wind,
they spin.

She repackages her purpose into
tiny tin boxes,
folds the brittle paper of years ticking by,

molds origami shapes:
the thousand cranes,
one croaking frog,

and stuffs them there.

Once, I loved a man, who never once loved me.
I pined for him both day and night,
But he never once loved me.

He played his song for anyone,
For anyone but me,
And I pined for him both day and night
But he never once loved me.
.
His lips were moist, like ripened peach
And his arms were meant for me,

But he played his song both day and night
For anyone,

Anyone, but me.

http://carrothers.com/rilke1.htm

Because it is so good.  And we all need a mentor, especially, posthumously.

by possession of my reality
i'll plow my new existence

(the tree most heavily pruned, i'm told,
brings forth sweetest fruits of the season)

laying dormant for quite some time
but feeling springtime's urging

leaflets springing from my branches
your words, my fertilizer

my soul will give me gentle rains
the Sun, its glorious power

it won't be long now before i feel
tight buds begin to flower

then by wind and butterfly,
by pollen shared and spread

words burst forth, oh fruitful
dreams!  these heavily laden branches!

there is a clear, fine line
cuts a path through the air

each step, once gingerly tread
with my balancing pole,
my highwire act of tight control

its a slackwire i walk this time
i'll need my dancing feet
no tension between the two poles
i'm my own pivot point

no time to practice,
i'll make it up as i go along

i'll be over the edge soon
pretty sure there's no
safety net below

but what the heck
it'll make for a great show


--bruised orange

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

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?

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.

Red rusted radio flyer
rests in tall grass,
remembering laughter.

She perches on the chair,
clink of ice croons in her ear;
a slippery gloss of memory froths her lips.

Here on dark waters
float glimmers of chance
while hope,
that slow gasping fish of dreams
slides near.

She raises her glass,
a spirited salute--
when the lights come on he swims clear.

Washed up, she spits,
and tugs her drink,
swallows scorn in one long gulp:

that bitter brine,
end of the line,
a barb,
stuck in her throat.

laughter skips into view,
turns a corner up ahead.

i run to catch up,
stumbling over lemon drops
she's spilled along the way

coordination's never been my gift.

i'll just follow the trail,
her citrus tangy scent
flares my nostrils

i forget myself,
and skip.


--bruised orange

Stop.

Your over the top brand of loving
has me breathing too quickly, and I cannot

Stop.

I look up at the full moon shining,
as your mouth
quivers down my neck,
and I don't want to

Stop.

My limbs are quaking and the
moon is glorious and tomorrow,
there will be dishes and children
and you really need to

Stop.

I think to send you home,
our bodies heaving,
My mouth forming 'oh's
and you really need to

Stop.

Just stop, park that car,
look up at that moon,
so still, so far,
so here, so near,

Just stop.*

And 'Oh'

Can we just 'Oh?'

For a while?

I got nothin.
It's sad, this aching to write and write,
But the words coming out sound so contrite.

Like that.

I stand up, stare down at my page.
I see the lines, those imaginary borders
between my stubborn head,
and my bleeding heart.

I pray that the division will have a remainder.

That forgotten piece, the inconsequential.

Because the remainder is the thing-
That space between there and here,
Where time sits in a chair,
staring at its own hands.

That no man's land where eraser crumbs
become mountains worth climbing.

Where the fairy tales of our own beginnings gather breath,
Spreading wings over the valleys of our truth.

misunderstanding flows, like beer on tap
and as we drink it down, pint after pint,
all reason is spilled onto the table,
wiped up by the ***** bar mop
that stinks of yesterdays brew

the proprietor of this establishment
stands at counter, smiling his knowing smile

that sadness in his eyes which can only come
from seeing pantomimes like this one play out before him
on every night of his long, long career

At night, my dreams are wrapped around you.

Silken sheets,
Sweat,
Sweetly sworn promises.

When I wake,
I seek a reasonable existence,
And you are nowhere to be found.

Lover, I know your hiding ways.
Your solitary existence can never include me.

And I know my dancing dreams can make no sense
In your tragic,  melancholy world.

Still, I dream this silken, sweaty dream,
Where your lonely tears warm my cheeks,
And my cheekiness tears into your loneliness.

I pray this prayer:
That we will both wake up before it is too late.

i had not gone fishing that night.

the sun was down, with dark clouds hovering low.
me, in my rudderless boat, staring at the sky.
was i thinking of fish?  I think i was just lost at sea.

i was thinking, (well, i don't remember exactly)
caught up in a brief break in the clouds.  the stars
were out, shining their shining.   i saw them,
but didn't.  i was looking for the moon, her full, hovering
beauty imprinted still on my mind.

but this night, the moon was but a sliver of light, and i...
i was without remorse.  i had come to that place of understanding
that the moon's light neither waxes nor wanes within the confines of
shadow.  she becomes invisible in this shadowland, and perhaps this
is for the best, for who can take the beauty of the moon on a starless
night and call her their own?  she was not mine to have.

and the tide, it pulled me in, it pushed me out;  this motion set about
by the moon. (oh, my moon!)  

i looked out, saw the waves come lapping gentle onto my boards.
the crash and slap, the rocking of my boat, shook me from
my reverie.  i looked down, saw these dreams gasping at my feet.

oh, beautiful dreams born of moon and tide, how did you land here,
and why?  i saw your gasping, your grasping at calming waters.

who was i to return you to your sea?  
i was only a lost and rudderless boat.  
i had not gone fishing that night;
i was no fisherman.

yet i took you home, slipped you into my
warm, salty waters and called you my own.

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.

I want to drive a million miles and bring you home, where you belong.  
I am patiently composed on the outside, but inside of myself?  

Oh!

I am a squirming mess of,
'Please, God, can we begin the forever part now?'

Do you see how you move inside of me?  
Are you quite certain that you can tackle this poet's heart?

I am a mess, and well aware of who you are.

You are cotton candy, spun so light and sweetly;
It doesn't matter to me one bit if you are pink, or blue.
You are sweet things written into the air.
  
I want to **** you into my mouth,
Inhaling your beauty into my lungs.

You are cotton candy,
So light and delicate,
So ready to melt upon my tongue.

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?!

Tread carefully, now.
A tiger rests in my chest.
She gathers her strength.

Tread carefully, now.
A tiger sleeps in my chest.
She dreams of waking.

Tread carefully, now.
A tiger stirs in my chest.
Crouching low,
The deep rumbling
Begins.

Tread carefully, now.
A tiger springs from my chest.
She waits no longer.

In dreams she struggles,
Bursting from her prison cage.
Her eyes shine diamonds.

A voyeuristic view through the windows of happy friends
is not nourishment enough for this poet's heart
and does not sate this dreamer's hungry soul

before this spirit journeys on
i'd like to know what it is like
to be loved from the inside out

those delicate strings,
that haunting duet,
of love not bound by fear

i'd like to know love
from the inside out
and not from the outside in

that stuff of dreams,
(yet real i've seen)
that one true union of souls

it's honeyed nectar taste
would be sweet upon my lips
and those delicate strings,
tender music to my soul.


oh muse, you take me too far
i must leave off
before i break this tender heart
and having been turned inside out
i fly completely

apart



--bruised orange

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

Bury me under a thousand pounds of unwritten promises;
You are the sand that weighs heavy upon my shore.

While the shadow ghost of dreams dances lightly through currents of my remorse,
The moonlight shimmers brilliance upon your still waters.

Bury me under a thousand pounds of unwritten promises;
Hold me fast within the depths of your silent longing.

I poured my grief into your ocean;
My love fell gentle into your waves.

you set the table just so,
with candle light's warm glow
musical notes drifting on air
with the wine you serve, i'm there

but then the meal arrives, with bones for my throat
bitter poison, leg of goat
i notice the wine has lost its clarity
now you laugh at the perceived disparity
you rise to leave, say you've lost your appetite
i've ruined your supper, your planned delight

you, who so carefully arrange brutality
crafting my demise with skillful hand
i won't be served by you again

i finally found my own clarity
i'm sweetest champagne, well chilled
now i realize it was your own disparity
once your evil brew was distilled

never mine, never mine
i'm sweetest wine, sweetest wine

You set the table just so,
with candle light's warm glow,
musical notes drifting on air
with the wine you serve,

I'm there.

But then the meal arrives,
with bones for my throat,
bitter poison,
leg of goat!

I notice the wine has lost its clarity.
Now you laugh at the perceived disparity.
You rise to leave, say you've lost your appetite;
I've ruined your supper, your planned delight.

You! who so carefully arrange brutality,
crafting my demise with skillful hand,
I won't be served by you again!

I finally found my own clarity,

I'm sweetest champagne, well chilled;

Now, I realize it was your own disparity
once your evil brew was distilled:

Never mine, never mine
I'm sweetest wine, sweetest wine.


*a toast to the ex

the poisoned well of my inspiration
no longer quenches
the thirst of my longing.

those crystal clear waters that once sustained me and were a balm
to my parched lips are now tainted
with the quick silvered spill of regret.

i stand here, peering into these waters.
i wonder, can this well be saved?
or should i take the advice of the experts, and cap it now, before it takes another life?

i beat my head
against the cold stones of my resistance.  

giving up is so hard;
it runs counter to my nature. 

i stand here, watching
as an acid rain falls down.  

i stand here, my eyes locked on the scattered image of myself in the water below.

i stand here, my feet frozen in their place.

 i stand here, tossing pennies
at a face with eyes accusing,

eyes with answers i don't want to know.

The memory of him is black gravel peppered under the skin of my soul.
There is a burn and a sting that no amount of debriding will remove.
Twenty years of sliding down a dead end street,
And I am left raw and road weary at the end of it all.

And where do I go from here?  Where do I go?
Do I pick up the scraps of my worn down soul
And hobble back the way I came?

It is travelling in reverse, and my soul ****** well knows it.

I wonder why I wore the leather armor, and not the metal, not the metal?

I was a strong woman, and he was a troubled man.
And in that moment of unselfish confusion,  
He put on the maille, and I was pleased.

It was travelling in reverse,
And I ****** well knew it;
I ****** well knew.

The memory of him is black gravel peppered under the skin of my soul.

the joyful dancer of my youth
prances about my room, whispering
truths to my all but deafened ears.

'go away,' i respond.  'you belong to a time
i am no longer a part of.'

she takes my hand, but the skeleton of
my existence pulls away from her.

'did you think it would be so easy to get
me out to the dance floor again?'

i am a stubborn woman,
lost to the steps of dancing ways.

no, i choose now to sit here and watch.
the tango of life dances, her fluid body
pouring itself across the floor.

i am a poet, you see, and i set myself
here on these sidelines because observation
and reflection are the only things that keep my
heart beating.

participation?  she speaks a language too foreign
to my ears for comprehension.

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.

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

Iamb, iamb, iamb, I plod along
in verse predicting I could write a song.
To call upon the muse of higher power
pour some wine, kick off your shoes and glower.

While putting best foot forward, don't forget:
cliches are lines that surely **** your wit.
Reality, you say, bears greener grass?
Abstraction always steps across as crass.

It's true you could walk on like this for days.
Your meter's tight, it rarely ever strays.
But what of clever feet and sounds succinct?
If images are dull, your verse will stink,

As blossoms dance upon the redbud tree
and oceans fill your squid with ink of glee,
remember what your mama always said:
mixed metaphors fill readership with dread!

Say: sonics surely sock a swelling swale,
Entwined, the twisted tongues tell not your tale.
Less is always more, the teachers say.
If tricks you train, then please just walk away!

I never knew how hard it really was
to write a poem that might parade a buzz.
I thank you moderators and big brass
for sticking yours so fully up my ***!

i hold my mind up to the light, and turn it this way and that, examining the cracks, peering into it,
checking its clarity.  
i can stand this way, outside of myself, and say 'this is a clear mind', 'there are cracks, but nothing too serious, nothing that can't be mended'
but my mind is a tricky thing.  it breaks glass.  it slips and oozes through my fingers, falls to the floor, spills.

liquid truth stains the carpet of my interior.  no spot remover can take this blemish away.
and i cannot just leave it there on the floor for all the world to see.  i'm down on my knees, scrubbing and scrubbing through the night, but liquid truth just moves on down the hallway.  it is mercury, skittering away from my frantic hands.  

all the while, my mind sits in the corner and laughs at my futility, recording everything on film, news at 9.

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

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.

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.

As I wandered the dunes of Evermore,
I sought the golden key of light,
Found you there,
In my darkest night.

Now what dreams, these, that drift at night?
They break my bones, reveal a plight,
As star struck wanderers wove their tales,
And sang songs to one another of purest light,
There slipped a crack through the veil.

I hang my head now,
And sing this sad tale.*  

The purest love, born on high,
Did ring our hearts and bind,
Yet faltered step upon the path
Did lose us on our way.

Dim grew the day,
As secrets held,
And puzzles became the way,
Of reading hearts and asking thoughts,
The clouds began to rain.
  
What love is this that sings my heart,
And draws me ever near?
More than mine to have and hold,
Shame brings me to reveal.
  
Slipped and fell upon gentle trails,
Now this love, how it longs!
I read the struggle in my words,
I hear it in every song.

I sing now, to set it right,
To show I know the truth.
My blood it boils, and face does flush,
Yet cannot keep, the love I feel,
With no place here to rest.

I slipped the path,
I slipped the path,
And broke your dearest trust!
  
Words to find to write this time,
Can not ever tell,
The sorrow I now feel,

In losing you,
In losing true,
Losing, losing you.


I loved you so much,
I wanted to see all of you,
Surround you with my love.

I still do.  
I still do. 

How can this be righted now?
Will there ever be a way?

I wanted to speak honestly,
Not darken all your days.  
Not cloud your brow,
Nor break your heart,
Nor cause you any, smallest pain.  
But could not find a way to dwell,
And keep this in my heart.  

You burst upon me night and day,
I've fallen off the ledge.
Barely breathing from wanting you,
It's time you cast me away.

To keep to true,
Keep for you,
Leave me mine,
Leave me behind.

To say I'm sorry, seems so small,
And doesn't heal a thing at all. 
I didn't know,
I didn't plan,
I did not come to steal.
Nothing I can say at all,
Nothing i can do.  

*Losing true,
Losing true,
Losing, losing you.

Luis drives around the block once more;
his car zipping, ripping,
as his thoughts
are surely racing.

We don't know,
but Monica keeps his keys in her back pocket.
She waggles her peaches when he drives by.

"Juicy fruit", Luis murmurs, then
shifts it into high gear,
spins out,
comes again;
his gravel strikes her hard
between the knees. Monica spreads

her branches, two twigs waving.
She shouts,
"Hey old man, why don't you come perch on these?"

It's a dance of disaster, and no plaster cast protects
those alabaster bones she bares so well.

How clever is the subtle Stellar Jay
who clamors loud on swaying autumn's branch
and never sings of summer's fair embrace,
nor daydreams of the trysts of spring's last chance.

Yet eyes so sharp the jeweled beetle under bark;
snaps him up, pries her beak once more beneath the bark.