melancholy mondays
always leave me breathless
and longing

like a sad friend come to visit
to share a cup of grief with me

and i, with my breaking heart
welcome the feeling of lonely arms
entwined in a wistful embrace

too much to share,
i sigh into my teacup
my tea sighs back at me

leaving my vision foggy
and my face flushed


--bruised orange

On this night,
my heart forgot to stop loving you.

With star dusted verse and milky way melody,
I sang to you a jasmine scented lullaby.
Through crescent waves of moonbeam,
I breathed my lavender love into your dream.

In the morning when you wake, will you feel me there,
as sunlight, streaming through your sleep damp hair?


Mine is the heart that forgot to stop loving you.
Yours, the heart that could not remember to begin.

slipping from your mouth
dripping forth from pen
poem speaks its own
language of within

name me muse,
imagination,
inspiration,
soul-speak

your truth is drawn
forth from my lips
kiss me quick
or kiss me long
i'll have you sing
your mirrored song

i'll trace my pen
'round your most
sensitive places,
drive you to madness
with my exquisite phrases

or strike at your eyes
with this raging dagger
let the ink pour forth,
your wounded stagger

kiss me quick,
or kiss me long,
choice is yours
now sing your song

While driving the backroads last night, I cranked up my stereo
and let the music take me where it wanted to go.
I'd heard the songs before, but I began hearing a different tune.
Must've had earplugs in before. I drove on, and the music played me.
When I'd driven as far as I could, and lost myself completely down those roads,
I pulled over at some strange station I'd never seen before.  
I thought I'd sit a while there and rest, do a little reading from
the book I've been writing. **** my eyes for seeing words there I'd never
read before.  My book was writing me, I had never said a word.  

I thought for a while about how you can wake up one day, hear the same song,
read the same words, and they tell you something you've never known before.
I realized then, I'd been driving with my eyes half closed.  
Then, as the sun came up, I saw with my naked eyes a strange landscape I had never seen before.

Road signs were everywhere.  One showed I was on I-9, another read, 'Welcome to Idaho'.
I heard gentle clouds roll on by, and felt alone in my wanderings.
I saw paint blistering off the walls of some hotel, and wondered who would save me.
I thought about wicked games,and felt accused. I saw crossroads, up ahead,
with a ***** tonk on one side, wanted to go inside and order a case of finest wine.
I felt so alone, sitting in my rudderless boat (you know how dreams can go).  

Then I looked up, saw a man standing at the crossroads
with a golden hammer in his hand.  I wondered if i knew this man,
and wanted him in my boat with me, to sail on the uncharted seas.
I wanted to drown in a deep blue bottomless pool with him.  Then I wanted to
accuse him, for walking into my dream, for standing in the middle of my aloneness.

I looked up at the sky (it was night again, as dreams go) and saw the
stars in the sky.  I wondered if the stars were real, or painted on
some false ceiling.  I wanted to climb a ladder and break through,
to find true.  I wanted to tear down the veils that kept me from
knowing all the secrets of the universe, to burn up the clouds
that hid the sun.  Then I wondered again if the sun was already
shining, if my rudderless boat was being guided by the soothsayer
of dreams.  And I wanted to know if this dream was a nightmare, just a picture
show, or some prophetic vision.  

I felt pushed and pulled, with winds blowing a strong gale, and wanted to know if they blew from
the east or the west, but I could not tell, I'd dropped my compass miles back.
I wondered what the man was thinking, if he saw the same strange landscape.
I wondered if he had driven me here, or if we had sailed here together, our backs to one another.
I turned my radio on again, but only heard static, and wished that I could find the perfect song,
to express exactly the strangeness of this tale, to sing the truth.

I wondered again if I was dreaming or awake, if my ears
were hearing the real music in songs, if my eyes were reading
lines as they were written, or if I was still asleep, only dreaming.


Sometimes, when you wake up, you just
want to go back to sleep, and dream a little longer.  And sometimes
you think you've woken up, but you are still dreaming.  How do
you know the difference?  How can you ever tell? And where is
a good soothsayer when you need one?  

I'm still wondering.

I strike a hot match against those Front-Porch-Sitting-Mowing Freaks who live across the street.

I'm out there every morning;
Afternoons, too,  
My grass stands tall,
And my fingers dance lightly across my dulcimer.

I'm strumming 'Wildwood Flower', mistakes and all.
I get serious with 'Whiskey Before Breakfast', not well done.
But then I break out with '******* Creek.'
And who can fault me for that one?
It's a happy tune, done well, or poorly.

Those **** neighbors sit across the way.
They don't even bother to stare.

Something has changed.
There is still no sparkle in their eyes,
But I am happy.

*It isn't my job to entertain the world.

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

Do you ever think that life could be more?  
That we are sitting,
doing nothing,
that life is passing us by?

Sometimes,
I feel remorse
for having had children so young,
for not having adventured

beforehand.  

I want some adventure!
But all I see ahead of me is

Tameness.

I wish I had had a chance to go out into the

Wilderness

and just lived,
moment by moment.
  
I'm afraid I will die,
regretting that I never once lived.  

(If I were a wealthy man, this might be the beginning of my mid life crisis.)  

What is it called when a woman feels the panic of settledness coming upon her?

There is no name.
  
There is only the feeling of the sameness of days going by,
the aloneness of standing here,
surrounded by routine,
by repetition.

While the desire to jump,
to plunge, into the unknown,
beats steady on in my chest,

and the knowing that

That moment,

That chance,

Has passed me by.

Were you to pass a thousand years drifting
In memories doubly drenched in sorrow,
You would find me pacing the shore waiting
To welcome you home, life's new tomorrow.

Within this land of love's patient slumber,
I will cradle your tender, worried heart
'Til time allows you to disremember
The burdens of grief which set you apart.

Then bring your ship sailing straight home to me;
I am forever your warm water port.
I've sent sweet scented streams out to your sea,
Now awaken to my gentle escort.

  My love is a current, steady and true
  I am your safe harbor;  I wait for you.

i have planted my words
in the soil of your heart
my tears have showered
the land at my feet
my hands have pulled
the weeds in the furrows

now i must trust in
the mercy of the sun

what bounty will come
is not mine to know

time is not mine
to complete


--bruised orange

A poet falls in love much too easily,
But it is never easy to love a poet.

Songbirds enjoy a diet of variation;
Beetles and worms rarely make good friends.

But seeds spring up where they will.

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.

i cannot seem to write anymore.

gone, the days of furious penning
that delivered a trail of thoughts
to your door.

now, my inkwell is full of air
and dried crumbly scrapings
of purple berried residue.

and this paper? yellowed onion-skinned
husk of memory,  too flimsy to withstand
the heavy strokes of my pen.

no, i cannot seem to write anymore.

here, thought floats through my head.
i play ****** and grab, clutch at nothing.

swimming, swimming words,
a wispy film before my eyes.

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.

she had thought to extinguish.

but she could not,
and would not be able to,
as the fire burned curtains
and consumed the air she breathed
and flames licked the blistered panels
of her sweating walls where she had
hidden the secret letters of her youth

I watched a video.

and I thought,

"Oh!  I can relate to that!:

I wrote a poem about that once!

Oh! Oh!

(Does this ever happen to you? or is this just a ME thing?)

Oh fickle poet!
Your slippery heart is in your hand
Bind your mouth,
Persevere.

Oh muse, you are an unfaithful lover!
I gave my heart to you.
You've taken, it and skipped town.

reams of paper at my feet
words i write, my desolation

my coward's heart locks inside
the words i long to sing

my pen is stilled, my heart explodes
my words tumble to the ground

the evidence, on clear display
in reams of paper at my feet


--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

dreamy romantic hearts
with notions enough to
stitch a quilt of love
to blanket the world


--bruised orange

of cracking wit
and sharp tongue,
by darksome reveal,
spur us on, towards
a bold new frontier


--bruised orange

immeasurable wealth,
freely distributed.
the mighty pen sways
hearts and minds.

treasures inherent,
readily bestowed.


--bruised orange

poets possess

dreamy romantic hearts
with notions enough to
stitch a quilt of love
to blanket the world


poets possessed

of cracking wit
and sharp tongue,
by darksome reveal,
spur us on towards
a bold new frontier


poet's possession

immeasurable wealth,
freely distributed.
the mighty pen sways
hearts and minds.

treasures inherent,
readily bestowed.


poet's possessor

the world own's her heart
and she, the world's
through words, none new
arranged fresh for you:

delight and beguile,
awaken again the senses,
as morning dew strewn
on Kentucky bluegrass

or creep up behind
and steal a kiss,
bringing pure bliss
to dry, parched lips

or rush and attack,
leave you flat on your back,
wind knocked from your chest,
in a state of unrest

words own her heart,
they always have,
right from the start




--bruised orange

The sounds spill from my mouth.
"Aahhhghhshhhspliminohhhh"

I look for words,
wanting to make some kind of sense.

That day you took your life,
I remember standing in my kitchen,
Wondering what will I make for dinner tonight.  

It's a cruelty of life, this going on with the mundane.

My world crashes like some
Like some
<insert a favorite cliche here>
Like some
<worn out country song>
Like some
I don't know what the **** to call it,

<It just ends.>

But the crazy, sad, infuriating part is this:


It doesn't.

Life just goes on.

And yeah,  I  cry while  I'm chopping the onions.

I cry when I am folding the laundry and I  come across a sock that once cradled your foot, and I  think,  

"What the ****? It's only a sock!"
Not some shrine to the foot that was:

'I love the ground he walks on'

But that's what it becomes.

Then I  just make those sounds.

"Aahhhghhshhhspliminohhhh"
"Whatwereyouthinking? "
"Iloveyouforeverwhy?"

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.

noble soul with eyes downcast
digs in dirt for his repast
seeks he there but does not find
nourishment to ease his mind

noble soul in dross obscured
tarnish he has long inured
mirror must be cleaned to shine,
reflect the rays of love divine


--bruised orange

From the blue black alley of my worst night terror, you reappear.

I wake, sweating a gauzy film of so many lost years.

You were that nightmare I never wanted to wake up from.

I was your stolen piece of fiction,
You plagiarized my youth,
Writing your own broken inventions
Into the fabric of my innocence;
You ripped my seams
Until I was your blank canvas.

But as you came tearing your way up that alley I realized,
I've been rewriting history,
stitching together a past with crooked seams.

Because every nightmare begins with:

eyes closing,

breath slowing,

the sandman whispering,
"Sweet dreams."

You were not always a monster.

Angel on my tree is cantilevered.
This amuses me immensely.

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

All the roads, footpaths, and roughened trails of my beginnings
Lead me to the map of your heart, that long buried treasure.
I will trace words and phrases along the contours of your lips,
And glide cautiously across the footbridge of your wanting.
You will be stilled by the weight of my breath upon your brow,
And you will know love at a pace that awakens you to your own preciousness.

I cast my words into the sea.

You drop anchor,
retrieve them with your net,
And whisper, "*******,
You are not dead."

Your faith in me is a buoy
In the ocean of my disbelief.

Still, I flail against the waves
Of disconcerted effort.

"My talent has drowned," I cry.

Yet you pull it from the depths,
Pump your own warm current
Into these collapsed lungs.

I gasp, and spew salt water verses
From my sea foam mouth.

Mama's in the hospital again; this time she's a saint.

Seeing Jesus in the laundry,
she strung my little brother from red overalls,
pinned his palms to the clothesline.
Martin's small, bare feet kicked his dissent
until his weight brought him to ground.

Now Daddy's in the kitchen making waffles.
His wrinkled trousers wear yesterday's doubt.

All us kids at the table, hands pressed
on knees, trying our Sunday best to not see the images:
the glazed panes,
the way the butter slides and dips,
how the syrup pools.

My gaze falls out the window at white sheets snapping
on the wire. Disappointed angels, their great huffing
wings strain to flap away from here.

I want to say a prayer but my mouth is full
of statues. Fissured
words scrape across the plate. I swallow
each one, sticky-sweet, unyielding,
with eyes closed.

this is the ship that hears the horn blow
and seeks the brightest beacon of light

her port of call, that sheltered harbor
on stormy dark and windswept night

my ship will break upon the rocks
with no steady compass in hand

ride the mystic waves with me,
we can sound the depths of the ocean

let us plunge our line into the fathomless love
in that oneness, find our measure

then sail on, sail on, into the deep

I chase words and phrases
round and round inside my head.
My thoughts slide.
They are soft butter on a hot knife.

Dripping from the blade,
they slip, without pretense,
into my waiting hand.

I cup these thoughts in my palm,
and pour my melted butter words
onto your paper heart.

I chase words and phrases
round and round inside my head.
My thoughts slide.
They are soft butter on a hot knife.

Dripping from the blade,
they slip, without pretense,
into my waiting hand.

I cup these thoughts in my palm,
and pour my melted butter words
onto your paper heart.

ocean slams
into the breaking wall.
i build this wall,
reinforcing with steel beam,
concrete and stone.
higher and higher it goes,
deeper and wider i build.

ocean crashes onto my shore, washes over my sand covered feet.

oh, my sea love, take me back into your depths.
fill my lungs with your salty waters
so that my song can spill out
and i can once again
dance the delight of words.

The great blue heron haunts the reedy bank,
and combs the midnight waves with razor eyes.
He trolls the river shoals on spindled shank
then beaks his prey with sudden, swift surprise.

In shadowed silhouette his figure begs
my mind to plumb the depths of darkened mire.
But diving there, I rise with naught but dregs,
no meal of meat, no answers to inspire.

The heron pauses thoughtfully mid-stride
to preen his dusky feathers in the glow.
He ***** his crested head to leeward side,
then darts, once more, with certainty, below.

Aloof to prying gaze of passersby,
he lifts majestic wings on moonlit sky.

What oozes out
                             (between the lines)
the scent of shaving,
your lean leg,
those dancing eyes,
waffles.

What can't escape
                                (the boldface type)
the door that slams,
your heavy feet,
dark eyes demanding
waffles.

What remains
                          (the words that blur)
a broken dish
your cracking wit,
my steady hand, now
waffles.

Wide mouth mason jar
To capture the loneliness,
Her hands remain still.