ears forced against the down-stuffed pillow muffle rhythmic sounds of sleep, perceptible crackles that rumble from nasal passages and invade his sleep (should last night be an entry- a sin of commission?)
yesterday desire grew inescapable until two bodies pounded into exhaustion on a mattress musty and worn from other nights like this bird chirps and lake chills filter through screen windows unabated.
few diaries document transgressions in this new age of free love and prosperity sins are common and plentiful. later a litany of ****** diseases would make headlines now, love is free secretly surrounded by traps and quandaries soon to be discovered
he awaits her awakening in the still of bird songs and snoring and wonders what she will remember of the fascinations they held for each other yesterday
They heard she was a poet who shocked the open mic Friday nights with tight skirts and loose words that slid off her teeth over her whiskey breath. Truck drivers, who rode hard, daily listened for ******* screams and honking horns, came to see her. They balanced on rustic chairs, drank *** and Cokes, and hoped she wanted a ride to Reno.
She heard they were drivers with sharp eyes and taut ***** beneath blue denim. She didn’t mind weather beaten beards, calloused hands or that they would leave in the morning. She was a poet who gathered words from interludes among pillows and sheets that aroused tomorrow’s verse of wanton words and enticing skits.
No confusion wrinkles her forehead, eyes affixed first on his lips until magnetically drawn to eyes blue as a mountain lake. Comfort rests across her chest. Hips burn together and her cheek brushes the ironclad hardness of his bicep. They walk enmeshed. Traces of trepidation, scars embedded in her mind from tragic romance, fade. Residual fears fall to the trail among twigs and stones. Rebirth of trust creeps into her heart. Together their feet trample her qualms.
No matter how much arch in the eyebrow, the distorted image in the mirror offers validity that Age is hammering out its handiwork as Borglum did on the Crazy Horse Memorial. Age does not put the chisel down. Mother, well chiseled at 98. Father, at 79, was sculpted by age and weather and farm labor. Will Age's chiseling cease? Age had been his friend over many years. Friends say he had aged well. Now his relationship with Age has entered a new stage, an on-the-rocks stage. Age has picked up the pace and now chisels with a jackhammer.
Dishes clang loud against the sink Metal spoons bang white ceramic Anger defies lifelong contract Sacred and sealed with tears and tact Adhesive is this stone of hurt Lumped solidly within her throat No easy atonement comes forth Nor minor distraction does soothe Her rant gathers no audience No recall of what stoked this fire
A revision of "Anger in the Kitchen" Written in eight syllable lines.
She paints walls with anguish blended from murky emotions between them, coats the ceiling with shades of his past mistake. Befuddled, his clinical genius finds no path for them to take.
She flaunts neglect for all to see so he allows no one to enter. She erects invisible mountains for him to climb with uncharted trailheads beckoning. He trudges daily through fallen ruins of past quarrels, wandering unmapped terrain in search of their secret stream of lost love.
Tasteful decor surrounds her Offspring celebrate life in song Resonating off walls of art arranged her way Life now arranged her way Worn out obligations Lay untangled unused stacked neatly upon a corner table
Anchor babies playing. Young children’s arms a’ flailing whirling, whirling, here they stay.
Illegal’s children dance Mother took her daring chance twirling, twirling, watch us play.
Crossing Rio Grande’s water Mexico sent a daughter staying, staying watch me play.
We don’t know we’re problems We’ll dream of sweet sugar plums dancing, dancing love this day.
Anchor babies playing. See children’s arms a’ flailing whirling, whirling, here we’ll stay.
Note: Anchor babies are those children born to any person in the nation who are not US citizens and are here either legally (for example on a green card) or illegally. These children are legally citizens of the US.[img]http://www.xanga.com/vexations[/img]
* Today in America over 300,000 "anchor babies" are born on U.S. soil annually (2004 data
Her eyes never allowed boredom upon her heart. Each light, every shadow held a secret treasure, a passionate perspective waiting to be unlocked and displayed. When she shared her vision my first glance gathered in so splendid a moment I paused in awe.
She feels no confusion her lips on his eyes blue as a mountain lake Comfort enfolds her like the first time her cheek touched his bicep as they walked enmeshed. Surrounded by warmth, fear has fallen to the trail. Trust fills her heart.
She fashioned him an enigma who strolled through life a closed book unaware of his charismatic aura She fashioned him an enigma Her showy courtship ended in drama He remained blind to the effort she took She fashioned him an enigma who strolled through life a closed book.
Many masks he kept in play heedless of her passionate love He continued his mysterious way Many masks he kept in play. Her ardor she could not betray nor stop praying to God above Many masks he kept in play heedless of her passionate love
I sit in a cramped pose filter out laughter in the hall notice my breath flowing in, out…. pain in my ankles aches up my legs **** cheeks basking like turtles on a rock still, in waiting, infrequent head peaks out of my shell as I anticipate revelations in my bones and insights which will cast aside fears of imaginary illness fade real disasters hanging from my ceiling into fantasies destined to scare the sweat out of me and make me whole.
Autumn slips across the Dakota plain rolling southeastward like a slinky shadow. Coming and going in September around State Fair time. Dakota autumn seems shorter than the fair itself. Tree leaves hastily turn shades and drop in a matter of days. Summer and winter overlap like two hands clasped together. Fingers of winter poke into autumn’s space. Summer's digits carry the name, Indian Summer rather than proudly wearing the banner of a warm autumn day. School children don heavier jackets and ***** thin ice on puddles from the fall’s first frosts. Farmers rush to finish corn and bean harvests in the midst of early October snow. In Dakota, fall ends early.
I returned home on Palm Sunday to find knockout roses behind my brick mailbox parading their first blossoms of spring.
I found candytuft faded to green, safeguarding scattered sprinkles of white for me to view one more day.
Fallen pink petals from dogwood trees fluttered through a whimsical ballet to entertain me on a ballroom floor of Kentucky bluegrass.
Dogwoods, azalea, and periwinkle are different. Something happened while I was away, while I snapped photographs of starfish captured by the sand when evening tide quickly rolled out to sea.
Blossoms opened as other petals faded and fell. Fresh blossoms flowered and youthful buds now greet the sun. Did you care that I was gone in the midst of your glory to savor other beauties different joys -- did you even miss me?
. . . upon returning from spring vacation to the beach