Today, I was musing over an idea
Whom I would have liked
As a companion to talk to,  you know,
This and that, share some thoughts
Of importance,
That I‘ve meditated for years,
Discuss urgent matters –
Third World War, or
Sixth Extinction, or
Seventh Decade –
So, I started to mentally review
All the acquaintances, relatives, friends,
Wife, children...
No-one was found.
Lastly,  I went to a shop and bought me
A bottle of Chardonnay.
Listen, Chardonnay, --

There is a time between us, when the pebbles of the sea
and the darkness of the moon will seem one.
Where the lilies and the starlight falls,
and my hands and bones will sleep.

See in our sleep, the world can be one, and
the flowing waters will be like Chardonnay.
Our memories will sing so wild and free.

Under this moonlight, before your lips,
I give you my breath and the secret beneath
my soul, where my soul falls underneath.

Awestruck and charmed by the precious jewels,
in your eyes. You are my beloved,
Leaving my breath to you, my very life,
I lift you up like a rose stretching for the sea.

trip up the island to see all the folk
monopoly, pong => pig 'n a poke
crystalline glass with dark bitter ale
Santa is looking a little bit pale

cherry red cheeks from a chilled chardonnay
one sailing wait for the talk of the day
drum sticks and dressing are the pick of the bird
chestnuts and brandy for gravy being stirred

brussels and taters are pulled from the bake
pears in the salad bring memories of Jake
sparks from the fire with rich amber glow
grey hair and wrinkles will come...don't you know?

gingerbread man with a white icing smile
candy cane schnapps (with its seasonal style!)
pine cones and tinsel that cover the tree
carols are humming from churches and streets

cold winter nights are the best of the year
chocolate and eggnog await with good cheer
a heavy thick fog approaches the sound
the comforts of Christmas, with joy all around!

Blessed are we all to live in a time
when the love of Craft beer exceeds that for wine.
Hops, malt and barley all now rule the day
When brewed up together in a nice I.P.A.
Who cares if some hipsters choose to babble away
about hints of oak in some obscure Chardonnay.
We are no longer limited to our father’s Budweiser.
The vast choice of beers would astound those old timers!
Cherry Wheat, pumpkin, and Oktoberfest
You’ll fall down on your face ere you’ve tried all the rest.
As Ben Franklin stated wittily and succinctly”
“Beer is the proof God meant man to be happy.”

This bottle,
its bones creak
like mine
with each step,
from here and there
and back again.
No matter the sweet
alcoholic chatter,
even upon a third leg
with every guzzle.
Amidst each passing,
euphoric hour
our bones connect
it, me,
together becoming one
with dear life
as we,
both tenderly age
the same,
within a release
of a ******
intimately graced,
aboard the confines
toted highly
ascension into,
a solemn
intoxicated heaven.
Mirrored in sweet
delectable togetherness
interwoven tightly
of harmonious,
chardonnay shadows...

©Michael P. Smith

Snip
Cut
Bang
Simmer

I want a transit,  a travel against my skin, that keeps going until I command it to stop.
My mouth begged for light, to feel warmth on my face

Heat oven to 450

You laughed and tossed me,  a rag,  away from the mahogany scent of your chest to the cold,  hard floor that I am stuck to.
I miss you
I try to imagine you so that I can delude myself into continuing, but my mind strangely has already forgotten you.
I cannot remember your eyes,  or even your favorite color anymore.
Some wish for that type of amnesia, but I am solemn.
I wanted a piece of you to carry with me always.

Cook for fifteen minutes or until dark

I hear my other side in my head; She is the evil within me.
I am brunbrunette, she is red.
I wear flats--her long legs are attracted to heels.
She smiles and with a curvy, smooth voice,  much like a fiery dame from 1920:
"He has a piece of you though; you gave him your whole heart, and he only took a bite! That's alright, you don't need him or anything like him! You are a woman.... "
I drown her out with recipes,
4 cups of music and 1 cup chardonnay
(okay maybe MORE than one)--
therapy that I have made many appointments for.
Adding bits and pieces of me that I share,  and some I don't
One thing I know,  if a new one comes along,  he is going to have to be patient,
I learned my lesson from burning out on the first batch

Take out--let cool
Don't eat all at once--savor.
Enjoy a slice at a time.

She warns herself
to cork the wine tangling
up all her breaths.
She doesn't want to drown,
she doesn't want to guess.

But she does,
she does.

She realizes,
nauseous, breathless,
that she's stopped looking for stars
in the sky,
but has begun to search for them
in wine glasses and
a boy's eyes.
She desperately doesn't want to. Desperately.

But she does,
she does.

Her mouth is smeared with
straw-gold honesty
because in the morning
it'll be crimson again -
a scarlet as sharp as a
poison dart.
So right now, she enjoys the pale golden.
Fizzing from her mouth and
coursing through her shaking hands and
enveloping her and the lost boy beside her
like a red and blue coat that they can't shake off.
She wants to say:
This is the winter of our denial.
Of our everything and anything and whatever it is,
this thing we can't name.

But she doesn't,
she doesn't.

The Chardonnay isn't
golden enough for that.

All it can gurgle out is:
Don't do it, don't do it.
It'll mean something.

And she listens,
she listens.

She walks back out into the cold night
because she must.
And she collapses into herself
like stars and galaxies do, don't they?
In the morning, she'll paint some false sunshine
onto her face again.
And pretend she isn't bruised all over,
all red and blue,
golden and crimson.

Chardonnay in the glass by the window.
There’s a satin pillowcase by the floor where your head was.
I lost track of time for the fifth time yesterday,
When your eyes were shut and your hair smelled
Like the cigarette smoke from her lips.
Her.
Her rose lips from the dark lit room downtown,
Where you drink whiskey the way you like it and
She wears satin dresses that remind you of my gentle pillowcases.
I don’t wear satin dresses.
Even if I were to wear a gentle satin nightgown with space for your hands,
You’d drink more Chardonnay because it tastes like her and her pink mouth.
Your head hurt when you drank that coffee.
I made that coffee earlier yesterday morning but heating it up is no trouble.
Did you miss the whiskey?
That half empty glass bottle could have added to the rich drink I made you.
She would have never considered the way you like your drinks.
She is too busy letting her red fingers dance along the backs of handsome men
And luring your eyes from your hands to her pink lips.
There were pink lips on your collarbone, then I tasted her Chardonnay.
I found that bottle in the supermarket.
It was delicate and light like I figured she was.
Oh, but you fell asleep so fast.
You didn’t get to taste the gentle bottle from the table.
Your Chardonnay is in the glass by the window.
Your gentle little satin has changed colors now,
Switching and fading like her jumping fingertips.
I’ll finish the glass for you while I watch the lights come.
Gentle spinning to lighten every weight I’ve found here,
To make sure the scent of her perfume isn’t here any longer.
Her.

♦   ♦   ♦

She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.

The Seven - The Mashup


In memory of my mother who passed away recently, I wrote, or intended to write seven (only six were actually done) new poems themed about her, her passing and some perspective on life and death.  All were read and I am deeply appreciative.  I have consolidated them all here, in order, though not necessarily the order in which they were written. But the order does matter, as it reflects the change in my mood with each passing day.   Perhaps I will write the seventh someday, but not now, not soon.

Thank you all so much for incredibly kind words of sympathy. I am not a dweller, so I set myself a goal to complete this vow, this task, in a week to correspond to the seven days of mourning the immediate family observes after the burial (the shiva, shiva meaning 7).  For seven days, the bereaved family "sits shiva," sitting on low, uncomfortable stools and the comforters come to share their grief, praise the deceased, from mourning till late at night

#1 Shiva

I am confused - what day is it?
Windows tell day or night, a necessary but a condition insufficient.
The days have no distinguishing marks, a video stuck on
Repeat - a single track of recollected tales, prayers add a mild seasoning.

Though brief is this week of pre-sentencing hearings,
If one cannot dice the time into portions,
Then, there can be no pardon,
No early release date, from Phase One.

Rinse grief. Repeat. Seven cycles.
Apply stain-stick at the intersection of
Bloodied hurts and dimming memories,
Strangers secreting, spilling on you secrets unwanted.

This play, saw it many decades ago,
Before there was poetry, children.
A young man of twenty one,
Very afraid, silently, of the newest unknown,
His father, cancer won.

I hated it then. Now experienced, I hate it more.
This semi-catharsis, a tapestry tale wove of faded pasts
Twisting an heirloom blade into an old wound,
the original cast, a new revival, playwright, regrettably, deceased...

First time at bat, hid in a small room, away from this tradition.
Beating my head against a wall privately,
That being my preferred manner of mourning,
Not this Broadway show, twice a day, seven days.

Rituals well intentioned, a time tested method,
nonetheless, jail time for me, a/k/a, the boy, the brother.
Familiarity comforts some. Me? A prison uniform.
I write my own poems, I am not a Borg collective.

Cast as Son, my obligations specific, aged.
My Hamlet doublet, cut/torn, messaging my somber status,
The cuts deepest, invisible, but all see this child
Drowning in eye pools that continuously self-replenish.

I'll do the time, this show the longest running ever,
Did forty years as son-shadow of a father-man,
Tacked another concurrent sentence for his woman,
End Date: Indeterminate...

The low stools will reappear, seven days for me,
Yet my job as poet not fully done, until this be read!
Leave 'em laughing o'er this Official Release from the obligatory,
Read, sit but once, read this poem, this script, this story, and be freed.

#2 Hover^

My Children:

Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer

Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.

Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.

Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.

It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,
"Her-Story."

Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.

Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.

Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.

For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.

Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.

Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.

^According to the Talmud, the soul hovers over the body for three days after death.  The human soul is somewhat lost and confused between death and before burial, and it stays in the general vicinity of the body, until the body is interred.

#3 Orphan

The funeral will commence at 11:30 am.
Gives me one last review time before the
Final Exam.

Panicked, I discover a whole new chapter
for which I am wholly unprepared,
though its inevitable presence was
assuredly knowable long in advance.

Orphan

It doesn't fit, occur, imagery is of a young child to
soon abandoned, not a late-in-life curmudgeonly poet-boy,
who has been multi-times reincarnated.

I add this title to my list
of proper ways to address me,
titles earned by dint of hard work,
or just unlucky luck.

This new status, orphanhood,
bequeaths no special privileges,
other than, a semi-official
societal permission slip
to feel bereft, lost, and compose poetry.

Know a real orphan, from early, early on,
has never recovered and
never will for it is just impossible.
Just impossible.

So whom am I to make light of
my undesired, unrequested new degree?

I accept it and to my surprise,
It hurts.

# 4 Judgement Day

After you put in some time on this planet,
You kinda know what the world thinks
About you, your rep, what they don't say to your face,

Sure, thingies, time and incidence and circumstance
Can sometimes cause makeovers external,
But each of us know the quality of ourselves,
Self-certification, you can out your internal self,
Better than anybody else.

So I inquire of myself, about myself,
what will you be remembered for, if at all?

Why do I ask, today, now?
Do we not ask ourselves this
On the low down, subconsciously everyday?

Is this a poem?
Most assuredly...
And a trial.
You, the judge the jury and the prosecutor,
The defender, if u can, if u will.

For seven days my mother was adjudged,
Family, friends, hers, her children's,
Almost an 80 years of live, in color, HD, looking back video,
Tales told, memories dug up, old photos explicated,
Who what when where of the details of one women's voyages,
Creations.

I cannot, I will not, do the details here.
Suffice, acts of kindness, faith in people,
Feminist in a strange land, a chance taker,
Gifts of memories, streaming of adoration,
Many strangers are witnesses to me,
This trial a runaway train.

I am outed.  There will be no such verdict for me.
I am outed.  There will be no trial needed, just a
Summary judgement delivered.

Out yourself.
What will you be remembered for, if at all?

#5 Summer Girls In Their Summer Clothes

Oh yes!

The streets of Manhattan, jewel dusted,
Summer girls in their  summer clothes,
Bedeck the streets and make men say, Thank You!
To their creator.

Little black dresses, previously immortalized^,
Seasoning and sauces, halter tops and jeans cutoff,
Give thanks for the tanks, revel in the revelations,
For God created man and women in his/her teasingly bare image.

Yo! Dude!  This is number 5 in the series,
Of sad and somber, re dad and mother, ***?
Have you lost perspective, not read the directive,
You're in mourning, time to be introspective,
Not dis-respective!

My mother was a beautiful women.
Till the day she died.
Yes, physically beautiful at 98.

She, was a poem.
For her exterior was suffused, burnished,
By the spirit residing within her body

I ask myself, why not judge a book by its cover?
Her cover was exquisite, but what gave her a glow,
A radiance, was her modesty, her love of humanity.

What's under our cover?

^ Nat Lipstadt · May 30
The Little Black Dress (and its magic prowess!)

*#6 & 7 Live like you're dying

Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?

Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.

Live like your writing.

Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to ****, in words, forgivable...

Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.

No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish  in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.

Huh?

Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.

You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.

Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.

Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.

Soothing liquid drinking vine
Mondavi,  Bare Foot and their kind;
dry Chardonnay wine.
Monsters flee and angels race with every sip, a  faster pace, hiding horrors ...in their place;
strong Chardonnay wine.
You are loyal, kind and never blue, waiting in a bottle true, ever faithful, always new;
cheap Chardonnay wine.
Forget Chablis and Moscato, turn your back on Sauvignon Blanc. Even popular Pinot Grigio won't give you what you want. The reds are not in question, their often on my mind.  But in the end, I'm  loyal, and there's only just one kind;
very strong, very dry, very cheap and very mine;

Chardonnay wine.

The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.

It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk with
a middle-aged bitterness
of the man you were raised
to believe was too virtuous
to be in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him—
The man whose love confused you,
whose clumsy attempts
of fatherhood
kept the heart of a young girl
perpetually guarded
by a cautious skepticism—
The man who brought you into
a world he found absurd
as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.

More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner
with the two of them a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (though
you’d feel like a traitor
if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.

In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children I may ever bear
into this bittersweet game of *******
we play that we’ve since called ‘life,’
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems to navigate
the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****.

When I was a little lassie my Grandad and I
were very fond of each other indeed
(although not sexually I must add
before you suspicious buggers start complaining).

Over the hills and fields we used to wander just like, er,
...let me think of a nice metaphor here...
er, like a man and his granddaughter or
like a couple of not so lonely clouds.

Oh how joyfully we would seek out rare birds’ nests
so as to smash the eggs to bits in a frenzy of joy,
which we both enjoyed a lot as it was, er, reet good fun
and a statement of individual choice we both appreciated.

Sometimes we would noisily take a steaming **** together
(although ABSOLUTELY NO ****** contact ever took place
I really must reiterate that for all you ***-abuse-obsessives,
but he had a stupendously big ***** for an old codger).

When we got home in the evening dear old Grandad
would usually make us a nice *** of builders' tea
and some ****** great doorstop sandwiches, but
even at that tender age I would have opted for a good stiff whisky.

Or, come to think of it, a large glass of chilled Chardonnay,
and a plateful of smoked salmon or some oysters,
but the old ******* was teetotal (at least in public) -
either that or just plain ******* mean as Hell.

Darling wizened Granny would make us some toast
out of leftover stale Mother’s Pride white bread,
but, being half blind, the silly fat old cow usually managed
to burn it to a sodding inedible cinder.

On Sundays they would get the gramophone out
and put on some tango 78 records
as they loved Latin American dancing and a good old *****
of each other's flaccid, age-withered buttocks.

How happily I remember the old couple tangoing away
just like a couple of wrinkled whirling ****** dervishes
to 'La Cumparsita' recorded by Mantovani & His Tipica Orchestra
on 20th June 1940 and issued on the Decca label.

They also taught me how to do the rumba
(oompah, oompah, stick it up your jumpah)
and I became quite an expert at the Cuban samba
(which my beloved Grandad wittily called the *****).

How joy-filled were those faraway times of my golden childhood.
but one day I went round only to find an ambulance outside
and the paramedics told me the old pair had been found dead in bed,
their boudoir resembling an abattoir at closing time.

Grandad had bashed the old *****’s brains out
with a red-hot poker during some depraved *** session
and then shoved it eighteen inches up his own *******
which must surely have stung his piles quite a bit.

But what a creative way to go - I bet he danced a bit
as the steaming poker seared his poor back passage.
And thus my grandparents ascended up into the sky -
may they stay forever young in the company of the angels.

Let me again emphasis our friendship was purely platonic
because this was in the rare old times of yesteryear
when widespread paedophilia was not yet a gleam in the eye
of some trash newspaper editor eager to engage with the plebs.

tight muscles, the pain,
the stress of the day,
you can wash it all away
with a glass of chardonnay,
easing the constant anxiety
that comes from the responsibility
of day-to-day reality.
flush it all down, along with your sanity
and just wash it all away.

Remember
The last time We were
in Dallas together

That place where We met
We loved and We lived
and where We were
so very alive in Our time

There in the beautiful city
Resplendent and Refined
Where we spent Our moments
in love in life
and the quiet vibrant
Love of Life

Remember
That last time
We went back home
to Dallas

On that day we awoke
in the early morning
When I asked if you
were ready to leave

You stepped gracefully
to embrace me
You said We had time
Do you think We might...
please

You knowing surely
without a doubt
you never needed
to plead

We made love
like We knew
that We meant it
We made love
that isn't made fast

We made love
in the joys
of pleasing each other
A love that would always
however still last

We soon then
were on our way
on a beautiful bright
late Fall day

To see someone
back home

You there then
golden and glorious
Happy and smiling
Sipping on a Sunkist
citrus soda

We put the car on cruise
and We sailed away
Slipping quickly from
the rustic western country

To merge swiftly
into the flow of
the magnificent city
Toward the inbound
expressway

Remember the majestic
towering skyscrapers
as we made the loop
around downtown

The red flying Pegasus
still flying on
as the emblem
of Our hometown

Reunion Tower
and the magic of light
The Top of the Dome Club
at the top of the world
Such wonderful times
at the top of Our life

Remember Our date there
when We were yet still young
that lasted the afternoon
Throughout the evening and
all that beautiful night long

For You then my Lady
A perfect Chardonnay wine
For me Johnny Walker
on the rocks

All to perfectly bind
the heart and mind
To a wondrous moment
Overswept yet fixed in time

You by my side as
I always had hoped
Like that very last time
We were in Dallas
together back home

We made our stop
to meet with a doctor friend
He knew what I could never
believe and what I never
wanted to have had
to comprehend

You were gone by measures
You were gone by degree
You were going
and near hopelessly
gone unto me

Yet I still hoped
and believed

The last time
We went back home
to Dallas together again

But still on the way back
from Our bright shining city
to what would become
the darkest of desolations

You still were happy
or so it seemed
You were bright and beautiful
like in a perfect dream

We stopped at a restaurant
I ate a lot...but You did not
You stepped away for a minute
and then I met you at the car

When We got back
to that place
where together
We last lived
We embraced and
You said again...
please

Surely You never
would have ever
needed to plead

We first lay there
together a moment
to recover Our strength
Entwined together
You and me

Then We there
were immersed within
that precious moment
When all of beautiful
intimate art is
expressed in life

And all of love
becomes perfectly
tragic art

There is where
I felt the trickle
of Your tears
as they fell down
onto my chest

And then there
upon my heart

After that last time
We were back
home in Dallas
together.

Remember Dallas.
We always
will have Dallas.

-R.

7/17/17
-LA


-4MAR

18 | 31 Poems for August 2016

I want soulful conversations filled with happiness, love and laughter.
A little bit of red wine, Sade, Jill Scott and Erykah Badu will do.
Time is wasted so I patiently wait for the clock to get sober eventually.
The sincerity of my words is embedded in the movement of my verbs.
Hope you learn to love your thick thighs and those beautiful brown eyes.
I want to hold you in my arms until you forget what loneliness feels like.
I read your body like the pages and chapters of a novel that I never want to stop reading.
Reading the lines on a woman’s skin is poetry and too many men are illiterate.
So they will never truly understand the fact that liberty begins with literacy.
If you incorporate piano keys into my heartbeat, then I promise that you will fall in love with the melody.
I want soulful conversations filled with happiness, love and laughter.
A little bit of chardonnay, Maxwell, Jill Scott and Erykah Badu will do.
The world is nothing without you, the world is blurry without my muse.
Hope you learn to love your thick thighs and those beautiful brown eyes.
I don’t have much but I have you and with God on my side how can I lose?

The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.

It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk
of the man you were raised
to believe
was too virtuous to be
in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him.
The man who brought you into
the world as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.

More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner with them
a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (even though
you’d feel like a traitor if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.

In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children
I may ever bring
into this ******-up little game that
goes by the name of “life,”
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems
to be navigating the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****.

She told me over dinner one evening
that I should switch to white wine—
less tannins and calories, she claimed.

I smiled and shook my head,
a vintage cabernet stubbornly clinging
to my bleached white teeth.

The next day I found a couple bottles
of chardonnay chilled in the fridge,
a note tethered to one’s neck:
Drink Me!

I did not.
Four months later,
we signed divorce papers;
she packed her things and left.

I drank the chardonnay that last night,
dizzied by the herringbone pattern
of the old parquet floor, and wondered
what would happen if I ate our frozen cake top.

Get out your sponges, stippling brushes and pens,
It’s time for makeover-Monday-night to begin.
Think Winky Lux, L’Oréal, Urban Decay,
Maybelline, Armani and Fabergé

It’s a black magic realm where brushes are wands,
where a carnival of colors are carefully crayoned.
We have palettes aplenty, in kaleidoscope hues,
to create fashion looks, both bold and subdued.

In the realm of makeup fashion, where trends never end,
we remodel each other - for fun - when we can.
Tonight, our new friend Jammie has come to watch us play,
and he even brought two bottles of chardonnay.

Lisa has a ‘Miss Rose’ case, like she saw in Bernadette Peters’
dressing room, on a backstage tour of the Shubert Theatre.
Konjac, Kabuki, Doe foots, Spoolie, Lisa’s got legit tools to use.
“When it comes to makeup,” she says, “always avoid dupes.”

That night I was the chosen face, the excited living canvas.
Lisa’s a practiced artist, her process is brisk and never tedious.
She painted my lips a crimson cherry, alluring and brightly sensuous,
my brows were moonlit art, my cheeks a midnight adumbrated edifice.

Lisa created a special look, where rebellious edge met elegance.
We took some snaps, then I washed it off - but Jammie was impressed!

Buy me chrysanthemums
Not lavandula or geraniums
Or phalangium with their low hanging bulbs
Why don’t you know I love chrysanthemums!

Chrysanthemums, Dahlia…Hera…Willow?
Lillian! Lillian,
How could I take chrysanthemums from Lillian?

You should know. I shouldn’t have to say anything! You should know.

Buy me Viognier
Not Muscat or Chardonnay
Or Furmint with its corky taste
Why don’t you know I love Viognier!

Viognier, Vionnier…Vienne…Vienna?
Dalmatia! Dalmatia,
How could I take Viognier from Dalmatia?

You should know. I shouldn’t have to say anything! You should know.

Dalmatia, near Sibenik
From where I dine on scallops,
Or do you not know that I love scallops?
If not then you should know that I love fickle, false and fair
It’s my nature and you are my nurture
If you did not know then know this, love’s a hapless farce

There is a time between us, when the pebbles of the sea
and the darkness of the moon will seem one.
Where the lilies and the starlight falls,
and my hands and bones will sleep.

See in our sleep, the world can be one, and
the flowing waters will be like Chardonnay.
Our memories will sing so wild and free.

Under the moonlight, before your lips,
I give you my breath and the secret beneath
my soul, where my soul falls underneath.

Awestruck and charmed by the precious jewels,
in your eyes. You are my beloved,
Leaving my breath to you, my very life,
I lift you up like a rose stretching for the sea.

Pinot this and pinot that
This young Grenache is a trifle flat
Better to try and get along
With a slightly older Sauvignon

I sometimes get a trifle low
When dabbling in a cheap Merlot
And so to scare the blues away
Will sip a spendy Chardonnay

But to avoid real ennui
Drink super Oregon Pinot Gris
And let’s be quite awfully frank
That’s much better than Chenin Blanc

But while you sort out your Pinot
Give a break to Grignolino
It’s good, but not the same as
A bold and cheeky Oz Shiraz

And if you want to go very far
Don’t ignore local Pinot Noir
It always sells well on the block
And I wonder who likes Marechal Foch

As I was supping a cute Barbera
At a certain State affaira
Things got quickly very highbrow
When someone mentioned Muller Thurgau

It is no lack of vinous respect
That makes us scorn the best Malbec
And can you find me a single fan
Of that very odd vine, Carignan?

If one must go to a grapey hell
There’s good company in Zinfandel
But if we really must go
Could we have some Nebbiolo?

In the end we all agree
Any wine is better free
But if not free we’ll surely call
Any wine beats none at all!

Candles, chocolates and a bottle of Chardonnay
Heralding the eve of Christmas day
Rollicking good fun is in the air
Icy outside but who gives a care
Surprises all gaily wrapped
To a song that someone just rapped
Mistletoe hangs in the hall
And the clock ticks slowly on the wall
Santa from Lapland is coming to call.

©Hazel

.

Take this, this poem
with torn, tattered edges
Stuff it in pockets
of jeans faded blue
Tell all the people
who teeter on ledges
Nothing is worse
if you have not a clue

Shatter this pen
flowing ink made of fire
Charring the castles
where dragon wings fly
Fanning the flames
that a sad heart has started
When every stanza
now ends in goodbye

Fracture the vase
that once sat in the window
Emerald green
with a chardonnay shine
Toss me the shards
till you see I am bleeding
Now have some cheesecake,
a nice glass of wine

Bury these dreams
so they fade in the morning
Hidden from sunlight
and coated in dew
Roll out the leaves
in the cover of autumn
Springtime for me
is now long overdue

After 6 PM,
four glasses of Chardonnay;
Jekyll turns to Hyde.

finally you came back to me;
for good we thought.

we'd walk out in the dark, and sprawling streets in
the empty mornings
and smoke packs of our favorite kinds, we had thought.

and there was one glorious weekend when we wore
long skirts and smoked
rollies on
the white painted balcony.
we stole six bottles of wine from
an unlocked cellar,
fully clothed in our
indian dresses,
underneath were our lacy bras
and silky underwear.

we walked the path barefoot
to the Nest, and we tattooed the dead and dying branches
with the sharp art of our burn marks,
and under the bridge where we
jumped into the frigid creek,
and let the sun shine through our hair while
a blond boy played his guitar.

we stayed up late,
jumping on the soft pink carpet of my room,
making small earthquakes in the quiet town,
screaming the songs
that beat to our own heart.

we crawled onto the red shingled roof
and inhaled the
thorn filled
atmosphere of
November,
smoking newports and marlboros faster than
Olympic champions.

we were naked but for our limp hair, hanging at our sides and
shivering skin,
“smoke me like a cigarette”
we softly sang, with the light of my room
slowly slinking into the night.

we took a drunken shower afterwards,
a bottle of chardonnay
reflecting the red light overhead,
the water rolling off our bodies,
ash falling from our hair.

we woke up in the light of one another's
morning eyes,
with splitting heads and cracked grins,
we had more plans.

we laughed on the secret
flower hotel porch,
bringing out more of our wine bottles,
playing our music loudly,
unfiltered spirits
was slowly writing their tragedy on our
wilting lungs.

that night we stuffed our beds
and created sleeping bodies out of ***** clothing and
small pillows.
we ran into the fresh night,
trouble as a steel edge on our
summer filled laughter.

we danced to the music that filled our
murky brain,
stumbled into a smoke filled room and burned
our throats
*****.

we walked in the deserted hours
of four in the morning,
and stamped on the counters,
of some boys house,
voice hoarse from
singing Neutral Milk Hotel at the top of our
brimming lungs
and banging on guitars.

we broke ashtrays,
and hearts,
and we snuck back in
with orange-chai hookah fresh on our
dry lips,
when the sun was threatening to
rise.

we wandered around the sunken down
town
the next day,
unfilters again.

we smoked three packs in two days.
sixty cigarettes,
for the sixty days we've been apart.

my mother told me later that she could smell it on me
riding on my breath,
she could tell by our dry eyes
and bed made hair,
we were hungover.
we smelled like ashtrays,

Hydrocodone is no excuse for you to be
torn so violently apart from me,
everything is falling out of
place.

We sat cozily on the couch listening to Miles Davis
She, curled up with a glass of Chardonnay, me, a warmed brandy snifter
It seemed an eternity since we made time for each other like this
We enjoyed our home in silence, absent our attention grabbing offspring at Grandma's.

I savored the scent of her lavender infused body snuggled in my arms
Her beautiful brown eyes reflected flickered light
The candles we transplanted from our earlier bath, burned slowly
And "Kind of Blue" transported us as we held each other.

"May I have a sip of your brandy?" she asked coyly with a smile on her face
"Of course," I handed her my glass
"Not from your glass," her smile turned into a mischievous grin
The vanilla and oak from the brandy permeated the air above the gulp I took into my mouth.

My heart rate increased, my eyes closed, and our smiles met pressed together; Heaven is real...
Her lips parted, she pulled the brandy from me along with my tongue that now danced with hers
The fire of the brandy that left my mouth warm, now slid down her neck in one smooth swallow
We took great care in kissing each other, sensuously, passionately, time stood still, for us.

Luxuriating in this kiss, a tear fell from her eye, met only with the tears that fell from mine
As our mind's eye recalled the love we have endured over these adventurous years together
Brandywine never tasted this divine as from the lips of my beautiful lover
Lightheaded, more so from her than from the alcohol, I smiled and held her closer to me.

"I Love you Husband!"
"I Love you more Wife!"

-----ChawzzyScript

She faded into the oblivious shadows of night,
The mardi-gras converted from dawn to daylight.
Where she danced elegantly in ballroom raves
She etched her body to the rhythm flowing in waves.

Her hunger was lustful in her eternally gazing eyes,
She kept her secrets beneath beauty's seductive gaze,
But when heart beats drowned out the soulful harmony
Penetrating eyes hummed on gullible  minds uncertainty.

Her burgundy lips etched on life's needing of lustful kisses,
Eager thoughts on this chardonnay on lips it glistened.
Drained off needing, she rested them peacefully in death
Never noticing until departed that they are exempt of breath.

Invigorated she released the energy of life on the dancefloor
Day descended into nights embrace, so she left out the backdoor,
Upon the streets she smiled at the masks hiding her secrets
When an invite did fall in to her hands, her next feed on a leaflet.