Oh, but it is *****!
--this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!

Father wears a *****,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly *****.

Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a ***** dog, quite comfy.

Some comic books provide
the only note of color-
of certain color.  They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.

Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)

Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe.  Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO--SO--SO--SO
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.

As Lewis walked up to the door, it strangely felt like he had been here before. But he hadn't. She had moved here three years ago, and he never saw the place. It smelled like Nina's home alright, though. The faint whiff of hydrangeas, of roses, and of other flowers caught he keen nose, and he breathed in deeply and smiled reassuringly to himself. The he became serious, as if he had no right to smile.

Was this the right thing to do? He hoped so. Time would tell. It felt as if it was almost yesterday, instead of six years ago, as he knocked on her door.

After a few knocks, a minute or two, Nina opened the door to her house. Someone had to be home, for there was a car in the driveway. As she looked upon him, Lewis expected her to slam the door shut in his face, but she also acted as if she had just seen him yesterday. And it seemed like no big deal to her.

Without much emotion on her face, she left the screen door shut, but she kept the inner door open. Walking away, it was like she expected him to follower her non-verbal lead. He did, hesitantly.

In the kitchen, Nina poured him a cup of coffee. "You hungry?" she asked him. "I am about to put some cinnamon roles into the oven. I'm going to open up a can from the fridge."


"Oh?" Lewis responded, trying to be nonchalant, trying to hid the nervousness in his voice. "Not from scratch?" His heart was practically beating out of his chest.

Nina's back was towards him. She was finishing some dishes in the sink. "Yeah, I know I was always Betty Crocker. But I'be learned to make short cuts, and it tastes just fine. Makes life easier to not do everything like Grandma did it."  

After she separated the rolls apart, and stuck them into the oven, she just kept going about her business. She started to open some mail and sorted the items into piles of importance and priority, and into a pile that could wait.

Lewis was shocked. He couldn't believe her composure. After a while, she turned around, leaned against the counter top, and she acted like she didn't have a care in the world. She didn't look one bit stressed, angry, sad, shocked, disgusted--or anything.

Finally, Lewis said, "Nina, I don't get it." He felt itchy, and tense, as if he could scratch his skin off, as if he was waiting for a bomb to drop. "Why aren't you telling me to get the hell out of her...to go ***** off...or call me every name in the book."

Nina just looked him up and down. He began to chuckle, nervously. "Come on, Nina! I am surprised you just don't grab that pan of hot rolls in the oven, and whack me in the head with them!"

In response, Nina still said nothing, acting as if nothing ever happened.

Becoming quite unsettled with her unexpected composure, he went on. "I mean...come on..scream at me. Cuss me out! Slap me! Punch me! Something, for God's sake!"

Nina raised an eyebrow, and tried to resist smiling. She was waiting patiently for him to explain himself, not to go on like this. "Is that what you want, Lewis? Is that why you came her? To beat you into oblivion with a pan of hot cinnamon rolls?" She didn't try to make him look foolish--he was doing a good job of that on his own.

Lewis turned red in embarrassment, and started to smirk. "Well...yeah...would make more sense to me."

The timer went off and the rolls were done. Putting her oven mitts on, Nina pulled them out of the oven and let them cool on top of the counter. The silence was eerie, awkward.

She poured him another cup of coffee, and finally addressed the elephant in the room. As he still looked up at her, dumbfounded by her, she said, "Lewis...if you have the ***** to come here...than I can certainly let you in and hear you out."

With that said, she filled a plate full of rolls, places them in the center of the table, pulled out a chair and sat down across from him at the table. "I'm listening", she said, her expressions still low-key. Yet Lewis thought that her eyes and mouth seemed ready to mock him, positioned to put him in his place. His guilt wouldn't allow him to think, otherwise.

Why would she serve him food and coffee? Why not just get it all into the open and demand that he spill his guts?

Lewis didn't want to beat around the bush any longer, but spoke plainly in his confession. "Nina, what can I say? I'm an ***." She didn't nod her head in agreement, nor say that he sure was an ***, yet a "look of  suspicion was growing upon her face.

"OK, OK", he went on. "I should never have left you--of all days! What a frickin' wimp! I should have manned-up and told you I wasn't ready to get married. Instead, I stood you up at the church...of all places...in front of your family...your friends. A complete no-show--I made a mockery of that day! It was supposed to be one of the best...and I made it the worst! Some in my family haven't really gotten past it or have forgiven me. Not fully. A few barely talk to me. My best friend, Steve, thinks I'm a *****--a dumb fool!"

Nina sighed with relief. This was what she wanted to hear. The tears started flowing.

Lewis told her, "So I just don't get it. I don't get why you are not furious with me! It just blows my mind!"

Lewis grabbed for another cinnamon role, and Nina handed him a napkin. She wasn't crying anymore, and he was glad. Why was she being so nice though? So hospitable? Did she have something up her sleeve? Did she mean to get back at him? Maybe poison in one of his roles? Lewis had to laugh at himself. Actually, that might alleviate some of his guilt right now.  

Picking at her role, Nina explained, first more sharply. Then she was soft in speech. "It's not all about you, ya know! Look, Lewis, don't think that for a moment that just because it is more OK now that it was OK back then! Well...I guess you already realize this. You see, I'm different now...changed...grown a lot since. I did a lot of soul searching, lots of growing."

"I can see that. It's wonderful."

"And I wondered what I did wrong...at first. Then I hated you, blamed you. I wished that I never said I would marry you. I did plenty of screaming at you--plenty. I bring things in a rage--mirrors, a clock, a dish or two--bruised my fists up pounding things."

She paused and continued, all the time looking at the intricate, lace doily on the center of the table, under a vase of fresh daisies. Finally, Lewis saw the gamut of emotions. In one moment, her face would pinch in frustration and anger. It would then evolve into a soft sadness, and other emotions within.

"Wasn't so composed about you back then, Lewis. Let's see...I swore at you. I wished you were dead. I ripped up every picture of you...put some in the shredder, wishing they were you, instead..prayed that you would die. Bitterness isn't event he word for it. I thought you were the worst thing that happened to me, that you ruined my life forever. I cursed you up and down, Lewis. I'm sure I even invented some new curse words."

That was enough said. She looked up at him and slightly smiled. Lewis smiled back, for at least she felt real to him now, quite natural. She admitted, But I think I cried far more than I hated you. I still loved you."

Lewis wanted to sit right next to her and hold her. "Oh, baby...I'm so sorry..."

Nina quickly interjected. "Honey, you weren't ready for marriage. We were both young, only in our mid twenties...we thought we had it so together. It took me a while, but I finally realized that you needed to find out who you really were, came to that conclusion for a while now. And, boy, did I need to get to know myself more, too!"

"No!", he insisted, emphatically. "Don't make excuses for me! I did not do right by you!"

Nina reached across the table and put her hand upon his. "It seemed like hell at the time, but I needed to learn about me, too! Crazy as it sounds....if it did not happen...I never would have..."

She stopped short. Lewis had tears in his eyes, and one began to roll down his cheek. "Met Gary", he said, finishing her sentence for her.

Surprise flashed across her face. "You did your homework!" Nina stated. She was quite impressed and smiled.

"I wanted to know what happened to you", Lewis responded. "You probably wonder why I didn't walk away for good. I intended to....but you deserve some answers, and I'm here to give them to you. Sure, I could have walked away, and stayed away. I could have saved myself the embarrassment of facing you, again. I could have pretended to have some dignity left."

"But you do have some dignity left", she insisted, sweetly. "It takes a lot of courage to do this. I'm glad you did."

"Are you happy now? I mean...I hope you are."

"Very."

Lewis didn't even have to ask. He could already tell. They sat in silence for a moment. Nina finally said, excitedly, "Gary's a great guy! We both love art. We both love nature, the outdoors, to travel.  He loves other cultures, and learning other things--like languages." Her face was beaming with pride. "Gary is trying to learn Portuguese and brush up on his Spanish. This year ,we are planning a trip to Portugal and Spain!"

Nina always did keep a nice home, and she decorated it with art that was acquired from different places. Where Lewis didn't have a sense of what looked good, she had a good sense of style. When they were both together, the talked of going to different places that they never traveled to--Africa, Asia, Australia--backpacking across Europe. They were big dreams.

Nina did not want Lewis to feel punished, but his agonizing expression of remorse would have been punishment enough. It already was for him, and it showed his sincerity.

"You know how I met Gary?"

Lewis shook his head. "A support group for divorced people! she admitted, gleefully, as if that was the most amazing thing to say.

Lewis looked embarrassed. Perhaps, he misunderstood her.  "What? For divorced people? You were never married before Gary, were you?"

Perhaps, there was something she wasn't telling him. Nina burst out laughing, seeming so carefree as she threw her head back and clapped her hands. Her laughter was beautifully contagious, and Lewis loved to hear it. "No, of course not!" she said. I have no secret past before I met you...or even now. It's just that a divorce support group was the closest support I could get. After all, there are no support groups for jilted brides and grooms!" She laughed even more.

They were talking so easily now, getting along so well. But why? It still seemed so surreal. Lewis laughed along with  her, as if this was just an encounter  to revisit the good, old times. When hearing of Gary, Lewis felt the pain of his loss, as well as some jealousy rise up. As if he had the right!  

He truly was an ***! He never deserved her!

Nina soon became serious, again. "So did you just come here to say you were sorry?" She was thinking he wanted something else from her, something else to say.

Lewis was once poised to take off in a real hurry. Now, he felt more at home. "Yeah...I came to say I was sorry to you...hoping to stop feeling sorry for myself... I guess. I'm wishing I could just turn back the clock. I swear I'd do it all again, differently."

"But the past cannot be change, and we both know it", Nina stated, resolutely.

He nodded in agreement. She didn't burst his bubble, for to think otherwise was a childish, fantasy.

"I don't know what else to say, Lewis". Nina's eyes reflected sorrow, not pity. "Life does really go on...if we let it. We have to let it, though." She now turned the conversation onto him. " So how about you? I hope you have some good news to tell me, something in your life."

He shrugged his shoulders. "I've had a few, short relationships", he admitted. Where there any displeasing looks on her face? Lewis didn't notice anything, now. "Not all that bad, I should say. But I just don't want to settle down until I finish my Masters in business. I'm nearly done."

"Good for you! That is great news!" Nina truly was glad for him, and it just showed him what a great woman she was. But then Lewis already knew this.

"Are you still teaching?" he asked, hoping she was, for she strove for the job, and loved it so much.

"Yes, I teach kindergarten, and Gary teaches science at Darland College."

"Well, what do you know? Both teachers. That sounds like a perfect match for you. And what about kids? None yet?"

"In time...sure. We just aren't ready right now."

She offered him more coffee, but Lewis declined. He was thinking he should go soon.  He said. "You know we used to talk about having a boy and a girl--and in that order, too!"

Nina rolled her eyes. "Yeah, boy oh boy. Like we had complete control over it".

They both laughed. It was fine to reminisce, and they did for a while, Lewis realizing that this would be the last time. He lived three hours away. And why should he come back? He did what he set out to do.

Nina would tell Gary about the visit after he came home from work. As husband and wife, there were not secrets between them. Nina was sure he would be surprised,f or his ex-wife never came to apologize for the pain she caused him.

"Gary's wife had an affair on him, and then left to marry that man", Nina revealed. "Thank God there were no children from that marriage."

"Wow, that is ******! Thank God I never did that to you!. I would have never cheated with another woman...or I might never have tried to face you. It would be easier to slink back into the ditch and stay there! This is hard enough as it is!"

"Maybe so, Lewis. Maybe so." Nina quickly added, "You aren't a bad man. I know this and I wholeheartedly mean this, so don't keep beating up on yourself. I've forgiven you for everything. I forgave you then, and I forgive you now. "

"Nina, that means everything to me!" He started to choke up, and more tears came.

Listen, Lewis. You need to forgive you, too."

He lowered his gaze, as Nina held his hand and gave it a squeeze. Never was Lewis so contrite before. Like many men, he never was overly emotional, and so this different side of him was a refreshing experience.

"Yeah,  it's time to move on", he stated, using a napkin as a tissue.

"Yes, it is. And I loved what you did. It was helpful for us both. It's the closure we need."

"Yep", he said, wiping away more tears.

"You are a guy with guts, Lewis. you do have courage, and more integrity than you think, and I hope you see it."

Nina offered him more coffee, and he accepted. Why couldn't they chat a little while longer? It was no harm, and it made the visit even more meaningful. Sitting and shooting the breeze more was not a bad thing.

The kitchen still held the fragrant smell of cinnamon, as they polished off more rolls and spoke more of good times.

The bottom of my dress
ballooning out,
like a doily on the dance floor.

Feeling like a princess
As I held Mommy’s hand.

Twirling me all around,
Like a ballerina let out of
Her jewelry box.

My greatest dance partner,
To the best drummer in the band.

Fashion designers love foraging through the antique markets of Clignancourt in Paris and Portobello Road and Alfie’s Antiques markets in London snuffling out vintage pieces for inspiration. The flurry of romantic Victoriana on the catwalks for autumn can clearly be blamed on this obsession.

There has been an undercurrent of reserved, covered-up fashion ever since Pierpaolo Piccioli and his former co-designer Maria Grazia Chiuri introduced a more demure aesthetic to Valentino five years ago. Longer skirts, prim higher necklines and covered arms have become the slow trend of recent seasons creating a hyper-feminine look.

Riccardo Tisci at Givenchy and Sarah Burton at Alexander McQueen have long been beguiled by the Gothic romanticism of Victorian fashion with their use of corsetry and dark dramatic lace and velvet for eveningwear.

In fact, London-based vintage fashion dealer Virginia Bates admits she doesn’t remember there ever being a time when Gothic Victoriana didn’t feature in at least one designer’s collection. “The fascination with the romantics, poets, artists and even horror [classics and films] give designers a great source of inspiration,” she says. “It’s an irresistible era.”

Certainly a lot of it has appeared on the catwalks this season at McQueen, Marc Jacobs, Burberry (shown only a month ago in the see-now, buy-now collection), Simone Rocha, Preen, Bora Aksu and Temperley London, as well as at smaller brands such as Alessandra Rich, Three Floor created by Yvonne Hoang and A.W.A.K.E.

There were dark distressed Linton tweeds, unravelling knits and black tulle in Simone Rocha’s autumn collection. Rocha was pregnant when she started designing it and was inspired by Victorian dress and motherhood, in particular the nightgowns and matrons.

“All the wrapping and swaddling of babies,” she says, before elaborating on how “the Victorian ideals of properness were made perverse with the conservative and covered-up pieces contrasted by the sheer and embroidered fabrics.”These gauzy vaporous fabrics succeeded in making her eerily romantic silhouette look rather contemporary and daring.

Subversion is key to making such a prim and proper period in fashion history modern and relevant for women today. Marc Jacobs, for instance mixed long Victorian coats, ballooning crinolines and crochet doily collars with sweatshirt tops and laser-cut leather for skirts and jackets together with some scary Goth horror make-up. Nothing is, or should be literal.

As Justin Thornton of Preen says “we love the Victorians, the laces and the white shirts, but it is the vintage pieces rather than the era that inspire us”. His partner Thea Bregazzi has collected aristocratic laces and ruffly vintage shirts from Portobello Road market for as long as he has known her and these frequently find their way into their collections, “but linings would be ripped, garments will have holes in them – it is a deconstructed look”.Virginia Bates once owned a famous vintage fashion emporium in Holland Park with a client list including the biggest names in fashion from John Galliano to Donna Karan and Naomi Campbell. Now she only works with private clients and designers and they, especially, she says were looking for genuine Victorian pieces when planning their autumn collections.

“A black fitted jacket with inserts of handmade lace [that is] embellished with crystal and jet beads, ***** and silk lined ... How exciting and inspiring is that? Silk and fine lawn shirts, soft and flowing with ruffles. Don’t we all want to wear one and live the dream?”

Thankfully a few designers do right now, and there were lots of heavenly creatures in fragile asymmetric lace dresses toughened up with leather corsetry at Alexander McQueen, and richly coloured swishy dresses at Bora Aksu. While Christopher Bailey cherry-picked the centuries in his Burberry collection, lighting upon frilled white cotton shirts, nipped in jackets and military capes from the Victorian era. Given that Victoria reigned for more than 60 years there is a lot of history for designers to plunder, so this will not be the last we will see it.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

Dress me in lace,

color me porcelain,

drench me in white cloud and blue sky and dandelions.

Touch me yellow,

Tell me you’re swallowing sunshine, tell me again

how I am the floating door and you are the ocean.

Even if we do let go,

our love doesn’t need dressing up.

It doesn’t even need poems.

It doesn’t need glitter and flash and spark pop sizzle

but we still like those things, regardless.

Our love is the crooks of elbows.

Our love is 250 miles apart, is so close to the sea, is

a word that doesn’t feel big enough.

Our love is floral, is ******* boots, is seashells and lime-green goggles.

Swallow me whole,

shower me love,

our bodies may be brittle but we can still breathe,

can still sing,

can still dance in the kitchen,

can still have chocolate-chip-pancakes-lots-of-smiles-kinda mornings.

I am forever regretful that our brains have been unforgiving,

but I’ll try to never let go

and I’ll always know, your collarbone dip and soft hip and laughter laughter laughter

are the best things I’ve found in a while.

So dress me in lace,

color me porcelain,

cover me doily and southern sky and make me breakable.

I will be breakable for you.

I will be antique-shop yellowing whale bone corsets, I will be glass on the floor, I will be the floating door.  

And I’ll try

to never let go.

it... it's too small for my hands
I smile winsome to convince
the loose doily cloth of naivete
the backwards crone covered in bark
the little old lady who looks young in the dark
she belongs under secrets in a lemon grove
she's the oldest and newest in all of the park.

Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace
Like a thimble replaced in a sewing kit,
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

A doily made of cream coloured lace,
Her set of values is tightly knit,
Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace.

She makes extra stroganoff, just in case,
Then, whole-house clean-up, “Lickety-split!”
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

My sister and I in a hiding place,
And nothing of our plums left but the pit.
Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace.

The whole rainbow neatly interlaced,
In Omi’s garden, her butterflies flit,
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

That pair of blue sweat pants we couldn’t replace
Because no other pair will ever quite fit.
Sighing deeply into Omi’s embrace,
Her permanent warmth that can’t be erased.

I remember spinning  in circles around the brown, hardwood floor,
My tiny hand grasping tight to mommy’s outstretched finger;
The sound of music from the live band was filling my ears,
While the laughter was spilling from my smiling mouth.
My dress was ballooning out like a doily,
While perfume and cologne were sneaking through my nose.
Mommy was twirling me all about,
Like a miniature Cinderella, glass slippers on my toes.

On the ladder of pain, others sadder than we are
Are climbing up and down constantly
I watch them from my balcony, when they come and take out their garbage

Because right behind my building, by the containers
Is the end of the ladder, and beyond it
Well, who knows. Nobody knows
Or maybe I’m not told. I’m not as yet one of them, you see, to be let into such information.

First I told myself: nonsense. And John, from 7th floor said the same:
Get out of here, what ladder? What holes?
Hey, buddy, I’m telling ya, there’s no ladder there! No hole, man! And I take my ******* out every evening.
There might be one in your head!
I touched myself: no hole! So, I started watching.
Today, tomorrow, until one evening when
I saw it.

It was…a huge hole! It swallowed me at once! And the ladder,
Was shiny and sturdy.
I ran to the kitchen, I took the sack with leftovers and started going down
Running.

The others, quicker than me, were ahead. And they were running as fast as their legs would take them, as if someone was after them.
And when they were touching the ladder, they would suddenly throw themselves head first! And the ones they were bracing themselves trying to hang on were pushed from behind.

So, slowly but surely, I started to slow down.
And, when I saw no one was watching, I started going backwards.
Then I started running.

I went to a halt in the middle of the sitting room and grabbed my head in my hands.
Somebody had moved the ladder by the foot of the table, the big one, covered in the
Last supper doily (maybe the guy upstairs, John, in a moment of adamic hate rage)

Years have passed since. Questions, frictions, showers, pills…anyway, nonsense.
I’m now cured by that thing with the ladder. Oy, mate, I say, there’s no ladder there!
In my house only the wooden floor’s shining! You can shave in it mate! You can shave in it!
Look at it! It came all the way from Germany, they know their stuff, Germans!

It’s not mystical, the winter solstice.
Think of pink fish, red fish, the sun, a pond,
Part water and part reflection, beneath
Fresh ice, so slowly sinking, not frozen, just cold,
About to touch bottom and death, their thoughts—
Of carnival barker and circus clown
And Superman all rolled up tight—about
To be extinguished, with summer so far
Away, you start to think it is death, not
The kids not splashing in the shallows, and
Not the less than dire necessity
Sophisticated poetry, read so
Professionally, so dainty and so
Doily-like, that it seems like ashes scattered,
Lost in some larger lake’s ichthyology—
But still byzantine enough for fish to fathom,
The depths their special province now that ice
Has capped the pond and crested creation.

Tiptoe with me through roads of mottled rainbows
We’ll build a city of coffee cream clouds and crystallized light
Our sticky shadows can stumble jump rope with fizzling stars
And our light will tang in the air with peace

Every streecorner will have an off-key symphony
Played with tongues broken from laughter
Raise your arms to catch the words that’ve ballooned into the stratosphere
I’ll tangle my fingers in your palm to lift you higher

You’ll collect liquid moon in a sandcastle bucket
Drips of silver catching in your spidersilk hair
I’ll pour it down all outside the doily mold
It’ll twist down to earth in fractured motion

Trust me, I never knew how to fly
Only to fall, and to fall with broken hands
Jump with me and skate down a sunset
Dorothy ain’t got nothin’ on this kind of color

I’m blinder than an arsonist with night vision goggles
But only ‘cause I see with my heart instead of reflections of light
Life is opaque when your soul is an old one
Though I’m still getting drunk on the learning wine

Take a rose and ***** a finger on a petal
The softest feelings always have the sharpest bite
The devil’s left the details to hammer her way up to heaven
She’ll shatter kaleidoscope bullets into mosaics of sin

Love is the game that all the best dreamers play
I think up slow nonsense that fills my lungs with longing
Bright towns are always blurrier than the grey
And my brush is shaky from absent disuse

So bring me home (my home is you)
Build love from the broken rubble souls
Sing for our voices reaching higher than the sun
As my hair links with yours in the summer breeze

Frozen bubbles can chime on every door
Our bare feet will press into wet desert clay
Smiles will be painted pure and golden
And all the colors will fill our footprints as we walk away in joy.

It was winter I last visited
with a container separated into thirds,
one for me,
one for you and
one for apples.
Your hair was blonde.

We wove autumn tea out of your cigarette smoke
that wrapped into the trees like a vice
secretly brushing our necks as it built up.
Your smoke left a sleepy trail of spilled wine on the carpet
making naked flowers appear on your arms.
Those belonged to the ace of spades himself
lungs deep in a poison.

You became a dreaming mess,
the phone began to worry for you,
you kept chaos in a syringe and
cobwebs were spun onto the floor.
A doily waits for you,
under the apples.

crochet me a doily
I can wear as a hat-

intricate dainty and soft,

knit me a pair of spats-
pink-
I can wear on my mocassins,


sew me some cute *******
crotchless are best.

For I am getting tired of
acting tough.

Spare me the ***** hose, so
restricting, and until I take hormones,
the uplifting bra from Frederick's,
is useless.

teach me , though, how to apply mascara,
I  just painted my ear hair black.

I first felt her flow as Blue Lady tea steeped on a delicately crafted doily.

Cranberry Orange Scones paired with doll-sized cutlery.

I’d be excused.

A late bloomer,

steeping slowly from the flowering buds of my very own teapot.



Mothers, sisters, friends, daughters together

sharing a Blue winter in that tea shop.

When at fourteen, womanhood gifted

me the first of many

moments.

This would spark my wondering why women weren’t known

solely for their strength, rich in resilience,

like the blackest tea.



As Blue Lady steeped steadily from the table to the lady’s room.


Anna Blake

swirling steam, meets the morning breeze
bubbling water encompasses the bag with ease
aroma of cinnamon fills me with savory grace
resting precious china on doily of lace
tepid tea, wintry soul appease

warm caress in a cup guarantees
moments of harmony battles bleak disease
warm trickle down, likening embrace
swirling steam, meets the morning breeze

dreaming of life overseas
imagine now, the possibilities
believing in an impactful trace
young and learning, necessary space
muddled thoughts over early tea
swirling steam, meets the morning breeze

Happiness is what makes me reach out and scream hello!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I am a barbarian who eats library books. I am inside all of the books that I read. I do not consider the outcomes for if I were to do this I would become a figment of your imagination AND I CAN'T HAVE THAT.

Sadness is a disease that becomes infested with remorse and I will not ride that steed.

Being rid of things - moving a broken picture after you found it hidden away in a dusty cabinet and then forgetting - old laced doily, time ragged & brown stained from Grammy Pete's tested hands. One last wind of the pocket watch.

The Juniper tree lay treasure down over the old beaten blue car that I took many a day to think in. It was a good winter and I remember it well.

Tissues tear under pressure.

As careless onlookers try to breathe in

the air of something fresher.



Self-satisfied glares under

the gaze of a doily umbrella.

They mutter "Oh that poor Cinderella!"




Rotting flowers falling from an empty hand.

Not caring on which grave

they land.



A flowing dress stiffened from a hard heart.

Lying beneath the dirt

is this dying art.



Powered blue sorrow drifting from caked eyes.

Lying on the frosted grass

this love's demise.



Translucent wings ******* blue veins from the back.

A halo is what

this dead girl lacks.



Wilted dandelions wrapped round the neck with love.

Choking and cloaking a man's

abusive glove.


A lovers' kiss won't wake

this sleeping beauty.

But a suitors love did break


both soul and body.

just raises brows quizzically



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXXVIII)


Soft blue skies feign a note of what fr'intents
I thought to know at dawn, whilst in betrayl
"He's" finished and quite gone, me like to scale
'Non wondring if twas all in that joke's sense
Of "April Fools!" or but a dream from hence?
To rub my eyes as groc'ries, laundry hail
Me for attention, dinner too, in frail
Excuse now feeling like I've small kids thence.
O! How I long to go outside and fer
All that, just breathe!  Forget the day we knew,
Hark to the birds, and lose myself as twere
In that soft calm.  But oh! that will not do.
Watch golden light draw shadows up, each fir
A lacy doily, til that sunset cue.

01Apr19b

the leaf no longer drips
out side my window
the sky has for the moment
stopped it's weeping,
maybe the moon got it some
hokey pokey ice cream,

it is cold enough, the puddle pools
of  water have little lace doily edges
and the hibiscus bushes are frosted

the weatherman states we are having
an unseasonable cold snap....
this is the first time the tuxedo rex
has seen frost...he is beyond freaked
and has gone into the linen ccupboard
to seek solace and warm, we find him
curled up under the guest towels

the paths are icy, as well my bottom knows
this is not a drill, we don't normally get this
cold here and frankly we are under prepared

we have towels covering every hangable surface
the dryer running constantly, the fire is eating wood
at an alarming rate...and the wifi has become unstable

and now the leaf is dripping again...

do we remember what the sun does...Do we???

wine print on neutral veronese,
some drink to live,
some live to drink

i spent a lowly year "out back"
high up in the Adirondacks
i spent a couple grand and change
lay a lady lay again...

here lies conquer with no-seq
ne vis plus, prefaced as con
harboring the depth of write
just to overcome the wrongs
always drone as rhythm does

pin and doily on the water
mag-a-nolia, Julian, golden
life of old and orchards open
send a silhouette to the cabin door...

happy getting older, broaden
road and carriage,
stock and bale
bail and stalk
walk o’er hill
neatly seated at heron
seated on the bench i stole
i knitted up the overgrowth
and lay i shall think of the olds
of plum-stained linens from the gods,
rags and gore,
pale blue bones
the modern peril is destination and fortified knowns.

drip of the lip
of the faucet. He's sagacious
to not cross it. Dewy drops of
pearls plink forming beads

of sweat in the kitchen
sink. It looks like morning
dew. Smells of ocean
mist.  But won't fill up my

coffee cup of grist.  Straining
to release it plops down next to
last night's dinner grease. And swirling
like a van Gogh. Water and oil

looking like a doily mama
used to sew. If I set this on canvas
I'd hang it on the wall or wrap it all
around me like nana's crocheted shawl.

I
am sinking

and there's ****** on the street
no coppers on the beat
they're raiding a cannabis farm
which was out of harms way
somewhere in
Wiltshire
or
Shropshire
but
plenty of cops there.

What am I doing here?
treading on land mines?
reading the life lines ?
I
know there were better times
but do not know when.

Behind the lace curtain firewall
and the hand crafted doily
she spoils me.
I like it.

I want to be perfect- not like those who let food control them. I want to be beautiful, to sprout wings of feathery white and soar away at will. I want a body made of lace and silk, not cotton and burlap and worms who open their mouths to bare their razor-sharp teeth and coil into tight, sloppy ***** of grease inside my veins. I want to live clean, but I don't want to die empty. I don't want the fate of the doily-***** girls who haunt the dusty corridors of psychiatric units, scurrying about, waiting to expire like meals hidden beneath bed frames and floor boards. I don't want to smell of mold, to have an empty heart or a dehydrated brain that can only form thoughts of calorie intake and deficits. And yet, I want to be perfect. I want to dance atop snow and leave no footprints. I want to fly high enough that the birds are jealous and wish to know my infinity. But I will not fall head over heels in love with an empty plate and a vacant body. I will not lay to waste the fertile soil of my womanhood and become best friends with a barren womb. I will not allow double digits to ****** me and dizzy blackouts to consume me. I will fight. I will fight, tooth and nail these demons that inhabit my tiny frame and play music of nightmares on the bones of my ribcage. I will honor the memories of the emaciated valkyries lost in battle before me by never letting Ana defeat me. She lies and consumes the meat of you, chunk by chunk until all that is left is your sorry, broken soul, riddled with wormholes. So no, I will not give in. I will not lose all that is good and pure in me for the promise of weightless perfection. I will feed my body and I will love myself and I will tattoo it on my ribs and the bones of my spinal cord- "I am enough."

Rebecca Madeira
2.21.16 (C)

Dear You,

I've been here, waiting
for quite an awful long while
my Christmas tree’s a skeleton
my Mistletoe’s missing the toe
my ugly sweater’s an attractive doily
the eggnog’s mould spores unionized
while I’ve been here, waiting for You

I don't care about composting tree,
missing toe, changeling sweater,
or mould spore solidarity

All I care about is You,
who cannot be
bought packaged bagged sold,
I have not one use for gold
trimmings or fancy paper,
I can live without things
baubles toys trinkets rings

All I need
All I want
for Christmas
is You

Truly Yours,

Me
~

Nathan MacKrith
11/28/17

Twas tad in the doily mwamp
This rorange flawolf lurks as a freature
The fiercevil dog likes to plomp
In his edark strair, don't go one meeper!

Beware of the flaworf, my friend
Strange but benevolent, with big cre-eyes
Beware this carnithical to the end
This denomous flawolf will surely surprise.

Interpreted version

It was terrible/bad in the *****/oily muddy/swamp
This red/orange flaming/wolf lurks as a frightening/creature
The fierce/evil dog likes to play/romp
In his evil/dark strange/lair, don't go one metre/deeper!

Beware of the flaming/wolf, my friend
Strange but benevolent, with big creepy/eyes
Beware this caring/mythical to the end
This deceitful/venomous flaming/wolf will surely surprise.

If ever were to be modeled here on earth,
one aspect is universal,
any exploration as
to what can be true and what seems thinkable,
has previously had expectation set
to recognize
and expand, as realizable,
in application, skeleton key-ish,
old lock tech common
in empty old buildings
- archer of life lessonings pings -
- -ng all points on the spectrum
and adding perceived Disneyifications
of storied locks, those knowledge
unlocks, always,
as truth frees,
never cursing ought but ignorance,
that such storied locks unlock I- in stages,
we barely remember
our bare first snow
of memories
with others possibly needing
my attention,
to any certain detail, tool, wrench
or spanner time seams leaking
from old skins, tied to tighten
around just right, eh,
weather whether or no,
old soul, so sure you lost your will to win,
then, another breath forces its way in.

--------------

Watching fluffed flakes
of Southern California snow, witnessed
by some, in El Niño years past, just as big as a
little paper doily under a piece of truck stop pie.

At Descanso, and also at Gorman, top of Cajon Pass.

Top of the winding six-percenter
called the grape vine, down
into Bakersfield,
across primeval subsurface saline swamp,
until a while ago, after internal combustion
and electric pumps and radio dispatch police.

Earth, earth, can you hear me now,
how is one old man expecting
to establish a true reason
to believe the cultural corrective aspect
at once, before, as now, all began
occuring because the right hand and left are inhibited,
by not inconsequential inhibitory circuits, inhibiting
unreasonable single mind superiority, internal tyrany
we are under oath to oppose,
as truth in form and function, redeemed words
effectual and fervent reproof of instructions,
taking the Mickey out of Yanks, touting
dis-Disneyification,
relieves
a form of tyranny commonly capable
of ruling a soul committed
to aliegiance and confirmation rituals early enough.

---------------

This then be a future fantasy.
Snowed in, in a Southern California
spring blizzard, blocking the hinterlands.

I sit behind my Tesla wall,
and welcome the test, was it worth it,
what price can one put on winter warmth?

How guilty should I feel for having won,
upon acceptance of the form Jesus was in,

when his word assured me I might rest assured.

Truth known makes free, form is not function.

-----------------

Historicity, I think they call,
mental time travel when you experience
life in a world lit only by fire.

Wonder if, then we think of praying men,
professional preachers of the impending

rapture, which belies all we know of gravity.
Miraculous, no less than the flying white horse,

or the horde of righteous dead coming on, behind.

And even then, there is resistant hate of brothers,
essential to trouble the minds of the greedy rich
and powerful, who constituted this world order,

this very one we live under, or within, in spirit
and in the truth the internet lets prove reproof.

----------------

Enough. We fact check, team spirit.
What can we honestly say we all know?

Six thousand years of written retellings
and retellings, and savage adversarial
herds of prophecy guided god-minded
meek as Moses Phineas knew, true
a certain variety
of the species,
with no regard
for breeding, gravitates to rhetoric
in tune with the pain perceived as needing
rebellion arrousing need --
engage disbelief, let it flow,
out the left ear is fine,
feel
relief, mindlessness
of this hard problem,
what are we about
to do, these days as we pray
with science included in grace,
due to the odds demanding,
a definite bias on Earth, to living,
like grace cheats death into agging
us into freeform ideas for hearts
to conceive as worthy
of cognosis fervency,
as at Eureka instants in prayer.

Truth, none may gainsay truth,
any may and certainly do, lie about what
Truth is behind a universal direct object, set

in the form a free spirit may hold,

not any form smoke cannot pass through,
but the form believers
accept as ours after,
spirit wise, as living words,
death, or out of body reproof
of imagination, a weform, a we,
the shock alone, makes a body think,
woe, this ain't hell but that really hurt,
bang. Same, no worse, and one last time,

I respond , "the Oxycontin is not working",
and time expands, and expands again,
and interest in worth of reason,

appears to judge my plea.
Believe me, death is not scarey, after
finishing a mortal experience in such
a time as this,

freedom from fear of death, is so freeing.
Coherence in mindtimespace is coincidental.