---

She asks him for a language
before the east wind blew
when the earth was clay

Both begin without caution
subtle, impossible to hurt

guarding the relationship
like it's sacred

She asks:
     What separated us?
     We woke up one day

     built different cities

     Time wasn't silk
     winding around us
     anymore

     But now
     I've found you,
     anam cara

     When we taste fear
     we know the other is near

     It's more frightening
     to live without your face

---

---

a long time ago
before the world breathed
or east wind blew
when the earth was mostly clay
 
she didn't look for him
he was beside her
both creating habits

she asked him
for a new language
he took her to other worlds

both entered without caution
he's subtle, she's genteel

impossible to hurt him,
sighs and tears
were major events
for her 

battles were seldom
with quick endings

guarding the relationship
like it was sacred


something odd separates them
one day, in the time before--
like a chord with a note off-key

she asks him:

     why?  what 
     divides us, anam cara?

     as if we woke up one day
     and built different cities
     dismembered what was one

     we hide from memories
     and mourn the loss of the other
         
     time isn't smooth silk
     winding around us anymore [/i]

she promises:

     i will find you, anam cara.
     even if we taste fear
     we've already touched it
     
     then we'll know     
     the other one is near
     
      it's frightening
     to look in your eyes, anam cara     
     but it's more frightening to
     live without your face at all[/i]

---

Clang! Clang!

Wooden swing
hangs by iron links

bangs skeleton metal
of a swing set

Wind propels leaves
like tumbleweeds

Sun doesn't shine
but waits

for a young woman
in ragged blue jeans

Storyteller, she is
of ghosts and pinafores
 
along back roads
south of Town Vu Mountain

beyond the lake--entrails
of Tater Black Road

---

Pa's Little Girl


Baby girl
so small she
stands up
in the car seat

beside Pa
at the wheel.

Her chubby little arm
wraps halfway round
his neck, like a split
peach, partly open.

Blond curls on her head
like lashes angel-white
 
With a ruffle through
them, that's what
Pa says

when

he takes her places

his voice like a whisper
down a long dark hallway.

She tries to remember
strange places

but a deep well
opens

swallows the thought

before she can
wheel the pail up
and peer inside.

---

Justis

Knowin' things
is hard on little girls.

It's Monday night
way past my bedtime.
I watch Mama lean on the stranger.
She can't stand up by herself.
Her hand's over her mouth
cause she thinks she's whisperin':

'Justis!(that's my name, Justis)
 'Bring my drink!'

Stranger yells.
Mama giggles. She don't care.
Daddy yells ever' time he walks
in the door--

supper ain't never on the table,
toys all over da floor,
ain't no room in the 'frig'rater
fo' his beer.

Daddy thinks I don't know
how he spent my birthday money.
Mama thinks I don't know
she sleeps with a stranger
when Daddy's not home.

She think I don't know why
she sucks smoke through a straw
or why her eyes glitter like a yard animal
and Honey don't know
dat I know
he's a stranger.

I'm so tired.
Like a grownup, I'm tired.
Knowin' things
is hard on little girls.

Rosie, a black lady from downtown
comes to see us ever' other Thursday.
She blind and she can't count.



She don't see my dirty face,
she don't look in our cabinets,
she don't know her numbers
or she'd be countin' dem beer cans.

But Daddy's smart.
He drank all them beers in one night.

Way I figure it
the world ain't real
most of the time

like plays at school
when Teacher gives ever'body
a diff'rent name
and funny clothes.
Ever'one pretends
dey someone
dey ain't.

Tell you a secret--
when sirens squeal
and doctors come--
doze nights are special,

even if someone
be broken or bleedin',
doctors ain't blind
and they can count.

They see my dirty face.
They know we ain't got
no mac'roni and cheese,
or baloney, or root beer.

And I'm tellin' ya',
no star in the sky shines
like them doctors
in them white overalls,
even when it's me
that does da screamin'
to get 'em here.

Knowin' things
is hard on little girls.

---

Callie

Callie's comfortable here--
this little pool hall
is like her castle,
where she reigns.

Fats Dill, the manager
gropes his groin,
She's good for business.
Fats thinks about the business
he'd like to make
with the little wench, himself.
Women want her too.
So, no problems there.

After all, Callie is fair--
pleasing the un-pleasured,
but she's never satisfied.

It's Saturday night--
A challenge is what I need,
for a change.
Callie eyes a cocky pale-boy
with dagger brown eyes
pretending reluctant interest.
So there's the city boy
lost in the mountains.
She heard about him
during supper at Mama Rue's
house, downtown.
Hey there,
she whispers, her lips
wet, and buried in his neck.

He smiles, ready to prove
something. He doesn't
know what yet.
Do I know you?

Electricity flickers--
his confidence pisses Callie off,
the attraction between them
is too easy.

You don't know me yet
but you will.
What's your name, pale-boy?,

Her body closes in on him
like a spell, as she slightly
moves the tasty parts of her.

Um mm...just call me Bo.
(Sakes alive, she even smells
like sex.) Bo decides he needs
to find out why, real soon.

Callie grabs a dark velvet bag
Mama Rue and the young widow-girls
gave her, outlined in gold beads
and red sequins filled with steamy
potions and invisible secrets,

and leads pale-boy
up the black walnut staircase.

---

His first encounter with her
is coincidence. Dogs bark,
then footsteps in the dark.
He squints through the door
as her slight figure passes
under the streetlight.

She hears a rocking chair squeak, ,
pivots her head to the left
and peers toward an odd man
staring at her from a sway-back porch
under a dusky screen.
Point-blank, her eyes catch him
between tangles, dark and thick.

Everyday at dawn he's waiting for her.
Twilight vigils make sure he doesn't miss her.
Smoke rises from his cigarette and curls
toward the spotlight where she appears.

He cares very little about anything,
but he worries about the streetlamp:
If the electricity goes out,
I may never see her again.

Where has she been and
where the hell does she go?
He considers the direction she
comes from and drives his old Chevy
to The Gentleman's Club.

He understands her cynical stare
and odd hours of walking home alone.
Like him, she doesn't care if she lives
or dies. She's a stripper--crotch-grabbing life
with shady dollar bills and cryptic looks
through a fog of scraggly black.
 
Before the sun comes up,
his eyes and ears are ready
his smile is smug with relief:
I'm not like other men.
Don't give a damn about the whore.

---

Falling Into You
by Celine Dion

And in your eyes I see ribbons of color
I see us inside of each other
I feel my unconscious merge with yours
And I hear a voice say, "What's his is hers"

I'm falling into you (falling into you)
This dream could come true
And it feels so good falling into you

I was afraid to let you in here
Now I have learned love can't be made in to fear
The walls begin to tumble down
And I can't even see the ground

I'm falling into you (falling into you)
This dream could come true
And it feels so good falling into you

Falling like a leaf, falling like a star
Finding a belief, falling where you are

Catch me, don't let me drop!
Love me, don't ever stop!

So close your eyes and let me kiss you
And while you sleep I will miss you

Oh I'm falling into you
This dream could come true
And it feels so good falling into you

Falling like a leaf, falling like a star, oh
Finding a belief, falling where you are

Falling into you
Falling into you
Falling into you

---

a better version:

---

secrets can't be
manufactured
or made to order
an act of will
or command

aren't works
but fruit
growing in prepared,
suitable, congenial soil
crocus and snowdrops
grow in spring

secret societies
thoughts, words
fill imaginations

through yearnings
and songs of defeat
societies are quietly born
being together much

found is a fountain
sure is the river

(w/tks to J.H.Jowen)

Prayer:  Teach me to find
the secret of life.

---

The sounds in Clang!  Clang! are gorgeous, full of wind and autumn.

Rick

Rick, thanks so much.  That poem is sort of an intro to a book I was pretending I could write.  A book of poems.  Portraits of people.  I think you have especially liked at least one of them -- immigrant bucket, Carla, and then you liked Briony but you thought there should be more.  And of course there is.  You just have to manage the flood.

Thanks again,
cheryl

---

I can't believe it
snowed in again
with my mother
well it wouldn't
be so bad
but I live with her
and I'm a grown woman
with no one to call
no one to talk to
but the journalese board
and of all things
no one's posting.
I'm full of sarcasm.
See all the italics?
That's me, being sarcastic.

Law and Order's not even good.
I've seen every rerun ever made,
I think.  Mom's watching Dr. Phil
with teenager's screaming and crying.

I wonder what my mom thinks
of Dr. Phil's parenting skills
because hers were nothing like his.
I always wonder that.
Maybe she thinks he's speaking
a foreign language
or maybe she's going,
That's right, Dr. Phil,
you tell 'em.  Take it from
an old broad like me. 
You're wise beyond
your years."
except Mama
would never say
broad, because
she isn't a broad.

She's a Bible-totin'
Southern Baptist
raised her kids
in the Bible-belt
with a white leather
upholstery belt.

My dad knew how
to put clothes on furniture
so he made this belt
especially for our rear-ends.

Funny thing, I only
remember two whippin's.
One when I was in third grade
and my arm was broke.
I held that caste up
like a shield and pretended
to be scared.

Really, I just thought
it was funny, backed
into that corner
by my mom
swingin' a white leather belt.
Wonder if she even saw
the caste.

The other time
was when my dad
was chasin' me around
the house, but I think
he used his own belt
and I don't think he
ever caught me

or that spankin'
was just so horrible
my mind has gone blank
over it.

I've wasted about 10 minutes
and what have I talked about?
Being a kid and gettin' spankin's.
Good grief.

Probably 'cause here I sit
right under my mother's wing
like a chick under a hen.
Good grief
good grief
good grief

---

lol!  Grownup hell is to be stuck with a parent again.  I'm laughing on the outside, cringing on the inside, and thanking ALL the gods mine are 1668 beautiful miles away.

Thanks Rick.  I don't need to be here.  But I don't know how she'd live without me.  The problem is she doesn't realize that or won't admit it, so she treats me like a child and monitors everything I do.  It wouldn't matter how much money I paid her, she's gonna make me pay for something all the time, and half the time she forgets what and when I paid, or when I do anything to help.  I don't know what to do.  But I do know as long as she thinks she doesn't need me, that's my way out, and my brother and sister can take of the rest.  My time is up.

Now, I know you didn't wanna hear all that, but right before I read this we were in a discussion about hanging pictures.  She says she doesn't want holes in her wall, but my god, they are all over the house!  I swear!

Anyway, thanks for commiserating as much as your able, and thanks for the reply.

cheryl

---

a bit melancholy this morning
even Fleetwood and Buckingham
seem sad and nostalgic
sort of a warning of what's reality
and what's not

I have 20 minutes left to write
and it's best that I don't

---

just commented on every poem at top of submit page
that I hadn't before
unusual for me

got lonesome and went to second page
still there were poems I knew
where are all the strange poets?
where are all the strange poems?
new poets, new poems!!  the crowd screams,

yet there's something comforting about familiar
about routine

been practicing it
going to bed at the same time every night
falling asleep more easily

I'm so old to learn this
but this is the way it is
when you're not responsible to anyone
for the time you hit the sack
you do whatever you want
and sometimes it's not the same

but I see as I write this
I do have a responsibility to myself

maybe I should take a survey
and see if all poets and writers
go to bed at the same time
every night

there's something to be said for familiarity
for the lack of change

my mom says I don't like change
that I don't adapt well
and if that's true
I've been in rebellion
against myself

no wonder I cry easily
I'm mad at myself

---

B'ar Kenny

B'ar Kenny believes himself a Jesuit
a true follower of Jesus

born 'Bear' someone
took out the 'e'
put in an apostrophe
looks better that way

down Tater Eye Road in Town Vu
a woman sits cross legged
on her bed
head in hands

tear-wet her hair hangs
down her face
over protruding cheekbones
where circles grow black
as the house she can't leave

she's been sick for weeks now

Wednesday-late B'ar Kenny
in his walk around the lake
hears crying through her window
he knocks softly on the door

'come in,' she whispers
knows he's B'ar Kenny
the Jesuit, from stories she's heard:
how B'ar, on lonely evenings
appears like a ghost to the weary
how he lays his big bear hands
on pale skin and prays

---

Whiskey Pyramid

In a dress faded blue,
bare legs and mens shoes
unlaced, and loose

she stands near
what keeps her alive--
a whiskey pyramid

Grey birds sing
in the swamp
where the pyramid lives

Not dead fowl
on a plate--more like
melodies locked away

Wood and metal
smoke and steam
shimmy,

and shake
on the ground
near the flock

The girl grips a lock
on the cage 'round
the catbird throats

on the tree where
hangs a rope, and the chirr
of her welcome song

---

Cherry Red


his business
supplies rock bands
with flashy stage-lighting

ten thousand on two gigs
he makes a few dollars

in the long haul
she becomes a part of him
loses herself and a good credit report
along the way

'round '91, with no bad debt
man and wife build a new home
he nurtures a successful career
she gives up her future

in '98, she drives
a new cherry-red Mitsubishi Eclipse
tallest spoiler she's ever seen
she deserves a bright little sports car
he buys it for her

he knows she's
thinking of leaving him

---

At the train station restaurant:

'Are you ready to order, ma'am?'

Not really. When I order, I'll have to eat
and when I finish it will be time to leave.
I'd like to sit awhile longer.

'So, you've enjoyed your stay?'

Yes, I have. It was unexpected.
Last night I received a letter
telling me
I'd be leaving today.
I'll be given directions
on my way out.

'How will you know which way is out
if you don't know where you're going?'

Men and women come and go here
all the time. Some remembered
for the good they've done. Some
for the harm, and others
who are forgotten.
I'd rather be forgotten
than remembered for harm.
When I arrived, I was very ill.
The only tools I had were words.
I'm out of words. I'm well now,
and it's departure time.

'Oh, here's a gift for you
from the management.
I'd almost forgotten.'

The ruby with sharp edges
at each corner, lay perfectly
in her palm.

Now, I know where I'm going,
she whispered,
and left silently
through the back door,
without disturbing others
enjoying the cuisine.

---

It's more than a memory
looking through Mrs. Piccadillo's window,
her arm across my chest:

the woman is pretty
in a wild, peculiar way
eyes drawn like almonds
face heart-shaped
hair like creamed honey
dressed in a flowered shift
out-of-date and too big
for her thin body
and no underwear.
Dead granddaddy's
mustard sweater
covers her pointed shoulders.

Barefoot in the cold
she sits atop a tall ladder,
upside down v
-shaped part of the roof
over her head
-a letter L in the center.

She pounds the cement
driveway
with a wooden stick
the only useful part broken off.

Her left arm waves like a fanatic.
Devil, I know you're out there!
You can't have my babies!
Can't have 'em!

Inside, are two small children
one just five
the other, barely born.

---

Left me
waiting on notes of music
-transportation to another world
hoping songs of a stranger
might reveal ecstasy

behind closed eyes
is there another existence
where hands speak emotion
right palm
three movements forward
slightly
both hands leveled
midair
banter

pain for beauty
for loss
for longing


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

They said it was a bile duct
said it was a kidney
i don't need a doctor
to tell me you are distant

took you to the e.r.
not a homeless shelter
all those other mothers
had brand new cadillacs

won't call my brother
or irritate my sister
i do need a kind word
on days when you're resistant

don't need no glory
or government assistance
i'm just a daughter
in search of your affection


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

Our nonsense
is complicated

comes
from knowing each other
in different ways,

i suppose


in line at
Gran Torino

thought i felt
an electric throb

a cinematic leap
from

your quiet hunger
to mine


i worry
i'm too relaxed

i don't flirt with you
like i used to--

maybe i'm
not cute anymore
(hid my flirt-shirt
in the bottom drawer)


but
what if

those
things

are what
you love

about
me
most?


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

Playing with apparitions and conjured
 visions, she falls asleep in shallow'd grave,
awakens alone, eyes of hollow'd tombs.;

No eulogiz'd lamenting crowd; no bells
tolling. Black shrouded graveclothes lifted by
the crooked fingered undertaker, who

taunts her darkly with his haunting riddles:
'What quiddity you have is fantasy',
and this kindly given epitaph:

'Nuts and bolts are concrete certainly, but
forty winks won't discern tacks of brass'.


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

Like fear in a lullaby
the way is laid, sometimes
with traps and robbers

children, alike and different
same dust, I'm told
each from a different mold
'nary a duplication

eyes carry burdens
a smile speaks comfort
everything's alright


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

monday
high again, three lines
snort or smoke?
dope on a silver boat

tuesday
commercials
no way that guy's not high
one day we'll find out the truth
whole generation of geniuses
fucked up

wednesday
conscience is a wheel
spikes turn around inside

thursday
do another line
football season
listen to the tops pop
everyone drinks beer
eats fried bologna sandwiches
bump bump white line

friday
sick feeling
phenergan, anti-acid tabs
can't eat, hands shake
make mistakes
two in the living room
watching 'new jack city'
dealing drugs
 
saturday
paranoid, chest hurts
throat jumps, neck-spiders
hide the dope in the bathroom
in a shell, who will tell
mumble the truth
can't remember it

sunday
should be in church
cross a threshold
voice says, 'stop,
this has meaning'
what has meaning?
think i missed it
even on sunday

(poem before death)

world looks funny, cock-eyed
insane, triple-sec dehydrated
ammonia fumes slightly bent
hydrogen fueled twisted octagons
soar through an anhydrous sky
tongues lap over each other
shaped like crooked teeth indentions
flapping and slapping in faces
eyes like crocus
earth waxes crystal
quite bright at midnight

(heart stops)

it finally happens
i cave in
give up the fight
that's what my 'loved ones' cry
my placebo friends yelp
like dogs and say the same
gathered at a pot-luck reunion
in a park, feasting on my formaldehyde
some in white and pale white
others in gray and tainted gray
laughter explodes
sling me in brick, i say
life spins 'round anyway

(death-chuckles at the funeral parlor)

'she always loved poetry'
'yeah, a few limericks will do' :

calling curly crack pot
wonder if she eats snot
go shop for tissue, we must
gag when snot turns to crust
would rather kiss alot than not

one day walking home
crosses a long hair all alone
she screams and yells
falls for the pony tail
rides all the way home

he's not really tired at all
in fact, both have a ball
happy and free for awhile
till he winks, gives her a smile
she comes when he calls

come everyone, join the fun
look at the webs we've spun
if you forget from line to line
which ones should, never should rhyme
relax, still won't know when you're done
when you're done

(after-dinner-fun at home of the dead)
'what-it's-like-to-be-dead' poem

spin like a top
faster and higher
the sun is a merry-go-round
and i'm riding

time is deceitful
doesn't have hands
and won't stand still
wings fly toward the heat
this road is so frigging long
and i'm tired of traveling
just spinning in circles
no clock tells the truth
today

i'm dead, they eat tables,
and tables of food
the bar in the kitchen
is on overload
hadn't had this much
company in years

no after dinner mints?
those were limericks
of course not
and there's no after dinner
they just keep eating, the pigs


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

Baffling prick
in my bed of roses
-a wrestler in flannel

life intoxicates
as you do me
like Samuel Adams Utopias

let me go
before i'm ready
-your turnstile attraction


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

He tells me: 'I opened a door
so you could express yourself.
The damage was already done'.

Suddenly, odd things become
important like roses and youth.

He ignores drops of blood
falling from from tear ducts
like shiny red pearls.
I ignore his scowl.

Reveling in pain, he confuses solstice
with searing; complains about heat passing by.
His eyes are muddy as forbidden soil
a hard poison of nightmares and betrayal
rambling about lofty visions and silky dreams.

But bones break
sinews lengthen
revenge deepens.

And always, after the cracking:
'What does it feel like to break?'
he asks. I tell him: 'First, the melting--
volcanoes erupt inside dividing all the petrified
parts in search of the last hard rock
clinging to sanity and passion'.

He waits for the finish, but there's no ending.
I'll never rest: 'Sorry, the riddle is Universal
and you've been chosen to solve it'.
He beams proudly.

Eyelids fall like iron curtains.

---

'sweaterpointing'--d.e.h.

my sweater points at you
hope you feel the prick

hips sway your way
thighs easy on the eyes
are heaven in the hand

I cock my head
bat dark long lashes

Your eyes grow large

as other things
begin to swell


If you're in denial
or just can't face
this poem is over
here's an
alternate ending:
it wasn't my fault
blame it on the sweater

---

Flight Record::Operation Alpha/Omega

(prompt: Tom's 'Badland Guardian')

Day One:
Whirling clime, clustered clouds
I'm small on a mountain top
watching humans fly with man made wings
flesh and bone are brave; wings, beautiful
I hear rushing noise--great mechanism like a large fan
steel blades blow wind and power
keep the courageous alight
glide through the day, glow at night
First development of written language
Solar atmosphere: darkness follows light
Questions: Does everyone fly?
Answers: None

Day Two:
Transportation to another world
here there's intellectual engagement
I see both birth and destination of flyers
With abnormal burn patterns, terrain
is hard dry mud, dusty, nondescript
Atmosphere: light follows light
Questions: How many watchers?
Answers: None

Day Three:
Man in awe appears at my side
I'm shouting at him, he can't hear
He gapes at me, glances this way
looks right through human flesh (mine)
A second man appears
His question stuns: is this prison, the camps?
Clear verbal language is developed
Atmosphere: darkness follows darkness
Questions: Does humanity disappear?
Answers: None

Day Three:
I begin fashioning wings
Charting my course, design a direction
prepare ground for take off
Measure depth and length
There are concave electrical distractions
floating scrap metal slices impact other pieces
sounds like cathedral bells
Musical cognizance arrives
Atmosphere: light follows sound
Receive first message: prepare for end
Questions: Is this real?
Answers: None

Day Four:
I'm flying heavenward
toward my destination
I lengthen arms, stretch fingers
experience freedom, auto-liberty
Empathy is installed
I see and understand suffering
in creatures below, appearing as ants
Light kindles in real time, delivered
Colors inherently mix, also delivered
At once, the mundane is overcome
Fear is deciminated
Atmosphere: light follows darkness
Questions: Will it last?
Answers: None

Final Day:
What appears to be an alien flight
heads toward mate-ship
like the lightening of visual drums
or deployed solar arrays
Mate ship enhances discovery
and study of oral history
Atmosphere: sound follows color
We have seen the beginning
Will prepare for the end

Transformation successful
Silence has been significant:
Armies gather


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

O wise Shepherd!
Thou hast herded the swine and the cow
Thou hast mounted and been mounted

Thy harp hast strummed Thy mottled tune
Thou hast gathered sheep
Thou hast slapped the flank
Poked the hole

Thou hast hung Thy strap
Round necks of unbridled maidens
Thou hast pricked Betsy the milk-cow
Goaded Lily, the tender lamb
O Cowboy! do not leave Thy flock just now!

All-seeing Vaquero!
Thou hast wrangled with wolves
Protected thy herds, punched the bull
Busted the fox, tormentor of hens

Thou art surely a Rough Rider!
Thy great range a vast field
Where thou hast bred with the best
And still so many left!

O Buckaroo! lay not down Thy handy horn
Thou canst rest!
Thy cattle and sheep,
Thy hens and bulls
In adoring suspense, await only Thee.


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

beguiled
by our own fantasies
we become architecture

peel-away eel skin
swimcaps in green pea
wetsuits shiny and red

totally slick
on our way to delirium
fresh art and fresh skin

our audience a gallery
the shine and glitter
of hoodoo eyes


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

Before you tell me what I've done wrong; allow me
to apologize. Please, consider justice and listen. My defense
is that my inner eye is blurry with worry--conjunctive apparitions,
surprise evidence against my crime, which is always to appease
you, and to relieve your anxiety, your comfort my distraction--
the door I attend. Allegiance to you guards my inhibitions,
for with too many words, I'm profound

yet a voice unlike satiny satire is savory, proper for
your demands, flawlessly insane, suspicious, clandestine--
an astounding inner dialogue, forbidden surplus society
disdains--I'm adverse to fit in, ascertaining my innocence
an affinity for seclusion, agony a cruel and gazing crony
in elaborate fabrications of factions which impute mutiny on
my bounty, a perception I defend, with your stalwart security
unfolding with openhand, here's my guilt and propitiation.

I know what you're thinking. Before the mountain moves
remember my mind is opportune to accept your oration; you
marshal these thoughts of verbal ruminations within your
mosque of magic and macabre. Do consider my ascension.


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

Some of us stoop
by exposing flaws.

Some stoop
with a hi-five
a good ole boy
because we can.

Some levitate
in silence.


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

Social networking crisis:

at 9:30 pm, next Friday
I'll be with a man
in a hot tub
surrounded by the scent
of Honeysuckle tendrils

hanging so low from Solar Panels
that we can suck the sticky sweet
honeydew from the stamen
as we pull it gently from the pistil

along with frosty
Champagne glasses
of Pinot Meunier
and huge, ripe strawberries
dipped in rich, thick chocolate.

The last time I was in a Jacuzzi
I pressed all the buttons
gripped all the knobs
played in the froth and bubbles
and felt the hard spray
of hot water on my skin.

I've never been with a man
alone in a hot tub before.



Crisis passed.


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

This is halloween
I'm not scared
Are you scared
There are spirits out there
wishing we were all scared
but if we show them we're
not, we'll win one more time.


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

List Poem

with your silvery-white angel's hair
with your curls natural as an apple skinned
with your lips the shade of your shoes
with your nails the color of your handbag
with your math skills like Einstein
with monetary generosity a discount
with your proper snub at the proper time
with your memory vanishing...vanishing
with your greatest need, denial


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

When Daddy died, I was speechless,
and sad. I saw the birth of babies,
and tiny humans yet in the womb.

Those short eternal glimpses contained
all the different ways I'd looked at life--
and none of them included death.

Daddy was strong and his presence
grew bright; and at the perfect time,
revealed my unknowing--
that the living are made complete
in death.


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

you travel through your day
as if days were slick tunnels
custom designed for you

casually, you drop by
offering me a pail of water
I can dangle my feet in,
with water so warm
it never freezes

all of it,
a causeway
for stimulation

from nothing more
than a two-fingered
pull of my wrist--

the risk
in knowing you

once the truth erupts
between us
the risk
will be yours

---

I meet this lady on Tuesday
(well I think she's a lady
though she looks like a man
maybe even she doesn't know
what she is
underneath those clothes):

she says
people say
'that's a man'
inside this scraggly robe

she remembers the baby she carried
when he was born
he had 12 heartbeats
weighed 12 pounds
she was on Thorazine
3 times a day
no wonder I've been transformed

her son was murdered in Little Rock
she has all the scars to prove it
they threw his body in the sewer
and the sewer blew up
I guess he showed them
in the end


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

Curled in a ball
with the lights off
I wait
until the ripples smooth
from the stone you skipped
across my placid sea
as delicate as glass
breaking
 
and I wonder if I have
any foundation at all.


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

head won't hit
the pillow tonight
lay it down softly
don't disturb the tears
no tears

hear the whisper
make your point
sharp puncture

joy wounds
no tears


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

wooden door opens
grandfather's clock

anxious until midnight
blueback rendezvous
waiting
 
twelve and twenty-four
hours-- (can't endure anymore)
door locks between
writing on the wall
and misinterpretation

wounds don't heal
or sate vengeance


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

wear red silk he said
show me what I can't see

invisible blindfold
hypnotizing fire ball
the sun sets
beyond a window pane
as if balancing on the horizon

think of everything
already taken from you

his dark silhouette stares
squints toward her
and a back-drop of light

but for now
enjoy your freedom

splotches on the front
of a red silk blouse
she unbuttons
the crimson weave
falls off her shoulders
hangs loosely
held up by nothing
but willingness


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

john-john says
come home with me
i nod
nuh-uh

at his crib
with a tatoo kit:
jar of body frosting
apple seed flavor
paintbrush
reusable
three stencils:
rose bulb
roman snail
caviar
i paint
my poison
under his
umbelico erotico
and
eat my words
the
second time


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

These fields you ride are mine
though there are others
'Tis a pity you return
 because you've no place to go

Should you enjoy, take care of them
They've grown and changed

You travelled here
 on my back--
now you're here at my side
a parasite
 hoping to stay alive

You ask so many questions
I answer every one:
 a horse won't learn--
a stallion is stubborn at show--
 perhaps a muzzle is appropos


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

tip your hat, pop your collar
pour your gin, twist your lime
I'm not playing tag
-you can't touch

you can chase, you can follow
but I'm not your leader
hide and seek this is not
what you need you won't find
in a lost and found closet

late night phone calls
digi-rotica mean nothing
erased soon by
windows xp and hotmail
along with your msn
nickname on messenger

no more bedtime stories
or whispers good night
go find your real mom
it won't be my hand
rocking your cradle

mix your own drink
this time lime isn't twisted
it's gin


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

She arrives like LA
bourbon hidden
behind her back

Leather boots, tight
jeans, tall bamboo
heady and lean

Obscure gestures
muddy speech
clear in the bayou

In a full tilt defense
her synaptic sashay
escapes foreign hands

Wary and wired
like a soldier's attention
near daybreak

Transfixed and off limits
she's trapped by
her own propaganda


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

She arrives like LA
bourbon hidden
behind her back

Leather boots, tight
jeans, tall bamboo
heady and lean

Obscure gestures
muddy speech
clear in the bayou

In a full tilt defense
her synaptic sashay
escapes foreign hands

Wary and wired
like a soldier's attention
near daybreak

Transfixed and off limits
she's trapped by
her own propaganda


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

a field withers
fuzz of dandelions
flies in every direction

nothing's left that isn't black and hard
my brain is stony ground
sick of pretense

don't dare say
this is easy

don't placate me
let rock swallow rock
let stone meet stone

this is vile
so say it

hideous so let it be
don't speak of what could've been
above all don't tell me
it was a only a misunderstanding


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

we were brave
we were ferocious
slaying snakelets
and scaring the neighbors

queen leviathan
rising from her pit
had given birth
it was our fate
to save the 'hood

shoot, ma is only 86
I'm lurking 'round
the edge of
half centuries--
we've got it made

grass snakes,
corals and kings
beware

slayed the first
neophyte
with my car tires

when the second one
appeared
out of nowhere
on concrete
in the carport
from sunlight
to shady damp
ma panicked
hoist a hoe
grab a broom
wield a rake

it's obvious we will
give up our naps
to save the planet

hatchlings from
every bed and nest
within garden tool range
slither out to visit the sun

time to bring in the big dogs:
Animal Control
those proud men
in flashy gray uniforms
(brave but deceived--
we would never tell)
'ma'am, earthworms are healthy'

chubby and fat
long and slimy
parade of snakes
disguised as earthworms
return to soil

---

feed us,
and with kisses like licks
we're on your trail
for a taste
of your skin

if you love us
we break in humiliation
and toss pride to the trees
like a Frisbee.


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

two and three:

play with us, pet us
rub us, please us

we'll sulk
and whimper
when we don't win
your attention

play with us
and we'll never replace
our favorite bone


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


spent three days
with my son at his house
in the woods

slept on a downy pillow
and feather mattress

between flannel sheets

with a pattern of
little cowboys and horses

never felt
so cared for


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

he talks to me
like I understand
what he's saying

he stamps his initials
on the freckle of my
left ass cheek

then, of all things
he comes inside me
with his arms stretched out
like Christ on the Cross

gathers up my insides
tears them all apart

superglues them back together
and writes comfort
on my nerve endings


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

Each morning,
I bend
in front of the mirror
to make sure
my cleavage
is neither deep
nor available.

               A woman may be mindful of rules
               and well acquainted with morality...

Three turns
in front of the floor length
assure 
all pantylines
are concealed.

               but for a woman who lives a quiet life
               amid empty spaces, coupled
               with a missing beau--
               such things do little good
               for one
               with untamed blood.

Three gold bobby pins
match my hair,
place curls
atop my crown.

---

Dusty Lightbulb (unedited)     

In 1998, she drove a new, cherry-red Mitsubishi Eclipse with the tallest spoiler she'd ever seen.  She wanted it because maybe for once she thought she deserved a bright little sports car.  He bought it for her because he knew his wife was thinking about leaving him.  He'd do anything to keep her there ... under his thumb.
 
     In 1984 he invested in his own business of supplying rock bands with flashy stage-lighting.  Using ten thousand dollars worth of equipment on a couple of gigs, he made a few dollars;  too busy using bright lights on his own gigs.  In the long haul, all she seemed to gain was more of him, less of her, and destroyed credit.  Both had better salaries than most of their friends.  But they were broke and had nothing to show for a hard day's work.
 
     In 1991, after seven years of sweating blood and sleepless nights, she produced a flawless credit report.  Now, proud husband and wife felt they deserved a new home.  He built it with the knowledge he gleaned in his successful career -- the one he nurtured as she gave up visions of a future she could call her own.
 
     Under the dimming of his own bright lights, he could still sing as well as anyone famous -- played guitar and piano by ear.  He knew it too, complaining constantly how much better he was than whoever he was listening to ... never knowing music has a heart and soul.  One thing he didn't know was, if you don't have it, you can't fake it.
 
     Church crowds were good to him, seldom witnessing such talent:  ooooooing and ahhhhhing at the tall, good-lookin' rock singer-wannabe-turned gospel singer ... like a cutout cardboard movie star.  So many pesters fell for his cheerful disposition, his good looks, and his strong voice, he began to believe he was "anointed" and "opened the heavens" when he praised and worship a God he only knew by name.  At least that's how his wife felt.  Guilt nipped at her heart when her little boy and girl wondered how Daddy could be so religious and drink four six packs of cheap beer every night.
 
     "Trust me", he would always tell her when the look in a woman's eye didn't seem quite right, "you're too jealous and paranoid.  I can't help it if women like me".  So, she did.  It would almost be her death sentence.
 
     Years later she trusted a fine piano player and singer -- her best friend.  She'd met her in church, and worshiped God to the lovely and veiled music of her husband and her best friend.
 
     In the minds of every one but his wife, and behind closed doors,  at feigned meetings he called "practice", this starry-eyed husband and his wife's best friend fell in love; or believed they did.  When all was said and done, hate ruled and destruction conquered. 
 
     One self-centered ego exposed the other, but the damage and desolation would neither be healed or repaired.  No recompense for two families shattered by pride, and exciting chemicals soaring through the veins of two adults bored with life and commitment.
 
     The little red Mitsubishi and the new house they'd built together didn't mean much to her anymore -- the one who'd struggled to do was right, for the happiness and contentment of her broken family.
 
     In 2005 she would survive the death of a marriage, and her father, after taking care of his cancer riddled body.  She knows, now, where the term "empty nest syndrome" came from.  Her heart aches everyday for the years of failure she can't forget, and can't forgive herself for.  There are short moments she doesn't feel alone, until the phone rings and reminds her that she watches over her mom, now in her eighties, can't remember much of anything, and "what was it you told me about what's-her-name yesterday?  Or was it last week ...".  But she will always love her Mom.  She understands her so much better now.
 
     Only one lamp is on out of the three lights still working in her apartment.  It's not that she can't afford little things like electricity or tissue paper.  She just doesn't care.  She stares at the dust gathering on thin, dull glass, and knows why bright, flashy lights don't mean a thing, when in the end all that remains is one light bulb ... dusty with neglect.
 
 
cl 2005


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

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

"I'll be your only candy store.
     I have it all and so much more."
He agreed: 
     "You are
     precisely what I need!".
But I guess he forgot, because
having sealed the deal
I was serving only one
everything under the sun,
and soon my former customers
began to slowly disappear.
Yet I was going broke.
You see, he had no special
need for me --
I was not the only one
after all was said and done.
He was searching high and low
for more than a Candy Store;
for more than just one
with everything under the sun.
I was not his only sugar tree;
not his favored sweets-for-free.
And the treat he failed to see
was the gift I gave for free:
I was giving him all of me.
So when I had nothing
left in reserve, and though
my needs were not absurd
I came too easily
for the customer who agreed
he would buy from only me.
 
 
cl 2004
unedited

---

storm rising
waking you at midnight
wet and tired with sweat
watered-down for me
you are my salty-sea
 
lightning bolt
striking from behind
sending climactic moments
electric spoken words
in color for you to see
 
eyes peeping
shadows long and weeping
where you hide your
needs beyond repair
on your knees in disarray
waiting to hear you say
you want me anyway
 
ears hearing
thoughts interferring
with your life
the way it should be
and i can't disregard it
that i own a place
and mine is the face
in your reality

---

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

and the brass couplet
around her slender neck
wouldn't, couldn't compare
to the shine of fantasies
entwined around her tender
soule like a golden rope
weaving its way
through a millenium

---

---

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

'Well hell girl.  I wish for once you'd wear something that makes me figure what I'll do for you, instead of to you.'

'Huh?'   Callie glances down at her almost too thin body, covered threadbare in black, and green the color of what Spearmint gum tastes like.  She looks back up at Zee.

'Gawd, I hate clothes, old man, and you know I'm gonna wear as little as possible, long as I can get a way with it.'

'Ppffftttt....'   Zee grips his tongue between his lips and teeth, like a whistler. 

'Tee shirt's as thin as grandpa's hanky, and green lace underwear?  Shit, don't play innocent with me'.

'...been a bad week.  Besides, doing to and doing for, ain't much different between friends, eh?.'  She smiled wishing she could love the young man she called 'old man'.  But, like Aunt Tooney says, when you can't love someone, you just can't.  That's all there is to it.

'Yeah I know.     How 'bout we do a little something downright odd tonight?  Something kinda like all them books you read.  Maybe give you something real to write about,'  Zee winks.

'Somethin real like really real?'   He's so sweet, she thought.  And goodness, he makes love like a redwinged eagle on top a polecat. 

'Okay.  What cha got in mind?  And why'd you bring that fancy-lookin suitcase, hot stuff?  It's too flat for sleepin clothes, underwear and a razor.  Soap-on-a-rope?'  Callie giggles just a little.

'Oh, just stuff.'

Callie's heart beats loudly in her ears     and skips        and skips again.

Like a backwoods boy careful with a butterfly, Zee opens the leather briefcase and pulls out silk scarves and candles.  Scents of wood, rain and Town Vu Lake on cool mornings, fill her bedroom--fragrance the perfect weight, in colors that stead'ly occupy a woman's mind.

Callie remembers a story she read, of late, to Zee, about a woman all tied up in silk, by a man in a suit, like a long tall glass o'water poured out:
ankles and wrists
pleasure or pain
in shock or dream?


Trance-like, Zee transforms. 

Maybe it's a shadow from the candlelight hypnotizing me like one of grandma's voodoo love spells, Callie thinks to herself.

Zee plugs in a brand new CD player shaped a half-circle.  Instantly Callie hears music mysterious and mystical, at the same time;  kinda like an Indian chief might sing to his bride--soft but masculine voices murmuring lazy lyrics.

'This music reminds me of the secrets you tell, Callie:
candle wax drips
in one hard spill

one long lick
(over and...)

rhythm beats
and rhyme

repeats itself
(...over again).' 

---

impatience
barks, roars, screams
hurts like lashes under her skin
feelings tightly strung

pride wounds with
a price to pay

there's no worm
in her apple
when the bickering's over

she scoops empty
holes out of his insides
with her hands
he runs through her fingers
like water

when the lashes
soften, she carefully
gives them to him
her price is fair when
trust is there


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

This is like your own genre you're inventing, Cheryl, these dark love scenarios where the individuals have been partly freeze-dried out and what's left are golem performing their lovemotions in front of them. Something compelling and illicit about them.


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

your "love" poems, if you want to call them that, never ever fall into the "i love him, he doesn't love me, boo-hoo" type of crap one usually sees.  these are dark and different.  certainly worth exploring further.
jy
p.s.  look up the 1920 Expressionist film by Paul Wegener...The Golem.  that's the golem that comes to mind when someone mentions Golem. 


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

---

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

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

Briony starts her walk
down the long dark road
away from home for good,
Uncle Tom's Cabin tucked
under her forearm
against her hip.

She knows what it means
to feel the evil presence
of someone even when
he's not around.

She knows you don't
have to be black
to feel it and
you don't have to be
Harriet Beecher Stowe
to write about it.


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

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A young girl's life
is changing
because
she stayed up
all night
and read Uncle Tom's Cabin.
There she was,
inside that book.

Briony has one maxim:
the bad will always be bad
the good will always be good.
She doesn't know
if someone else said it.
She's saying it now.

Mistaking comfort
for infatuation,
she married
an angry distant man
like her father.
He felt warm
when he held her.

He mistook it too,
but backwards.
When she didn't
know it, he did.

There are details
of control
and domination,
submission
and degradation.
All of them
are Briony.

Yet don't divide
her into parts or groups.

The maxim, with
no limits, exceptions
or qualifications,
gives her hope.
The example is Briony.

No one is like her.
Her Sunday School teacher
tried to teach her
but she never believed it.

Such things were just
someone being nice
to someone poor
in need of everything.

Back then even the best
couldn't make disadvantaged
look like advantaged.

Now she believes it.

---

I'm losing time
in the underworld
with stairwells flying
up down, I revel
in landscape

when the elevator
falls thirteen floors
I lose my footing
in hollow echos
of a another life

toting baggage
and veneer decor
in iron trunks
and steel cages

I'm an empty coin purse
like the books I borrow
for nothing
a pretense of artistry
in bands of violins
gypsy's gypsum jewelry

a still life smitten
like icebergs on the dock
the bay is melted
I land among the living
my blood is at peace
and warm


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

There are times

There are times
a person can't

There are times
a person can't
write a poem
 
There are times
a person can't
write a poem
because the truth






will slip out.


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

There's something about
lying down on Downy fresh sheets
breathing in lavender and baby lotion
rockin' on with Rhiannon and Mick Fleetwood
the same guy who rocked you through
cleaning house after a good workout
to the latest Sexercise DVD

then here comes that pain
on your lower right side

your breathing isn't
slowing fast enough

you take your pulse
and it's 110

and then there's....

---

---

it seems hard
waiting to dance

where's the dancer now?

if tried again
would I remember how?

when is the bow and fall
from the choices made?

no one tells me
what to do

hard to dance the right dance
listening for familiar tapping
the tick-tocking of chimes

I remember how

---

instructions for remembering how (by tiko)

remove the
shards from
your hands
your neck
your torso
your ears

soothe with
the warmed
wax of
bees

and decanted
wine

feel the
dance
pull

through your
loins
and fingers

the dimples
in your
hind

slide
slide
slide

into the
dance

written by ~tiko~

---

Decanting

older, red wine needs decanting
so does a woman
if she is older

sediment, grape skins, enzymes
need to settle to the bottom
of the decanter, then you
pour from the top layer

a woman needs to settle
then you may have her very best

can see why decanted wine
is good for a bruised soul
it's pure and it breathes

wounded femininty
needs room to heal
to breathe, to taste the air

---