April 25, 2006

From One Pussy to Another...

Who Could Resist, George


What is in a kiss?

Soft as it may be. Sweet and wine scented. There is no rush to deliberate on the greater reasoning. No. There is only the soft ripe apricot of lip, the tender flesh on the inner bite…

A kiss is something dangerous. Overlooked. Such rising tides smash at the shore of my reason under it’s subtlety. I am a fool for the warm ease at which it quickly, quietly, drowns me.

Remember your first? Your last? The one with the slow smile and the agenda hidden under her breastbone? I do. Yes… I do.

She had red hair and wore my perfume. Stole my dresses and filled my bed with her cold feet.

Dangerous kiss. Dangerous slippery slope she pushed me down.

And then this last kiss, tentative. Restrained. A fleeting but tantalizing prelude to the pink flesh that lay behind the girlish capriciousness. I am always a sucker for a secret.

What is in a kiss.

Nothing. Spit and teeth. A flick of tongue. There is no mystery there.

What is the secret it keeps?



April 19, 2006

Something Blue

Pink Petals

She walks out under
the cherry trees
in blossom.

They wave gently
to her passing, petals
falling to supplicate
at her pointed heel.

Gentle green trampled
in the flicker of blond
she fidgets away her prettiness
(this blooming lasts
only for a short time)

Do we envy the fearless
in her smile?
Or is it the turn of her hip
and upturned breast?

The petals drift, snagging
onto the beautiful stasis of youth;
a trembling anticipation
of falling
to middle ground.

See this? Bruise? Scar? This
marking on my body
saying “ I lived my life,
where you are now just walking”
(under that same pink
blossom wedding bower)

Does she hear our eyes
loudly calling out to the wind?


April 14, 2006

Beauty in the Breakdown

This is a Love Poem without Restraint – Lorna CROZIER

This poem
is full of pain
full of pieces
It cries out
oh! oh! oh!
It has no pride
no discretion
It whimpers
It will not drop its eyes
when it meets a stranger
It will not hide
its tears

It will talk
of beauty
Lilacs Apples
The smell of rain
in caraganas
Your mouth
Your eyes

What are you going to do about it?
You cannot stop me

The moon shines on this page
as the poems writes
itself. It is trying to find
frost on snow
two feathers
on a pillow
your hands
my skin

These words are tired
of being
They refuse to sit here
they can’t move
off the page

These are the fist
ones to leave
their white space
They fall
on your tongue
like raindrops

One of them
is my name

What ill you do with it?
It has decided to live
inside you

This poem has no restraint
It will not say
plum blossom
rubbing stone
cat’s cradle

It refused to be evasive

I miss you
I miss you
Come home

I won’t talk of passion
but the sleep that follows
when our bodies

that moment
just before waking
when we realize
we have been holding one another
in our sleep

How do you use the word love
in a poem?


If you look at it
long enough
it will burn your eyes

April 13, 2006

April 12, 2006

Other Windows

Things I Have Forgotten

April 11, 2006

April 10, 2006

What Dreams Are These...

I had this dream…

Music filling the air, liquid and hot… she turns her head to hear it fully, capturing the notes into strings that she can identify. A slight smile on her lips.

And when she turns, the light captures her shadow; pulling it away from her skin to reveal the upturn of her breast, the ripe pillow of her nipple. In her navel is a star, in the dark curl of her hair, dew captures the moon in tiny shards.

The music captures her, turning her back to me… she arcs up, graceful as a sparrow, pausing in mid air. She falls, cleaving the air and vanishes into the darkness.

My heart is pounding. There is sweat beading in between my breasts. I feel afraid and curious.

I will myself back asleep.

What was the music she heard? I hear it too, but not enough to know what it is, a ghost of a song. Why is she naked? Her skin lit blue by the night.

It is a strange dream and I wonder what she means. Or is it just the spring night, teasing me with the sound of rain.


April 06, 2006

Unfurling Tendrils...

Tonight I went running down the backside of my little mountain… the same trail they closed in a February storm due to the dangerous wind-fall. For so long this trail had been the same, cold earth… limp ferns.

When I came around the old gnarled maple the waxy scent of salmonberries gave way to the sharp acid of skunk cabbage.

The creek is running again.

And high above the trilliums blooming rise the cedars, still beautiful.

This spring unfurling always catches me slightly off guard. How sudden and quick. Spring is a woman come undone, shaking her hair out she is exuberant in her chartreuse dress dotted with daffodils.

The kind of woman all the boys want to take under the fresh pink blossoms, the kind of woman others envy for her natural beauty.

There will not be many more runs like this one… soon I will have to find new paths. New and wonderful details. But still, there is this mountain trail. There is the cedar and the salmonberry. There is the dog at the fourth house on the right and the old man who waters his garden every evening. Not gone, just altered.

Pressed here. For remembrance.


April 04, 2006

Other Windows

Carrots ~ Lorna CROZIER

Carrots are fucking
the earth. A permanent
erection , they push deeper
into the damp and dark.
All summer long
they try so hard to please.
Was it food for you,
Was it good?

Perhaps because the earth won’t answer
they keep on trying.
While you stroll through the garden
thinking carrot cake,
carrots and onions in beef stew,
carrot pudding with caramel sauce,
they are fucking their brains out
in the hottest part of the afternoon.

April 03, 2006


Have you ever watched the autumn rush of spawning salmon, their fight against the current; through falls and shallow creek beds, through mountain canyons and under highway bridges? Steady they move, part memory, instinct… another part so primal it is in their very tissue. Red. Gashes of red and in this primal passion they push forward.

The current fights me. Minutes. Days. Weeks. I swim up my river, through the forest of second growth words seeking the dense cedar silence of the old growth. I am hunting for the deepest pool, the clearest and most protected. I want to bury my future in those protective roots growing on it’s banks.

I want to come home.

And Jeff and I are doing that. Building something in the evergreens. Building a future so new it is merely a pinecone waiting for a June fire to set the seeds free.

Forgive my neglect. We have been busy. Today we did something completely monumental for both of us; something that I hope is just the beginning of a wonderful, fruitful life together….

We removed the subjects on the purchase of our house. Half way. We are half way to making it ours.

And we both agree that one of the bedroom walls will be red.