February 27, 2007

Something Old, Something Blue


Rounding The Woman

We spoke of Oklahoma skies, blue
scribbled with children's clouds
and the Marlboro man that broke her tender
angel wings; his dusty boots under the edge
of his teen bride’s bed.

I was lost for the afternoon, dreaming
of the grass in waves, the ranch hands
dusted with sweat and the scent of horses.
Washboard roads, well traveled
by beat up red trucks and country tunes,
jangling the dog perched in back.
I can smell it there.
Hear the slow lazy dance of the land
that forms the men and women
into the stock they are.

I had said to you
I was raised around horses,
but I left out
the heartbeat that goes with
being a cowboy;
foaling time, breaking time.
The grass is thigh high
in the mountain meadows
when the stallions are rounded
and sired to the best, (only the best).
Your stallion was like that;
seeing you
(his blue eyes fringed with faded lashes)
standing by the ring, your hand
raised to ward of the sun.

Perhaps you wore that same expression
slipping it on over your disappointment
during his bootless sex making,
you listening for the sound of love
to walk in
across the wide plank floor.
He saw you like that and knew
you were something he needed to round
and break, greedy for your eagerness, the bit
(never metallic) in your mouth
reminding you he was master.

I was lost for that afternoon
(thank you)
in your graceful Oklahoma
thinking of all the beautiful poems
I would not write, but that you
will sing from your fingers

February 26, 2007

And I thought of you....

This Thing Not Mistaken For

Parting my lips (cherry
petals against the pale
of my eyes) you said

(pressing me down)
surrender to this open jaw
of lust, give in
(your sex so loud in my ears)

you hurt (you coaxed out
the mewing of sensation)
with your passion:
all bruises fade to this color,
the color of the suit you wear

(fuck you, I am not
your business
fuck the frost shell
from my skin instead

(your sex has no dominion
but the open maw of this
exchange does

In spent sheets we survey
the mess (not
love, this word
spoken, a
foreign country)

(you say
this as afterthought)
you have a pretty cunt.

(Lust spent, my eyes
no longer have any color
you care to name.)

February 25, 2007

To Blooming....

There are times when I feel guilty… not posting here. Times when I worry that each of you readers drifts away, leaves on an un-loyal breeze.

I do write though. Constantly. Sometimes only in my head… on scraps of paper, post it notes, in the car, here… in digital font.

The problem is this…

There are times in my life where I insulate myself, pulling into my internal world so sharply it seems sudden and foreign. I am sure that there are signs. A sign post we miss on the way. Usually it is this time of year when I stink of the indoors and crave the open fields of snowdrops and sunshine. I am sick of myself. Sick of the mediocrity of and hypocrisy of my work. The mundane to and fro of it all. The childish games my coworkers play. Tired of the road rage on the highway, the sheer panic people put themselves through, but for what?

It’s time for spring. And then we get snow this weekend. (What the hell?)

J. mentioned going away for the weekend to the Island. I had visions of the sand harsh wind of Tofino, cutting through the grime of my winter shell. Cutting down to skin, abrasive and alive. Revealing the fresh pink skin of promise. I almost could go swimming if it would steal my breath and make my skin tingle. You must know that feeling…

As a child I loved the water. Sneaking off on that first hot spring day to wade into the creek (against my mother’s warnings) coming home soaked and muddy. The cold was so deep it hurt to the bone. Then, numb, it would fade to an afterthought… if only until the walk home.

It is time to start running again. Time to find new paths, new inspiration. Time to climb out of the deep hole I have dug myself in. The insulation of love and domesticity… a false security.

This is what women forget when they couple. You cannot sleep, life does not allow for it. We must be a doe in the forest of our lives, constantly alert, smelling the breeze for change. If we sleep too long, life continues its evolution until we are slowly left behind. A relic of the vital we once were. Happiness makes us soft and forgettable. We even forget to remember ourselves.

Be a frozen lake, the dead lawn, the lilac tree stripped bare. Under that shell, there is life. Vital. Memorable.

It is time to unfurl..

It is time to feel the sting of living.


February 19, 2007

Beauty in the Breakdown

Each morning, something new.

It could be the force of the rain obliterating the view ahead of me, the mad rush of tires and brake lights… or the more mundane beauty of sunrise.

Gray clouds, orange sun.
Woman walking with an umbrella and green gumboots.
Children huddled under a tree almost as big as them.
The flashing ruby red of the train crossing.
New calves, shocking black and white against the drab grey of a barn.
Pink sky, blue mountains.
Streaming fog curling over a hip of mountain, a cigarette of smoke against a lovers skin.
Filtering light through the skeleton of a tree, casting beams of it’s branches on the morning commuters.
Red car, blue car, black car, silver car, navy and gray, tan and green. Each holding in it’s own story, encasing private thoughts and morning mayhem. I had cheerios. What did you have?
Fresh snow on the flanks of Mount Cheam.
Sweet, hot morning coffee. (Not too sweet, never too hot.)
Thirty minutes to observe the world, without it knowing.

As always, there is something beautiful.

I stepped out of my stuffy office building to discover a spring wind, warm and perfumed with danger. If I still had hair to let down, I would have. To whip around my face and flirt with the wind. This is running wind. Pushing you harder, further, faster. This is spring, daffodils are on the way… crocus… lake walks and summer plans.

We have survived the worst of it. Now only the rain to wash away the dull film of sleep from its eyes.

Crocuses. Snowdrops. Tulips.


God, I may burst.


February 14, 2007


"If you do not give the right attention to the one
you love, it is a kind of killing.
When you are in the car together, if you are lost
in your thoughts, assuming you already know everything about her,
she will slowly die."
~ Thich Nhat Hanh