mutation

all the rovers have become divers
all the merry maids in divers situations
are come to their ends in intricate ways
the hems of their garments falling short
of their plans, the hopes
of a privileged few fall to the masses
each wanton phrase passed from pop to son
enough to get the damage done
plenty well enough to bring the mama to justice
leaving her alone with every memory of trains
driving through her head with
the ferocity of the years
crashing into her dreams without cause

Saddle up

It started yesterday
as I went through my chores
my lists
working and doing
my thoughts got lost in hoof beats

Someone shook me
to get my attention
what is this dark, this shadow
that makes its way through my brain
with a will of its own? And later

during dinner, the pounding
that I perceived to be my own heartbeat
again, riders of another world traversing
my thoughts without consent
my concentration and my focus
comminuted as they picked up speed-

Why?

I am no one-a poor girl with dreams
it is hard enough to sift the toothsome
dreaming from the nightmares
but now I must try to harness them
in my waking hours
and I am not capable

I don’t have that sort of cunning
to put the bit in the mouth and keep reins
taut, to bring the thoughts back
to what I wanted, what I will
these convoluted desires

these wishes become goals
and they ride on, with no thought
the night is coming
and I will be trampled

 

 

 

falling asleep delirious from sickness
suddenly upon me on a cool foggy morning
I dreamt there was a bee around me
frantically trying to catch it as one
might cup a firefly in the palms
then realizing I could get stung I told myself
open your hands open your hands it will sting you
but they didn’t move for anxious moments
feeling the wings flutter the fat yellow black body
against my skin finally the sides of my hands
unglued I pulled them apart
and the bee hovered then flew

Twisted candy

I saw us
as chocolate and cherry
but over time
we are
Lemonheads and black licorice
sour and bitter
just enough sweet
to keep you on my mind

and every time it rains
we melt a little more
hold on baby
it is going to get
slippery
each dream
a place to get traction
if we do not let go

do nightmares chase us into day

sunrise plus seagul

the sky changes
from black to blue
layers of cobalt and cerulean
over flames afar off
my horizon burning off a nightmare
that chased us through the night

running for home
over sooty streets
we were not overcome by the dark
aquamarine dancing with apricot
thoughts of the new day
hopes that the sun will ignite us

for we have become
day sleepers over time
all of our late-80’s hopes
riding on blue and grey clouds
whilst melon and tea rose
slice the sky

What’s it gonna be



The images have all but faded
from my body of work
the proverbial sex buffet
they call life, that smorgasbord
of longings, dreams, and
anticipations

You were born out of September
like a newborn baby dinosaur
all hands and teeth and craving
wind chimes outside the window
apologizing for the weather
small insistent cymbals

Let it not be said
I cannot forgive-haven’t I
lived on this bed of nails
for years-cycling ’round
Lenore and Jane
save me once more

Like weekenders-we put life up
in the garage-on blocks
every day is Monday now
and no break in sight
in the eye of the twister
in this alien land

Do you fear the fire

(2015)

For Mom

Walking through the woods
you spoke of fire.
Of course I had noticed it
the lack of green
the scent of the foray
of pitiless flames
and the ash beneath our feet.

A dream, perhaps, upon
opening my eyes and
seeing your feet again
walking amongst the flames
a frantic dance for life
and after, the renovation
your attempt to cover it up
with a smile and a flower.

I was so happy to see something
colorful, blooming, my jaw
went slack – when the flower fell
from where you had taped it
to the scorched vine.
Yes, you fooled me
this little comfort of red petals
among the endless black.
“But black is your color.”

Black was the color of cool,
and calm in a time when I
could not settle myself. Tailor-made
for me, the crisp lines of black silk
and white cotton was enough
to blur the smudges of
soot on your cheek and forehead.

I was not there for you.

Here, let me.
And grabbing at the rose, I
moved too quickly, the thorn
piercing my finger
a reminder to wake up.
“You have blood on your
shirt”, you said, “wake up.”
There is work still to be done.

Was I dreaming

The morning is alien
was it a dream?
I slept in London in 1944
stumbling over broken up streets
past bombed out houses

I woke in the Colosseum
surrounded by lions
blinking and unable to see
dust in my eyes hair mouth
roar of the crowd in my ears

the door leading back outside
opened up to Ethiopia –
the want and cares
of day to day existing
beating against cracked earth

I wandered until finding
a patch of green
and falling back to sleep
I woke up here this morning
the air alien
and frightening