Every day

I open a vein here
I said I wouldn’t, I promised that
I could write in public, and give you much of me, and
show you my heart–but there is a line, was a line, a supposéd line
over which you can have all of it except my blood

When the words begin, I only intend to give you a peek at my insides
an x-ray of what I’ve been up to, and how life’s pommels
perturb my organs, my inner workings, the processes of the body;
so how come I woke up in a puddle of blood after a night of quill driving?
I didn’t mean to, and like a moment where one’s pants fall down in a crowd

I would be obliged if you would turn your head for a moment
while I clean this up. No one else will know, or will see
they were not looking, they have their circus tents
their center ring features, the lion tamer is spectacular
so they will not notice the movement among the freaks in the shadows

Again, these rules, more like guidelines, a peek only, into my psyche
enough to pacify the ego, too little to shock the masses, but only to touch
one or two, someone in need of a buddy, a mate, to know
that they are not alone in this;
and I hurt too and I laugh too and I have joy
when the hurt abates for the time being

But the blood is not on the menu. and when you look away,
I take my handkerchief and wipe the corner of my mouth


I took the Christmas tree down

I am sharing this out of season, an Easter poem I wrote a few years ago, as we were adjusting to our empty nest.

I wanted to share it with Harry Miller at Yellow Crane in the Rain. You should visit his blog. This is one of my favourite posts:

Are You Thrilled

on Holy Thursday, because I promised it would not be there
to look at on Easter morning. Dinner, notwithstanding
the ham and sweet potatoes would resemble our Christmas dinner
our eyes on the lovely tree in all its glory
the ornaments shiny and calling out to us, rejoice-celebrate-

Though now they mock us-drinking a toast to grandmas deceased, and
burn the roast and put out the candles, but they have no right
to judge us, those self-serving props of Santa Claus
on that holiest of holy days to look at our slips and slights, and
tell the neighbors, look their lights are up past epiphany

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Love letters

Love letters?
Sure I love them
how they meet
and merge
Even the Q
Though less
accommodating than others
like me
some days

you push your way
inside me
hot and pulsing
every word
melded with mine
a new being
glowing outward
from my eyes

the danger being
that such volatile
might melt, and
seep into the blood
until I am no longer
me but us
some kind of animal
words for eyes

making your brain my home

we are committed now to this journey through each others’ minds–
we took the steps and there is no backwards, no backward steps
until we reach the end, we’ll see it through to the end
of knowing you and stealing your thoughts, until I understand your miseries–
feeling you snake through my head at times tickles, sometimes squeezes hard
in those spots where it is narrow, where I booby-trapped the entrance
every tragedy covered in shame and pushing out the light–
could you just feel your way around, feel your way about the place
so that I might have comfort and warmth where you find
Antarctica, so I could have piles of skins and a blanket of care
your wild passions and tanks against the battlements of a weary mind–
and I walk-a-bout your head because you let me, and make it my home
for a little while, make it feel like home until I know you so well
I will conveniently forget where the doors are, forgetting
the front door and also the back

Palms up

The storm is not coming
it is here
it is not on the horizon
it is in the backyard, and at the front door, and
we all share a piece of this body of work
the proverbial sex buffet called life
a smorgasbord of longings dreams
and anticipations

Sometimes selfish, keeping the good stuff
protected and wearing well over time
close to the vest, while others bear the burden
of daily sacrifice
born out of a giant clock
like a newborn baby dinosaur
all hands and teeth and craving
wind chimes at every window
small insistant cymbals
buffer, muffler, white noise

Let it not be said I cannot forgive
but to give
haven’t I lived on this bed of nails
for years–cycling round
I look to Lenore and Jane to save me once more
precious pages upon pages of the stalwart

At the door, always ready with Halloween treets
sending the costumed ones away
when they have had their fill
then locking up tightly
nailing the shutters
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