Friday, April 14, 2017

The-mother-bomb



The-mother-of-all-bombs hit Afghanistan,

isn't mother-bomb an oxymoron?

While in a meeting to plan a new poetry collection,
an exciting beginning,

fresh voices to be shared, poems in 12 point font, 
a glossy cover,

to crack my depressed mood, to widen my narrow life,

to distract me from the dark of American politics.

Talk of the call for submissions, start dates, 
stapled versus bound,

decisions made, they seemed important,

until I glanced at my phone, saw the news,

hopelessness is like the-mother-of-all-bombs.



Thursday, April 13, 2017

Dark as a thunder cloud...



My tears swell without release,

like waves tease the shore,

a watched pot refuses to boil.

They marinate my soul,

leak around my edges.

I fidget with anxiety,

bark impatiently,

compassionless.

Dark as a thunder cloud,

a reservoir for another day...



Monday, April 10, 2017

The shape of things



The bonsai tree for artistic contemplation,

the lotus foot to attract courtly gentlemen,

errant branches snipped,

small bones snapped

for beauty's sake.

The well-behaved child does as told,

she molds to the shape of their words,

dreams of the wild and the unnamed.














Thursday, April 6, 2017

dedicated to Albertine Sarazzin



She wrings the fullness from life,

restlessly;

engulfed, devouring,

she licks the sweet, the sweat;

words

to caress the nape,

to choke the breath;

salve to her wounds,

healing to her soul.


Tuesday, April 4, 2017

the word that got away...




Sometimes the simple, the familiar

escape the hard-wiring,

 on the run, secreted,

tickling, tricking.

Praying for neural fire,

seconds drag, minutes frantic,

drowning in blankness, grasping air,

searching for what can be described,

but can not be named.



Monday, April 3, 2017

La parapluie



The umbrella inside out

captures plump drops of rain,

collects them like the change

that clinks in the devotion box,

for votive candles lit, for prayers to god,

unlucky gamblers rolling dice,

hoping for protection from the storm.


Sunday, March 19, 2017

The Gift of the Artist



The struggles to balance

passion and discipline,

the sacrifices to the gods

who exact muchness,

yet bestow a fragile fame,

terrestrial, transient,

to the disillusion

of the looking glass,

smoke, haze, a few too many,

half a breath frosting

a fingertip

in eternity.