Mithuna

Fragments shattered on the rock realign, converge; particles swarming to reconfigure ancient lovers longing to escape Ellora's caves. A ritualized hiatus realized in deep relief, suspension in gaining, having, yearning.

dilapidated-
alabaster crumbling
ground under tourists

A young couple kiss, each pulling their cell phones from their open mouths, and snap self portraits with their erotic backdrop. They return from whence they came, unchanged lovers.

archaeology-
carving future histories
eroding limestone

antlers come and go
hours hopeful seeing nothing
empty-had but lost

sickened failure haunts
robbing the red ritual
of culmination

Rumination

Like an ornament hung from a tree
glittering for a time
betwixt and between
the childlike anticipation
and the bittersweet culmination

I hang
between
the wanting
and the having

for a season
suspended in trees
hiding
in seeking.
Hunting.
























Image compliments of Via Negativa.

Sweet Award

The Sweet Award (bestowed upon me by Lissa of Just Writing Words) requires dissemination. Fun. These are a few of my favorite things:


Filigree
Iridium
Valkyrie
Ecstasy

I'm passing on this sweetness
while a-float on a whiskey river
on my own bibliodyssey
stripped of all but pride
and dreaming in just paisley
while hoping you don't take my wings.

Drivin' and Cryin'

She said she wants to roll with the top down
she said she wants to drink the wind
she wants to feel her skin again.

She got her hand out the window
trying to catch the night
trying to catch the light.

She's drivin' and cryin'
And I'm wondering why?

She said "You know its been a long summer…
and its been real dry."
It was hard to swallow
I caught it in the corner of her eye...
this was our first goodbye.

She's drivin' and cryin'
and I think I know why.
'Cause our four-leafed clover
is over-
our thick October
is over.

I'm still wishing upon your star
playing your number wherever you are.
I'm still trying to catch the lights for you
fillin' up a jar for whenever you're passing through.
I'm still hoping to feel your skin again
but I never learned
how you drink the wind-
how you drink the wind-
how you drink the wind.

Hear it here

Aden

A pirate now, and forever.
Fresh yet familiar
sails on my horizon
seen countless times in the calm
this day
ripe
for the taking
slaking
give rise to wildness
escaping
from bondage forced
by the latest
largess and exile.

Fancy this boarding
and the swinging of ropes
and the spoils and the fire and the fairest
of hostage, of heroine, of heated
decision
forged
in ancient kiln.

You’ll walk it
this plank
at the point of this sword
choose cutlass
or crevasse
of Neptune.
Bound, you will fall
Where I’ll catch you
enthralled
and the sinking will
salt old sails.

The End of November

Draw-
as in draw your guns
as in a last stand
desperado
pistolero
gunfight
high noon.

Draw.
Let me have 'em
both barrels
slugs or sabots,
best shot.
Eye-ballin's over.
Long time comin'.
Saloon's closed.
Girls gone up.

Tumbleweed, tumbleweed
balls blow by.
Dusty.
Dirty.
Draw.

Nordic

rose hips like cherries
powdered milk snow white landscape
punctuated red

herringbone pattern
perpetual gliding slopes
crystallized breathing

Soft Confetti

Momentary euphoria
aspens
birch
oak and beech
letting go
soft confetti
silently
undressing without pretense
because they must.

They will stand, naked.

Can't catch them anymore
or keep them off my floor
resigned to their piling up
at my feet
primary colors shouting
the end
while we exit the garden
aware of our nakedness
and covering ourselves
with leaves.

Appears in Festival of the Trees #30.

Blind Love- A Haiku Trio

hovering above
breasts exposed and glittering
the hush of wing beats

swinging precision
blinking eyes wide behind beads
more than drops raining

upsetting the dawn
dreams reduced to possession
bittersweet having

Sockeye

A dimpled swirl breaks the placidity
of the elbow of the stream
where the tumult and the tempest
the temptation and turbulence
find rest and repose
in the bosom of the meme.

Deep want.
Focused foray
into heaving
into having
into
rhythmic
pulse
reach
haul
lure.

Take.
Taken the fly
swallowed the bait
the swirl reemerges
as a splashing
as a thrashing
red gills
like red rubies
pumping
darkening
in the throes of living
dying
for a hunger.

Hook jawed
played out
hard fought
tailed and
brought
into possession,
the crimson flame dims
and its embers fade
by the moment.

You've had it.
It was reddest in the having
in the taking.
Less vivid now in the had and took
harpooned
by a barbless hook.

Antipathy

She is purging now
reaching past the experiments
the exclamation
points
punctuation
temporary ecstasy
arching
aching
antipathy
followed too quickly
by a reality
that is too lonely
and too far
from Light.

pressing ever northward
aurora borealis
obscured by birch smoke

Skips

And so it goes.
Endless obscurity--
the path to imperceptible infidelity.
And wanting...junkie wanting.
Conundrum.
Or, if this is too close
at too particular a moment,
I may laugh
and shrug
and say "art, art, art."

Except that I have
memories,
and olfactory imprints,
and the skips
of older graceful records.

hornets on apples
cider and goldenrod
in fields our nostrils flare

woven in

Bourbon at midnight
Fish net and a slide trombone
New Orleans full moon

Antique Horns

Painfully aware
of the loss of the bloom.
Bewildered, beware
the size of the room
and a sneaking suspicion
about the price of my stock
and my tenuous position
as a decaying dock
where less ships will moor
less cargo be stored
fewer trips will be taken
the decks ignored
and the price of a cruise
slips out of reach
where there's nothing familiar
at the bar or the beach
but the smell of an old dollar bill...

I will arrive
grown old
my sleek yacht sold
and replaced with
planks
and oars.

I have arrived
as old
still no one's cuckold
and replaced with
pranks
and boors.

Resurrection Fern

Minotaur

Confused the calf could not comprehend
the commotion about his fate,
failed acquiescence
attention and affection,
gilded brutish
bifurcated state.

Released from the shackles
of heavy hammered gold
found his calling
rambling
wandering
mazes
broke
but freely bold.

She wouldn't know what to say
poor Pasiphaë
if she knew the primitive power
of must and mimicry.

Ophelia not withstanding,
smoke and mirrors and heavy sanding
hand holding
and hand wringing
will not a love song make.

The frost and second guessing
plans laid late and false caressing
tacit permission
and undressing
further drive the stake.

So the labyrinth resounds
and beckons still
Stockholm syndrome stirs and fills
the void called hearth
or heart
or home
and the beast will find its rest
among the walls he knows
alone
best.

dews first drops
a fiddlehead fantasy
summer's dying breath

Steeple

Awakened daily by crows
feeding
their avarice
on my lambs.

In steeples
starlings
find refuge
and avoid the perils
and plights
of illegal aliens
and interlocutors.

The bells are silenced
ordinances of peace
for whom?

a flush of life blood
we blush crimson but briefly
and fall to the earth

August Nocturne

There is a certain song
a crescendo peaking
sung by the crickets and katydids
in waning summer, in August
that sounds like a lullaby
but the listeners know it to be
the climax
of a dirge.

They have matured, become old,
and are proclaiming
with all their hearts
the end of the cycle, and
pleading for partnership
permission
parsimony
to begin another.

From their perches in foliage
they watch day by day
the yellowing
the falling
the fading
but sing
in mutual denial
that the blackest of frosts
is coming.

They believe.
They believe in their role
in their miniscule portion
of a cycle larger than themselves
requiring births
requiring rituals
requiring unions
and requiring deaths.
And aside from this
there is eating
and the singing,
and that is all there is.
It is all that is.

We the listeners
the lovers
know it
and recognize its temporal disguise,
having intimacy with secrets and powers
of that which you cannot keep.
Essence of a moment,
repeated periodically
layered with nostalgia
but meaning the same
intangible
uncapturable
fleeting
and eternal.

frequent thunderstorms
unsettled weather patterns
foreshadowed seasons

My Bodhi

Appears in Festival of the Trees #32.

Sleeping Cars

“Dawning” is a weak metaphor
describing subtlety.
No, this is a collision,
the screeching, grinding, screaming
of a train wreck
reeking of its
ruin.

One can go
for miles,
or days across the desert
absent a conductor

murdered

suffocated in the shadows
in secrecy.

Charting a course
by alibis.
Truth hurts
less than lies.
Run away train
in deft disguise.
Wished it could
be otherwise.

In hind-sight the recollection:
too fast through the small villages
the strange looks on fearful faces
the ringing bells
the wide eyes
and hands
crossed
over mouths.

But the passengers wave,
lulled by seduction
of sleeping cars
while the gaping gawkers
anticipate

the end.

The High Goal of Art

“The high goal of art: Simply and gracefully describe experience-knowledge of the world- that we had not known before.”

A quote by John Szarkowski talking about A. Stieglitz in an exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art New York

seeing past our eyes
relying upon the third
knowledge of the cells

Paisley

Skip

Too long
in this liminal state
congestion
in my rite of passage
stuck in traffic
shaking my fist
at fate.

Betwixt and between
when a fish leaps
when a bee stings
when lightening arcs
moments
between moments

not meant to be prolonged.
From the middle note
of the song
we must not find punctuation
but must move on
or skip
or skip
or skip
until gone.

pink heat lightening
jealous firefly flashing
waxing lover's moon

Tool - Schism

I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering, fundamental differing,
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.

I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesnt mean I dont desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication.

The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.

There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
Ive done the the math enough to know the dangers of a second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication

Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any sense of compassion

Between supposed lovers
Between supposed lovers.

And I know the pieces fit.

mute, dumb standing stones
witnesses to human rites
temporary noise

Standing Stones

Never Give All the Heart

Never give all the Heart
W.B. Yeats

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

stuck off shore
choked with life
shallow summer lake

Sense of Place

I stood among crosses
Celtic and catholic
and gave away my compass
sword, and stiletto.

I shook my fist
filled with fervor
and Irish clover
and swore
and swore
that there’d be no more.

Time stood still
as I stared through a veil
and saw a future
braided like a stream.
A delta
many branches
choices
chalices
cups to pass
things come to pass
all of them
all serene.

Oaths on sacred ground
all spilled on sacred ground.

I stood on 11^th and E
Southeast Washington
DC
and admired the utility
of yet another architect
enamored with his own
reflection
and the irony in the courtyard
the swaying “forget-me-nots”
where I watched a man die
in a pool of black blood
before the real renaissance
before there was this place
at the departure
of heart and soul.

There is no sacred ground
only the transience of the profane
and the inhumane
and our spying
on sense of place
reinventing the myth
of “happiness”
which is like “happening”
but worse.

A Hard, Hard Rain

What shall we do, says the
pauper to the princess?
Where can we go
from this dizzying here?
We’ll dance on the precipice
the razor’s fine edge
where one drop
one spill
changes all that is dear
where life is the drama,
when love is the soma
nothing ventured
nothing gained
but fear.

But the marrow is often hardened,
not sweet and easy,
and Thoreau
is in no danger
of sainthood.
Confessions
like rain
are beguiling
and pregnant
full of unction
and unintended
consequences
full of fertility
fecundity
entropy
and erosion
deleterious
dichotomous twins.

Precipitation pacified
made predictable
potable
filtered for consumption
impurities removed
with impunity
whether by osmosis
or carbon
attraction and repulsion
the vectors vanquished
properties improved
the vexes and guilts too.

Precipitates, distillates
settle to the bottom
frost versus snow
winter versus autumn
sludge or detritus
description defies us
love or licentious
the Pharisees will try us
righteous or redundant
the Philistines will deride us
deliberate or distant
heaven won’t abide us
obscene or obsolete
we are channeling Aquarius.

Bridge

Branded

seared skin newly shorn
indelibly heat branded
mark sheep for slaughter

Prayer

Petal

Fear of fleur-de-lis
minimized by spring time blooms
past tense nostalgia
and a very grave knowledge
of seasonality
serendipity
and costumes.

Nails

How many tempters must you have
so many suitors comprise the salve
you smear in wounds
of paradise lost
of star-crossed souls
of compounded costs
of tallying tolls
of crashing the gates
of wretched shoals
becalmed in the straights
of narrows
of nemesis
of nevers
of nativity
of needing
of nails
nails
nails.

Sensai

New scents
as the dog days appear
on the battlefield of
unplowed fields
but the heat, the heat
a noose,
a nuisance
a petulance
born of fresh dew
mid-day death
stifling, hence
a stark new sense
to vanquish
all discomfit
so catholic in our
guilt
or gilded mail of chain
girthed for the battle
for ranking, for rights
to do penance
or better
to be judged
severely.

Metronome

Rising and falling
risen
fallen
silence and calling
free fall
and suspension
are the rhythms
of my muse.

I ride the pendulum
from horizon to horizon
like a razor I cry
like a prow maiden
gulping froth
from dusk to dawn
vacillating in my arc
till kingdom come.

Repeating
Da capo
The futility of expectation
of the emergence
of a coda
of going home
and resignation
to the metronome.

Rising and falling
risen
fallen
silence and calling
free fall
and suspension
are the rhythms
of my muse.

Hymn

The bones feel it
before the lightening etches eyelids
briefly
indelibly
anticipating the sounds
of our ancient dread.

And we will ache
for the resolution
of the disparity of our love.

And we will ache
for revolution
for salvation from above.

Not judgment, not edicts
but the peace of quiet water
that has found its way
to level
to stillness
by being
what it is.

Archeology

Archeology
dispensing vexation
excavation
millimeter by millimeter
digging down
through ash and clay and dust
for remnants of meaning
proof that we were here
and will be

mockery
6 feet down
scrapping the walls for signs of life
measuring
recording
or nesting
smudging the walls
of our future home

28 de Mayo

mi esposa
es una estrella
nunca luna
ni la planeta

mi esposa
es una estrella
siempre luminosa
y siempre constante

Ella es mi agua
la curadora de mi herida
mi medicina

se dice que
amor es ciega
pero no te lo creas
por que mi amor es una estrella

pero a veces
las estrellas
parece a lo lejos
fuera
del alcance

y a veces
las estrellas
esta oscura
esta oculta
y yo no veo

mi estrella
necesito
si disculpa
entragare mi vida

stripped naked tulips
wilting lilac blossoms
Spring’s fading bloom

Fish 2

Everything is Nothing

the sky cries Mary
boiling on the horizon
like clouds by Stieglitz


Stieglitz on clouds

Barbless Hooks

dusty old textbooks
tired faded photography
hunting for hunting

feral cats chase wrens
best laid plans for naught
the myth of conservation

snagging a trophy
steel leaders and treble hooks
resigned butchery

catch and release
fantasy declawed blood sport
anachronistic creel

light tippets and barbless hooks
one missed opportunity
spawning another

Posy

A posy and the world is hers
adored and awash in adulation
she loves me
she loves me not
pressing blanches vibrancy
and constancy
and consolation.

To pick a flower
to take a trophy
to posses,
to have and to hold
to a dry a flower
to keep a petal
come masochism
myopia
or mold.

The mystery
in a magnolia
is perhaps within a line
linearity
listen to me
the distance from A to B
when Georgia’s
on my mind.

Behind Bars

encrusted in ice
yearning and hysteresis
Spring’s glacial approach

Slow Burn

Criticality

Complexity
in a sheer, shimmering
shift
in the adaptive cycle
forewarns the chimera
the chaos,
the stochastic event.
When looking backwards
is falling
forward momentum-
inertia
driving
to a pause
between axis
in the curves
behind thresholds
of attraction.

The marble rolls
on a ridge
precariously
in a state of criticality
awaiting forces
to influence
gravitational pull
to a basin of attraction
a well
a deep well
fallen in
fallen through
once before

expand and contract
the dialectic at work
vernal lovemaking

more rain

a smell
a taste
a slaking of thirst
a song, a melody
a sensation
an inundation
relief
from a long summer
long drought
long winter
falling
misty
pounding
hard
soft
desire
dread
a dance
of distance
but immediate
urgent
passing
coming

Tone Deaf

On a vacant street
in an unfamiliar town
in the dawning
but dreary
afterglow

of long standing rites
and rituals

the windows all stare
at the intruder
the interlocutor
a codfish aristocrat
still stumbling for
the Moulin Rouge

permissions are needed
warnings heeded
“Boy, you had better head home...
Boy, it ain’t all bad to be alone.”

Whether the tavern
or the chapel
conviction
is an unmistakable
tone.

An Ode to Tantalus

These petals
in my mind
forgotten intrusions
innocent victims
of predation and sin
with no rabbit
or rosary
or reason.

These leaves
like lips
disguising secrets
hiding breaths
of yesterday
glistening
with the promise
of rain.

Ah, the elixir
the chalice
and wine
the freedoms
of rebirth
and redemption

and response
and ability
a penchant for meaning
for intent
and the tension
of multiple
"goods."

Reaching is redundant
in this purgatorial state.
Cheating the allegory
is a preferential fate.
I’ll hunger
and I’ll thirst
but I shall not be taunted.
Rather than reach
I’ll resign
and I’ll wait
and be wanted.

My Black Cat (Insomnia)

She’s elusive
my black cat
I am looking for her now, nights
without end.

Sometimes I see her
slinking at the edges
or sense her gaze
from the darkness.

I call to her
longing
to hold her to me
to hear the purr
of peace
and bliss.

But she’s aloof
as cats will be,
my black cat
recoiling
at capture
or possession.

Yet I call her name
in vein
wide awake
and pleading
wide awake
within
without.

Cobweb

I heard the fly buzz
as it died
when it died
snared in a web
unseen.

The web was a rope
of many fibers
silky
filaments
like dreams.

The rope was a noose
for the convict
felon
who like Icarus
dared
too high.

A noose hung
in a corner
where the cobwebs hang
and the mingling
is dusty
old sighs.

Are you there?
Are you spinning
now for me?
Now for me?
Is that long strand
vulnerable
stretched too thin
to see?

I’m caught
and I’m here
drab habitation
of whom?

I am caught
and I fear
the toucher’s tomb
the wraith and the womb
and the wide eyed wonder
room.

Whispering Wind

Thanks Moby.

Red Camillia

Away...Beyond the Flowers

gratified
and perplexed
in partial doses
that are over doses
essential oils
potent
and long lasting

there is no room
for these shapes
without building new
rooms
or renovating those
become empty
ghosted
and vacuous
antiques
with dust
and sheets

such ferocity of late
cannibals and shape shifters
threats from the shadows
the primordial places
the liminal spaces
the space
betwixt and between

you're beyond the flowers now
beyond the artifice
essence fishing
but liberated?
imprisoned?
both
and neither

you are seeing with butterfly eyes
pathways and targets and signs
nectar here
pollen there
beyond our human frequency

the infatuation of the mist grows
while its nature
drives it upward
outward
away

I look away
I stay away
you're feeling this same warm breeze
if westerly
only moments before me.
Zephyr, and you are first
as it always will
be.

Forbidden

The shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed.
- Charles Dickens

The passions and desires, like the two twists of a rope, mutually mix one with the other, and twin inextricably round the heart; producing good if moderately indulged; but certain destruction if suffered to become inordinate.
- Robert Burton

Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.
- William Blake

Stieglitz and O’Keefe

it seems our forms will mingle
like Stieglitz and O’ Keefe
never the two to separate
and never the twain shall meet* **

* To avoid accusations of plagiarism, the first use of the phrase "never the twain shall meet," to my knowledge, is Rudyard Kipling's... The Ballad of East and West.

** Then again, as Bono so aptly reminds, "every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief." ("The Fly" on Achtung Baby)

Fractus

I see only
fractals of you
tempted
temptation
tempting
three sides of a triangle
the geometry of settling
into the shapes
that just
won’t
fit
but could
with a new
rule.

Unbalanced
equation
and stranded vowels
variables
in the alphabet soup
that is cipher
that is radius
that is the distance
to the heart
of a half life
Mobius
loop.

The shortest distance
between two hearts
is a straight shot
if you can shoot
or are loaded
or are lucky-
relative velocity
not withstanding-
the vicissitudes
the venal
the vacillation
between Eros
and erstwhile entropy.

Waiting to be...

Passive
borrowed
Mayan
bought
blue
plum
asked
reflexive
asked
ground
right
straight
open
aggressive.

Betwixt and Between- Fleurdeliser

On these wet and heaving streets
still slick with the film of receding tides
still covered with the air of decayed history
and composted potential
of a foundered fleur-de-lis...

Here in the smoky strains
of a Blue Monk meeting
the Public Enemy number one;
in the clash of comedy and tragedy
in the collision of safety with free-falling
hangs Spanish moss
from the ancient arm
of an Oak
caught betwixt and between
languishing in the liminal
among both earth
and sky.

Here, in the humid strains
of a street clothes nun
fighting for the Holy Angels
is a delta blues moan
for one more kiss
of Amazing Grace.

Here where love
is an act of defiance
where life is against the odds
where passion is in opposition
to the gilded monarch
of mastery...

Between my shoulders I am marked
my path long lost, no longer my own
on the Rue Désirée
in rites of passage
among forests of Lilies
and love
and Live Oaks.

Sober Vows

Remorse-
so much simpler
than regret.

The question is about sobriety
he shrieks
“Can we not be sober?”

But drunkenness
is love
unrequited
unfulfilled
or taken
consumed
shot
after shot
after shot
until the spinning
is prelude
to nothingness.

She will. I will.
Colliding crystal
vows.

Pylon

another spasm
Christmas cards unaddressed
late winter guilt

aromatic earth
fence posts rising like lilies
spring pastures

Screen Lace

through a looking glass
shatter cracked histories
seem familiar

Quiver- A Valentine

Like a pack of wolves
a pack of lies
swarms a gut pile
bile and flies
blankets the entrails
canine lust
candid carnage
lupus trust
and Cupid’s lost
an arrow.

She’ll howl
she’ll howl
like Pollack’s beast
simmering growls
relentless feasts
with a carnal drive
her desires must thrive
in deserts of
decorum
and decency.

But the arrow’s dulled
The shaft is bent
True no more
than true intent
to maim and plunder
from shadow lands...
and howl
and howl
for Cupid’s damned.

Diamond Sighs

Found it.
Your path of silence.
Again. Always.
Salient.

You sprinkled it thoughtfully
crumbs for the lost
diamonds, glittering
and audible.

They sigh...diamond sighs.
High pitched and thrilling
Sweet and sharp and brilliant.
Ancient, forever lasting
crystallized moments
of the purest angel time.

There was such a diamond.
A dawning realization,
not of compressed carbon
but of confessed innocence
and its lassitude
and its larceny
and its loss.

That diamond sighs for you.
I felt its razor sharp edge
for these many years...
in the background,
in the rain,
or in my dreams as now.
A haunting diamond sigh.

But it is not tragic,
in the way a diamond is not tragic.
It is a diamond.
It is
and ever will be.
And it sighs
sighs
sighs
for you.