Papers on the wall

I'm grinding and spreading 

in this mortar and pestle 

all the words I know or think i know,

adding my thin paste as I cut open

my creativity, that vagrant raincloud

(seldom there when the earth cracks),

and out comes this: 

an ambition, an aspiration,

a waltz, a zenith. 

So I tape up scribbling to my wall-

a muse to invoke at my convenience

(a self-induced muse, that is). 

No matter,  it happens when time goes down: 

a scratch on the frontal lobe

and I forgot the shape of the pestle

(how was this before I forgot?). 

The wallstriking and facepressing,

oh, the upwardlooking, the templescratching,

and then it pops, sometimes: 

even if you forget the shapes of things,

the molecules don't change. 

Truth, truth, truth, why do I 

view you as a billboard? 

And after I pick up the pestle

and set down my words into the mortar

(between my ears, somewhere)

it's: back to it, worker. 

Ban the downtime. 

Dear Sculptor

In a city framed by faces

this world named by places

with those hands you sculpt me

your hands of a dreamer

and heart of a poet

 

sculpt me

to look more like you

 

a distance somehow manageable

all too unimaginable

while I sit under this thing

called time

but I’m fine with waiting

 

my chest aches with this thing

called time

because I have too much

and I have nowhere near enough

to please you, my master

with my heart that lifts then falls

and speaks too soon

 

look at these hands of mine

now empty but so loved

oh, graceful ownership

not a second less

than forever

I am yours

 

sculpt me

to be more like you

 

 

Dress Up, Tehachapi, circa 1993 (before the world caves in)

Sometimes I still feel like
seven years old
standing in my grammy's dressing room
a mirror on every side
convinced her heels almost fit
They were blue
(I remember because she let me keep them)

The dresses were huge, waist down to my knees
I had the choice of anything in her closet,
anything at all,
as if you can really choose

Her make-up counter was free-reign too
Might as well have been Macy's,
(it had the same smell of overwhelming perfume)
Again the choice: dusty rose or peach blossom
The world is before you
and your choices now, so vast, so irrelevant

I wanted then a way to make my freckles blend into a smooth brown-ness
like the pretty girls, with the curly hair
She didn’t understand my request and handed me rouge instead
(That will smooth you over, that will fix your perceived-problems)

I think now that I may have known as much then
about choices and not-choices
and how to be and how to blend in
and how to settle for nothing because that makes it easier

And it doesn’t really matter who you become

Because I can’t shake the feeling that I am still,
inside, that seven year old
with the world of choice before her
and not even a preference for peach or dusty rose
(and not even a clue that the shoes don’t fit)

Reason Is

Curtain shades sending sunlight scattering
Diffusing amusing catlike reflexes abusing string
Thoughts fade blending frame-rates chattering
Confusing diluting sound-like apexes failing to sing
All the while contemplate the waiting watching
Until the awe inspired enframing stops containing
The Rhyme

the apricot truth

You peered from under A-framish brows

in my direction, maybe past me

and prompted a reassurance routine.

But it is not even just a regimen,

not just one: 

clarity requires a say-so;

this truth protrudes as pure

as a lone apricot, healthy

on a tree fertilizing itself with the dead.

Yeah, maybe a lot of things in my life, sure. 

But with you, darling, I don't have to endure. 

Cold Tucks Us In

Find me suspended above rooftops
As mist and chimney smoke drift
Hold on before the clock stops
Tearing the penultimate rift
See clearly - how our eyes shine bright
Brighter still before they open
While all we hope in
Disappears with first light
Dream with me for one last night

I Miss You

Your side of the bed still smells like...

The sun’s warmth …
…the wind’s peace

Everything...
…everything

that’s right for
…me.

Just A Sign

My nose and feet are having a contest to see which can get the coldest while I stare at the wall – chewing my lips and playing with these dry and chalky pale hands of mine.

Befriending visions of places I have not yet seen or long to see again brings me to my knees in a forceful rush of air, sprinkled with spice and scent such as pepper and pine.

 Perching on a word in a cage near a clock, with fists made of crumpled leaves and budding weeds, I find myself scattered and collected and broken and unbroken, so I’m waiting for a sign.

Just a sign.

I am filled with so many worthless things

I am filled with so many worthless things


My soul is a junkyard

Leftovers of selfish endeavors
Scraps of prideful desires
The filth of a lifetime
Of folly

These are the things I have chosen
Wasting all of the spaces in my heart
That were meant to be filled
That were meant to be
Fueled

By the unfathomable beauty of
Grace

What's Going On?

Hello Lovelies!

If you are here and are a member, that means you can post (anything, anytime)! You can also comment other poems.
Let's try and keep this place about poetry. Vignettes, quotes, flash fiction, etc. are all welcome, but we don't want this to become a "blog." I want this to be a poetry club, without the tea and coffee and warmth and voices. We'll have to find ways to make up for the absence of those things.

I'm excited. Let's write some poetry.

Advice for Sleepy Poets

You should be able to go into a room and when you come out know everything that you saw there and not only that. If that room gave you any feeling you should know exactly what it was that gave you that feeling. Try that for practice.

- Hemingway