Poetically Yours

A Poem for National Breast Cancer Awareness Month....

2011-10-18T22:10:00.000-07:00

October Memory

I remember my first one.
I guess I was about 13,
at least that’s what I consider
to be the first “real” one.
Not pretend, like the ones
my mom bought me
when I was 11 or 12.
This one wasn’t stretchy;
it had that all important
number-letter combination,
and I had to try on several
before finding the perfect one.

I remember standing before
the three-way mirror,
admiring the way it gently
propped up my soft white flesh,
creating the subtle nuance of curves…
curves that I hoped would catch
the attention of Bobby and Mike
and Steve and Doug,
but mostly Bobby.

I remember the little blue
forget-me-nots, and the row
of lace picot adorning the ridge,
the satin white bow in the center,
and the double hook I had mastered
to fasten behind my back
without looking.
Anxious for the first time
my future boyfriend would
uncock it with a single hand.

I remember the one I bought
when I was 23.
It stayed in its box for 7 months,
in the bedroom down the hall,
in a basket filled with onesies,
receiving blankets, and rags
to drape over my shoulder.
I couldn’t wait to wear that one.
It wasn’t quite as pretty
as the drawer full I had become
accustomed to wearing,
but I couldn’t wait for the first time
I’d fold down the flaps,
let down my milk, and hear
the coo and sweet suckling
of my baby boy.

I remember the one I purchased
when I was 36 –
both in size and age.
It was my first one in red,
hoping “Ruby Temptress”
would live up to its name,
hoping to rekindle a flame,
before the next cool wind
extinguished the final flicker.
No such miracle occurred.
No such secret revealed.

It’s a cool day in October.
Today I remember 13.
I remember 23.
I remember 36.
Today, there are no
little blue flowers
or alluring shades of scarlet
to choose from.
There is only the white one,
sterile with a flap, this time
only on the left side,
where I believe the surgeon
may have also cut away
a piece of my heart.
And the prosthetic
can’t quite fill the space.

Poetry in the sky....

2011-04-08T17:49:00.000-07:00

Favorite Skies

He’d often tell me how he loved the sky.
Look, he would say, look at the glorious pastels
painted across the atmosphere.
See how they dance, these viscous wisps in the wind
ever changing, calling out to us to take a quick peek
before they vanish into the sky’s next song.
This is my favorite sky.

I imagine him as a small boy,
running up and down the grass covered hillsides,
singing and dancing, without a stitch of clothes,
or a care to burden him, twirling round and round
in circles, until in dizzy defiance he’d collapse.
I imagine him lying there, the sky spinning above him,
the shift-shaping clouds, his new best friends.
Perhap this, his favorite sky.

Hand in hand we walk to the market. He stops us
dead in our tracks. Look. Just look at that sunset,
how perfectly the pink morphs into peach
with a streak of violet to punctuate its splendor.
Dinner that evening tasted especially fine
and the love we made was delicious.
This is my favorite sky.

He held my hand at Joshua Tree, the night
the lunar man chose to hide his face.
Look, he said. Look at this sky my love.
See the trillions of stars twinkling as brilliant
as your smile. A chill lingered just long enough
in the space between our embrace,
capturing my breath writing out his name,
like wispy white smoke rings in an ebony sky.
It’s like home. A home we both know as ours.
Forever my favorite sky.

Another Arrangement of Sorts......

2011-03-30T11:28:00.000-07:00

The Business Proposal

She stood silently
laden in white satin,
six women surrounding her,
each with a colored sash
cinching their waists.
She gazed into the mirror
and wondered…
Had anyone told him
the color of her eyes?

One woman brushed
her ebony locks
and pinned in place
the perfect chignon,
as the other prepared
the veil of white tulle
and its iridescent pearl crown.

This woman took on the tedious task
fastening tiny buttons
trailing up her spine,
as that one on her knees
polished the tips of the white slipper,
placed a penny in the toe.

One woman handed her
a bouquet of lilies,
tucked neatly in a blue kerchief,
while the last one, her mother,
wiped away a lonely tear,
draped the gold locket around her neck
and kissed her on the cheek.

And as the women proceeded
to take their places before the congregation,
Mendelssohn’s Wedding March was silenced
by the sound of the gavel
echoing in her mind
and the repeat of one single word - -
Sold.

My Heart Breaks for Japan.....

2011-03-21T17:51:00.000-07:00

SHE KNOWS NO OTHER WAY

I suppose it was a Friday,
just as every other Friday before.
She picked up fresh fish at the market.
The children walked, holding hands, to school.
He took the train into the city.
Grandmother folded the laundry.
Grandfather smoked his pipe.
A young couple argued over money.
A teenage girl discovered she was pregnant.
A boy broke up with a girl.
A girl broke up with a boy.
Two girls kissed for the first time.
A boy kept his secret hidden.
An arborist trimmed the bonsai.
A fisherman tied off his boat.
Forbidden lovers met in the shadows.
A child was born.
A loved one was buried.

And then…
the earth shook.

And for three minutes of eternity
the molecules of all existence
danced their tarantella.
And the people, all people,
young and old,
strong and feeble,
rich and poor,
simply fell to their knees
unable to detect their own trembling
from the shakings of Gaea.

“It’s the End of Days.”
“It’s God’s Wrath.”
“Serves ‘em right.”
“Mother Earth is pissed off now.”
But in reality,
she knows no other way.

And as the wall of water surged,
engulfing everything in its path,
the normalcy of the day merely washed away.

The fish market was gone.
The school was gone.
The train station - gone.
Arguments were forgotten.
Secrets no longer worth guarding.
Bodies floated out to sea.
The baby never learned to crawl.

And one tiny bonsai tree
stood still,
waiting
for tomorrow.

A special event: Marathon of Love Poems

2011-02-07T09:55:00.000-08:00

How 'bout something different for Valentine's Day this year? Sure roses, candy, and dinner by candlelight are all romantic, but wouldn't your sweetheart love to get swept off her feet to the sounds of poetry.

Join me and 15 other Northern California Poets at the Vox on Saturday Feb 12, 2011 at 5:00 pm for a Marathon of Love Poems. This is a "second saturday art walk" event which will also include a special gallery showing of art to support "To Write Love on Your Arms". The exhibit opens at 5:00, the poetry starts at 6:00 and live music follows around 8:00. Last year it was 'standing room only' so get their early if you want a seat.

I'll have several of my books for sale if you'd like a dedicated signed copy. Also I have a few pieces in the gallery, as I've collaborated with a photographer to illustrate a few poems created especially for this event. These are also for sale and support this worthy cause.

"Marathon of Love Poems"
The Vox / ThinkHouse Collective
1726 11th Street
(the Yellow Victorian Home between Q & R Street on 11th)
Sacramento, CA

From an open-mic reading at Luna's a few weeks ago....

2011-02-07T09:48:00.000-08:00

NOTHING LEFT TO SEE

I wanna stand under
a rain cloud.
Let mascara run
from the tips of my lashes
to my toes,
Let my mask wash away
with gum wrappers,
ticket stubs,
cigarette butts,
down the gutter
in an alley.
I wanna be baptized
by a summer storm,
like the ones I remember
in St Louie.
Standing there
naked,
stripped of my security
blanket of labels
cut away,
as your eyes
peel each layer
with laser precision.
Shedding skins
upon the pavement.
Nothing left to see,
but me.

Inspired by Nepalese Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma

2010-02-09T17:22:00.000-08:00

Himalaya

You are my mule,
my companion, my friend,
my communal bastard brother,
born of stallion and ass.
You teach me to walk proud,
carry the burden of others
while levitating my own
troubles to take residence
in the mist of cloud, later to rain
down on me when I am
stronger.

You are my buffalo,
my protector, my guardian.
You teach me of sacrifice,
how to love outside myself,
to shed my skin to blanket
my sister in warmth, to quench
the hungry with my own blood
before finding my place
in the sun.

You are my goddess,
my idol, my mother,
whose alabaster bosom
shields me from harsh winds
howling in the night. You
challenge me to follow in
footsteps of my brothers,
so I may one day find
my own path.

Imagine the End of Autism

2010-02-08T13:29:00.001-08:00

IMAGINE

Imagine
thoughts of a stranger
scattered like pussy
willow seeds taking
flight in the wind,
landing in the desert
of his mind, no soil,
no water to nourish,
nurture them, never
allowed to bloom.

Imagine
your brother chanting,
incessant counting,
and calculating, your
sister humming, rocking,
twirling to a dizzied fury,
often ended in injury,
your childhood partner
unable to hold onto your
hand.

Imagine
never sharing the first
smile of your baby, your
son never looking in your eye,
your daughter not recognizing
your face or her name,
your child forever lost in
a world where you’re
not welcome.

Imagine. We imagine.
At times it seems all
we can do, so
frantic to understand,
so desperate for
a cure, so helpless
in this fight with another
invisible enemy, hidden
perhaps in clear sight.

Imagine
their escape from solitude,
the songs of laughter, all
of our children at play,
a belt of smiles stretching
round our world. Just imagine
the end of
Autism.

Inspired by article in Sac Bee Jan 29, 2010

2010-02-07T12:17:00.000-08:00

Welcome Home Richard Nary

He’s like a tiny ship,
a scrolled message
a sea, trapped in
the confines of a glass
bottle, and now his only
companion. Over rocks,
his soul stirred, shaken,
lost.

Absinthe or rye, pick
your poison to propel
the pattern of pain, numb,
pain, numb, the pain, numb
the pain, ‘til no one
remains.

Every last bit of hope,
dignity, desire, drive
gone. One
hand of a stranger
upon his shoulder,
reaching out offering
a warm embrace, warm
food, and a warm place
to rest the tired bones
of the forgotten.

One stranger setting
the ship a sail, uncorking
the bottle, answering
the S.O.S. One man
opening the door
for another, the door
to a new tomorrow,
the door back to his
daughter, back
to his life.

A poem for a Survivor of Breast Cancer

2010-02-01T15:05:00.001-08:00

PINK RIBBONS

One lump or two?
Such an innocent question
uttered hundreds of times
at the tea room.
Today, those words
had the power
to bring her to tears.
No amount of chamomile
or honey capable
of soothing her pain.
She was drowning
in a sea of sorrow,
fearful of what
tomorrow would bring.

How could she face
this new reflection,
scarred, disfigured?
What would she see
reflecting in his eyes?
He said he would always
love her, no matter what.
He said she would always
be beautiful to him,
but this....this
isn’t what crosses your
mind, vowing in
sickness and health.

Each day she’ll carry on,
with a stiff upper lip
and pink ribbons in her hair ,
stuffing the prosthetic
into her bra, no longer
adorned with sheer lace.
She’ll march with any
army of women.

She’s grateful to be
among the living,
a survivor as she’s
now known. But she misses
her curves, even if sometimes
they sagged. She misses
the tingling of her nipples
when her husband held
her in his arms. She
misses feeling like a woman.
She misses feeling
whole.

For those who have lost their way......

2010-01-26T12:29:00.000-08:00

FINDING MY TOMORROW

Today.
A face I hardly recognize
stares back at me in the mirror.
Fear of failure, worn like shackles,
keeps me paralyzed.
Fear of success, having its rug pulled,
has stolen my spirit

Bubbles bursting all around,
country run into the ground
brought about an onslaught,
a victim-minded parade.
Waving this white flag,
stained blood red from my blues,
temporarily brings me comfort,
in the company of misery.
But even there,
I find no one really gets it.
No one understands.

If I stay here
I’ll be kept safe
from the light,
from risk, from success,
from letting those who love me
get to close.

I know I can only stay afloat for so long,
overwhelmed, drowning
amid the sea of uncertainty,
letting old habits lap against the shore,
only to be carried out to sea again,
fearful there exists no more life vests.

One of these tomorrows,
there will shine a light house,beacon of hope,
illuminating a clear path,
renewing a sense of purpose,
and I won’t be afraid of its light.

I will find the insight I seek,
a partner to keep me focused,
a plan to re-energize,
a renewed sense of confidence.

And on that day,
staring back in that mirror
I’ll be greeted by an image of empowerment,
a face in control of its destiny,
ready to weather any storm.

And I know this day will come
because I am loved,
because I am deserving,
because I believe.

HOPE FOR HAITI NOW----Please Give What You Can

2010-01-22T20:15:00.001-08:00

SHAKEN

He doesn’t sleep at night.
Any attempt to slumber
squelched at the hint,
mere squint of his eyes.
His closed eyelids merely
a backdrop, a screen replaying
the horror of recent days.
So many children.
So many children.
So many bodies in heaps.
A nation weeps.
The world weeps with him.

Toll of death rings higher.
Days and nights pass.
If you sit quietly
and wait for the roar
of earth movers to subside,
you can hear the saddest
of all songs, a mother’s cry.

Fathers, brothers, sisters,
and wives frantic,
in panic, walking among
mounds of Titanyen,
wondering if below
their feet, lie the hands
they held seven sunrises ago.
Fearful of what the next
sunrise may bring.

Aughts to Ots.... we oughta know by now

2009-12-30T10:34:00.001-08:00

"Inquiring Minds Want to Know"

The year,1999.
The date, December 31st.
It was THE party of the century,
even wilder than Prince could imagine.
Which let’s face it,
is saying A LOT!
She wore her body hugging
dress in black,
sexy,
yet apropos,
paying her last respects
for a century passed.

Less than five minutes
remained,
frantic wait staff
filled champagne flutes
to the rim.
Just as Dick Clark
cued the ball’s descent,
the room went pitch black.
She felt a soft tap.
Then another.
And another.
From lips, to hips,
from tips to toes.

Auld Lang Sine
blasted from the Bose.
Room now illuminated by
a mysterious purple glow
All she could see were
glowing white circular stickers,
adorning each tit,
freckling her ass,
sparkling on her body
like cosmic beacons
on a crisp winter’s night.

The man next to her
playfully inquired,
“What do polka dots taste like?”

She simply smiled.
----------------------------------------

And that, my friends,
is how this decade
became nicknamed the “ots”,
short for polka dots
of course.

A Winter's Poem

2009-12-06T16:40:00.001-08:00

"Solstice"

Sunlight
dimmed by wintery,
wispy veil.
I could see
she wanted to cry,
sob for days,
her heart heavy.
A cold deluge
too burdensome
on her children,
so instead,
crystalline figures
danced down,
swirling from the sky,
our troubles
masked by wonderland
magic, as childhood
memories
tickled our tongues.
Nature.
Sometimes, a lady.
Sometimes, a bitch.
Always…
Always, a mother.

The Shape of Your Mouth

2009-10-30T21:16:00.001-07:00

"Shape of Your Mouth"

Sometimes when I hear your voice,
I imagine the shape of your mouth
as you form the words,
each syllable,
the crispness of consonants,
mellow vowels oozing between.

I remember the shape of your mouth
sharing heirloom tomatoes
over the sink,
juice dribbling down our chins,
I reaching across to wipe yours
with my fingertips, you
catching mine with your tongue,
salt of flesh pairing with the ripe fruit.

I remember the shape of your mouth,
as you leaned across for our first kiss,
lips adjusting for the fit,
space between tightening,
tiny pocket of air we shared.
How the whiskey lingered
on your lips, and I
surprisingly liked its taste.
Drunk from your kisses,
an addiction I choose not to overcome,
the intoxication so pure.

Yes, I remember the shape of your mouth
the instant I hear your voice
on my answering machine,
regretful
I missed your call.

We Shall Never Forget

2009-09-11T16:16:00.000-07:00

"The Day Our Horizon Changed"

Skyline as we knew it,
vanished before our eyes,
buildings crumbled,
wiped out like sandcastles
awash with the tide.
No toddler in tears,
holding an empty pale and shovel.
Instead
we all cried,
we all watched,
we all mourned,
we all feared.

Never to return,
tenth day of September,
the blind faith,
assumption of security,
freedoms of a free world.

And somehow,
when it’s over,
we’re the ones stripped,
searched
implanted with chips,
left to wonder
how the bad guy got away.

Figuring Out Newton

2009-09-01T09:40:00.001-07:00

"Figuring Out Newton"

Dear Sir,
Must apples fall
from the sky
before we can believe?
I find it takes
more than gravity
to keep me
in my place.

Pale Yin.
Ebon Yang.
Dangling in the center,
I find mere grey,
in the storm’s eye,
wading,
waiting,
for one force
to claim my prize.

Apples ripen.
Every bite taken,
revealing a taste
ever more sweet
than the last,
yet always
forbidden.

Boxes

2009-07-28T08:28:00.001-07:00

"Ode to Cardboard Boxes"

You keep my pizza safe
from blackbirds flying
home to their pie.

You provide corrugated
pillow tops
for those weary,
needing shelter.

You pique my curiosity
disguised in shiny paper
of pink polka dots
and satin bows.

You welcome the playfulness
of children,
their power to transform
your empty vessel
into spaceships
to the planet of
make-believe.

And at the end of the day,
after a job well done,
you collapse into yourself,
return home
as we all must,
dust to dust.

poem of the day...

2009-07-20T10:09:00.001-07:00

"Waiting for Rain"

Our origins
disparate,
polar extremes
to many we may seem.

Until
a glance turns
to a gaze,
a brush turns
to a touch,
a hug turns
to an embrace,
a goodbye turns
to a kiss.

Unexpected,
like summer rain.

brand new.....

2009-07-19T09:52:00.001-07:00

"Kaleidoscope"

My eyes closed,
sun streaming
through wooden slats,
tilted just so.

I see prisms
between the contrast,
dark and light.

It reminds me
of a childhood toy,
simple and complex
all the same.

How it mesmerized me.
Colors
waltzing for me alone.
Just like now.

My eyes closed,
our bodies dancing
in unison,
tripping the light
fantastic.

Betcha I can make you smile.....

2009-07-15T09:45:00.001-07:00

"No Smoking"

The sign read:
No Smoking
Within 20 feet
Of the Building.

No Matter.
I began hacking.
He smelled
like an ashtray
that’s never been emptied.

Human receptacle
for charred remains
of a decade of daily
nicotine fixes.

And definitely not
Menthol.

Just think.
If cannabis legal
how much more pleasant
the aroma.

Suddenly,
I’m craving
brownies.

body language has no barriers....

2009-07-14T08:57:00.001-07:00

Jungle Fever

Slithering serpent speaks in tongues.
Comprehending not, I understand,
follow willingly
in a trance,
my circumstance
forgotten,
in darkness, jungle night.

Screeching baboons I fear not.
Fierce cackles from treetops,
origins unknown,
beckon inner demons,
released.

Garments bartered
for pigments splashed
across my body.
Naked spirit
soars, I dance.
Tribal rhythms,
oh how they move me.

Light eclipsed,
invisible moons
beaming deep within.
Mother Earth smiles as
do I.

Trespassing Among Souls

2009-06-30T10:04:00.001-07:00

Malachite Open House

I walked through that front door
the threshold I had traversed
a thousand times.
Friendly welcome
followed by familiar speech
“bedrooms, bathrooms, square footage”
‘til I quietly, politely interrupted
assuring him I knew
this home like I know the back of my hand.

Oddly at that moment
I looked at the back of my hand
the one that brushed the hair from her eyes
the last few moments of her life,
the hair that even at that moment
looked better, somehow healthier,
than my own disheveled mane.
I remember the nurse’s tearful giggle,
I whispering to my friend
that even on her death bed
she was having a good hair day.
But I digress.

I continued to stroll through each room
noticing the little details,
each with a story, a memory
that I couldn’t keep to myself
or I might burst into tears,
so I bent his ear.

Telling him of the wine we shared
as I faux finished the powder room walls,
the laughter we shared
painting her daughters room in pastel,
and the hideous purple paint
she smeared sloppily
in its adjoining bathroom shower.
I pointed out the shrubs in her front yard
that no longer suffer from my puppy’s puddles
after long walks and talks in the mornings,
and how her husband and I hung lace curtains
that cascaded the evening sun
across the bed where she lay so weak.

As I took one last look back,
I couldn’t help but notice how much
the wisteria had grown over the trellis
and how bittersweet its scent.

For some beautiful children:

2009-06-23T15:24:00.000-07:00

Shane’s Beach

It takes more than a chair
to follow his path.
Sharks, sunscreen and jellyfish
the least of his concern,
for he leaves no footprints
in the sand.
Instead, two ruts
like those I imagine
of slugs on steroids.

With his comrades,
beached whales,
oil slicked feathers
of birds, now flightless,
he tediously rolls on.
His palms calloused,
feet ever tender,
soon to realize
the closest to the sea
he’ll be
is the ocean’s roar.

Cupping the vacuous nautilus
to his ear, he listens
for God’s answer,
his daily plea…..
“Momma always says
I’m a good boy,
so why me?”

HUMMINGBIRD

2009-06-08T15:35:00.000-07:00

Hummingbird

Flutter.
Alit upon flower
upon flower, lover
to lover.
Nectar never
so sweet as
that first taste.

Spring after Spring.
Anticipation of blossoms
anew. Yellow her eternal
optimism. Pink
with promise. Scents
intoxicating.

Just one sip,
all it took
to nourish, yet
hunger remains.
She Flutters.

And on this memorial day weekend.....

2009-05-24T11:53:00.000-07:00

ARLINGTON, LOT 60

Taps.
No other song
more haunting.
Brings forth
wails of mothers,
young brides,
broken dreams.
And the most chilling,
stoic teardrops cascading
in silence,
somber regret
for commands ordered,
words never uttered.
Flowers,
photos,
trinkets,
upon otherwise uniform stone
Youngsters
naively dance
upon the saddest acre,
reminding us all
that life will go on,
regardless of whether
we learn
from our mistakes.

Nothing Left To See

2009-05-15T19:07:00.000-07:00

NOTHING LEFT TO SEE

I wanna stand under
a rain cloud.
Let mascara run
from the tips of my lashes
to my toes,
Let my mask wash away
with gum wrappers,
ticket stubs, and a cigarette butt,
down a gutter
in the alley.
baptized by a summer storm.

Standing there
naked,
stripped of my security
blanket of labels
cut away,
as your eyes
peel each layer
with laser precision.
Shedding skins
upon the pavement.
Nothing left to see,
but me.

Pomegranates

2009-05-13T17:11:00.000-07:00

I remember my first taste
of pomegranates.
Mademoiselle Blanc
brought them to French Class one day.
She showed us how it was the seeds
that were actually the fruit
as she scooped them with a silver spoon.
It struck me as completely insane!
Summers I had spent
spitting out seeds of watermelon,
teasing my little sister if she swallowed,
she’d grow an entire watermelon patch
in her tummy.
The same tale held true
of pumpkin seeds at Halloween.
To this day my sister
won’t eat watermelon
or pumpkin pie.
Eating pomegranate seeds
somehow made me feel
exotic.
It wasn’t something we were accustomed to
in a suburban Missouri town.
Funny how things change.
Pomegranates suddenly so mainstream,
as soccer moms rush to Costco
to buy POM juice by the carton
getting their bulk of antioxidants
each day.
Still,
I prefer a more sophisticated approach.
I’ll take my daily dose of anti radicals
from a sugar rimmed
crystal martini glass,
my fingers caressing the stem,
while I sip the fruity concoction
of blueberry Stoli,
Pomegranate liqueur,
and twist of lime,
wishing I could remember more French
besides
“voulez-vous couchez ..”
well you know the rest.

METRONOME

2009-05-05T17:08:00.000-07:00

ahhhh....a little romance piece...

METRONOME

Naked vessel
danced,
cloaked only
by your touch.
Waltz.
Tango.
Tarantella.
Exhausted,
unclenched,
spirit exalted.
Your heartbeat
a metronome
to my soul symphony.
Ecstasy bleeds,
flows through
miniscule corpuscles,
forever tingeing
flesh,
the existence
of our love.

"O"

2009-04-30T12:56:00.000-07:00

written in November 2008, posted in honor of his first 100 days.....

“O”

Overindulgence
Overspending
Overeating
Overweight

Obesity
Oprah and her
O Magazine.

Over-Achievers
Overtime
Overworked. and
Overstaffed at
Overstock.com.

OMG
Oh my God. Can
Obama save us from
Our Oppression.
Our Own Obsession.

I hope he can.
I believe he can
Yes he can.

And if not.
There’s still
one thing in life that’s free:
The big “O”.
(yeah, you know what I mean).

Canopy of Yesterday

2009-04-29T17:40:00.000-07:00

One can only hope that future generations learn from our past mistakes....

Canopy of Yesterday

Just a scrap of paper,
his last request,
to spin a tale.

Picnics under old oak, Mulberry Lane.
Initials carved into bark, beneath his lover’s.
Lazy afternoons, a weather-beaten hammock.
Fort, boyhood secrets shared.
and the smell …..ah the smell of Christmas morning.

Just one piece of papyrus, his desire,
to scroll a warning
to lands across the horizon.

Forest stripped, barren.
Words extinguished
with his final breath.

RED DRESS

2009-04-29T12:35:00.001-07:00

In Response to Kim Addonizio's great Poem, "What Women Want"

RED DRESS

I bought that red dress.
According to Addonizio,
it’s what women want.
It is what I want.
To be wanted when I wear it
and
when I take it off.
It takes a certain boldness,
joie-de-vie to wear red,
clinging to every curve,
and I do mean every.
It’s shade of red
not too orange, not to blue
pairing with my patent peep toes,
perfection. Not to be confused,
construed with a perfect 10,
not at all.
Toss in a pair of flesh tone
fishnets, an alluring string of pearls,
no hook needed to lure ‘em in,
even when I’m having
a bad-hair day.
Yes, I too, may be buried
in that red dress…
or perhaps just the shoes.

Rules of Four

2009-04-29T12:12:00.000-07:00

Rules of 4

Four walls build a house

Four chambers form the heart
Four fingers to an opposable thumb

Forgiveness makes a good Christian.
Foreskin removed makes a good Jew.

Four corners make a rectangle
Four square(d) is not sixteen on the playground

Foreplay leads to ecstasy.
Forefathers founded a democracy

Fortune leads to greed
Four wives can leave you bankrupt

Foreclosure ruins a home.

Dedicated to poets read and poets heard...

2009-04-27T17:34:00.000-07:00

Where Does Poetry Live?

For Billy it resides
behind striped wallpaper
he so meticulously
peels back in vivid detail,
exposing generations of stories
careful not to destroy the glue.

For Mary it flies
with geese,
boards a ship with no captain,
ready to depart
on a journey
solely navigated by her heart.

For William it sung
in iambic rhythm,
sonnets through centuries,
inspiring young poets ,
their metaphors paling
in comparison.

For b.l. and d.a
it rises from the b.s
of life,
the hypocrisy of humanity.

For Gene it was born
a tender foal,
for whom bets were placed
at the racetrack,
winnings giving rise to witty meter,
watching all the girls go by.

For Marilyn it’s found
under fingernails.
For Michael it explodes
in staccato,
For Jack it jumps
from leather-bound
history journals
with eagerness
of young puppies.

For Jimmy it bellows
from a long lyrical branch,
slow and mellow under the moon.
For Justin it croons
syncopated tunes
like jazz, pure and sultry.

Where does my poetry live?

I scribble and scream,
my voice still not distinct.
So I dig into the grave
of mistakes buried,
haunted by their ghosts,
until the ink in the well
is my own blood
now spilled upon the page.

Recent Works

2009-04-15T13:33:00.000-07:00

DROWNING

I tread water
sharks circling.
Scent of heartbreak
as enticing as blood,
chum, signaling easy prey.
Their fins hypnotic,
rhythmic,
as pendulant pocket watches
tick….tock.
They wait
until I succumb,
limbs exhausted,
spirit fleeting,
I sink.
And for a while dark waters
are calm,
nervous pounding in my chest
no longer cloaking
echoes of blissful abyss.
Panic floods
my vessel.
Electric eel shocks
life back into me,
numbness overcome.
Bolt of passion
electrifying every nerve
and I wonder,
do eels have eyes?
For I swore they pierced my core.
And I’m alive,
for the first time
in years.

-----------------------------------
Play for Me Claire de Lune

Forget-Me-Not, the label
on the seed packet read,
(nomenclature for non-botanists),
those flowers blue, like my mood,
a funk I can’t seem to shake,
I try to escape,
forget, as I wonder
would they remember?
The amber vial empty, palm open, body
limp on linoleum. Would they
remember
my request for Debussy?
The final chord, my placebo
to a farewell.

----------------------------------------
Taurus Fell Under the Moon

Just the other morning,
pre-dawn, to be exact,
sliver of crescent moon
poked through a cloud, like a horn.
Many moons ago, she basked
under a Spaniard sun
to witness the ancient battle —
man vs. beast.
The smell of sangria and sweat
filled the arena, while locals
laughed at a tourist donning red,
bulls-eye in every sense of the word,
regardless of dialect.
How many times had she worn red
to seduce the manly beast,
to ignite a fading flame?
Trio of Picadores
waving amber and magenta sateen,
swooning Toro in trance,
planting spear after spear.
His words, even when unspoken,
left cavernous wounds, unhealed.
Trumpets Blare!
Enter the Matador!
Let the Faena begin,
the familiar promenade,
dance of death
between hero and villain.
Not glamorous, nor poetic.
Simply barbaric.
For what courage,
what bravery need be summoned
to take down such a monster,
stripped of all dignity,
staggering in a crimson pool?
He’d often kick her when she was down.
The Matador once again feigns danger,
with Toro’s gaze now fixated
upon muleta rouge,
Final plunge of the sword,
released from pain, perhaps shame.
Crowd rises to an ovation,
cheering the estocado,
applause, a rampant staccato,
white kerchiefs waving in praise.
Her tissue wipes a tear,
finding no reason to celebrate
the slow, painful
death beneath a crescent moon.

Smells Like Rain

2009-03-21T06:29:00.000-07:00

The day after Spring Equinox, you can smell it....the undeniable scent of the first spring rain and how just a whiff of what's to come can take you back to what once was.....

SMELLS LIKE RAIN
(by Shawn Aveningo)

Nanny always knew.
“Smells like rain”,
she would proclaim.
And I wearing a ponytail
and white ribbons
would raise my nose,
sniffing the sky,
concur with her assessment.
Yes.
I could smell it.
Distinct,
like lavender rose petals
bathed in sea salt
from an ocean’s splash
and tinged with dust.
A musky oldness
I remember from
treasure hunting
the Hilltop Antique Market,
where Nanny would
let me puff on candy
cigarettes.
Powdery sweetness
floating from my lips--
my smoke rings.
Eventually extinguished
by a spring shower.