Writing a Poem

I see the shapeshifting reality bulge
around the illusory hibiscus I could never match.
Veils of words needs constant shattering
to lighten thick, moldy layers of thatch.

My heartbeats come forth, secretly billowing,
burning new myths from a crimson flower.
I can’t help but lose myself, drowning,
reborn in this burgeoning, transformative power.

Staying open is toughest, free falling and bare
naked and hanging, having dropped from the sky.
Then the petaled plate tells me with it’s one eyed glare
to listen and watch, with laser focus, and try

To write these gossamer sheets of implausible power,
wispy, tenuous wings, burgundy eyefuls of red meat.
I tally this time to sit and stare, hour to hour
and find it’s telling me to just sit, watch and be complete.

I wrote this on a challenge to create on the spot from Jessamyn on her post, Sunday Scaffolding.

The Source

i bend
to stretch
tight hamstrings,
yoga breathing
deep, cored
waves, committed.
your hand floats
above my
naked globules,
glowing
unsunned white,
pressing humid air
to your palm’s stare.
the blond hairs bristle
with electric city
conversations
beginnings, endings, poems,
stormy at first,
stirring down to1880 logcabin
laps of gentle
consent, warmth,
and finally
desire for connection,
fuel of transference.

my breathing deepens,
windy, pomegranate scented
rings to be
shared, anointed.
we weave stringed loops
into cat’s cradles,
bridges across
desserts of thirst.
thirsty creeks
flow into
larger and more
insistent undertows.
rushing
crashing, breaths
draw you into
me, down to bone, to
implacable source.
message to
answer to message.
your gift to
my givance.
our river, our odyssey.

salvaging divine
beads of innocence,
we sew sumptuous hoops of
priapic demons,
ecstatic circles of fire.
we join hollow desire
with its own lava.
Niagara falls, deafening,
roars savage
as fused water and earth,
slag over waterfall
into the Great River,
steamy transformance-
peak emergence
in the curtain dance.
original signals of
original redemption
bring us to
a hidden palace,
guarded by fear, whose
barbed gates
open into
a garden of grace.

September Haiku

September suns rays
slice across verdant gardens.
Cold nights chill my toes.

Summer emptied.
I use days up as they come.
Silk breeze on my thigh.

Kitchen counter full.
Fall bounty clogs big pots.
Earth oars down the clock.

Rake dreams with windows open.
Kaleidescope trees.
Leaves need many big bags filled.

Pace this day’s flight with tastes
of Summer’s ripe bounty.
Pesto’s delight greens my mouth.

Morning mist weighs down dawn
Between Summer and Fall.
Coffee tastes better in cold weather.

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power of words

After reading this poem by Antonia at Reluctant Painter, I wrote this:

the throat has no subtle strangulation
when met by rhythms such as those
beating hearts that slip off
the page into my porcelain soul

i take my leave
midst the course palpitations,
check my vigil at the door
and wisp myself away

on the words you leave me with
while going about your day
unconcerned with my fate,
my formidable challenge

Poseidon’s Game (poem for New Orleans)

Poseidon is the Greek god of the sea. Demeter is the goddess of agriculture. Here is a summary from Wikipedia– “Poseidon once pursued Demeter, in her archaic form as a mare-goddess. She resisted Poseidon, but she could not disguise her divinity among the horses of King Onkios. Poseidon became a stallion and covered her. Demeter was literally furious at the assault, but washed away her anger in the River Ladon.”

Poseidon came to reclaim,
to take back the land
meekly shielded by Demeter,
who deigned to presume she
could hide from him.

He ripped the tether,
unleashed the reins
of his terrible force.
The beast came to consume,
to blithely rape and fill
with its cold, slimy juice
the body of New Orleans.

Her muffled screams at first fell silent
amid the torrent of violence.
Stunned and weak, gurgling beneath
she writhed under her conquerer.
But now she cries insanely,
ripping her own flesh from its
battered bones, picking at tender wounds
with misguided rage empty of dignity.

Her bloated form, a grotesque buoy,
life raft of death, now languishes
sickly among the splintered grid.
Internal organs have bruised and burst,
arteries clog and crust, the pulse
is weak, seeking a miracle
to revive her.

What fruitless glory she has endured.
Poseidon’s thrust has vanquished her for now.
But she will heal, she will endure.
The excruciating task will occur.
Perhaps her agony will field
a new body, a new hope, a new form.
Will she tremble at the waves’ whisper?
Yes, but she will forget,
slowly she will forgive.
She will revive and regrow,
cleansed by the healing
green river Ladon.
The body is destroyed,
but the spirit will rekindle.

Meanwhile
Poseidon lies asleep, gorged
with wasted lust, dripping
blood and grime, smothering
the spoils of his conquest with rot,
oblivious of his own sodden force.

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