Thursday, April 17, 2008

How a star behaves

it glitters
dusts and glows
watching us
move to and fro
like a diamond
upon a ring of night
taking account
of joy and fright
In sadness, in glee
reading the stories
between you and me

this is how a star behaves
a silent observer
of our lives

:Eleanor Rigby: (Beatles / Remade by Godhead)

"Lives in a dream
Waits at the window, wearing the face that she keeps in a jar by the door
Who is it for?" - Paul McCartney

Eleanor and I
sit by the window sill
peering out at the world
never peering back
We make up conversation
sweet and chipper cherry
red delicious conversation
but the world
will not converse back
We have swept the floor oft
we have ironed every curtain
we have scrubbed the floor
till our knees wouldn't bend out
and still
the world will not come knocking
So when the days chores are done
when all is filled, folded and flat
we sit and stare out the window
hoping to find the world
is staring back

Friday, April 11, 2008


Our world is always buzzzing
Streets are always filled
Walkways are always trampled
Electronics always blaring
Phones are always talking
and copiers always hum
Sleep is always dreaming
and the waker always thinking
Constant movement and being
always possessing the latest now
and it makes me wonder

about nothing

there is no space for nothing
the quiet sense of absolute
surrendering to silence
and the obliteration of being.

nothing || is not there.

Apartment 1

The day
begins with:
echos of life
racing down asphalt
warm coffee in hand
and not enough sleep.
and the pitter patter of neighbors' dogs
old couch cushions tilting
and my love handing out kisses
as we head out into the frey.
The night
ends with:
the next doors talking to loud
the across the courtyard
conversing on cellphones disregarding echo
while two floors up an argument flares.
In the alleyway
dog tags jingle
for one last
sniff before bed
inside this Apartment
is life
snuggling up for a
crime show episode
and dinner on the fly.

Wednesday, April 09, 2008

Ca•no•rous \kuh-NOR-us; KAN-or-uhs\

It slips,
and saunters
across the way
up the stairs
of my soul
with each memory,
moment and meticulously
kept secret.
It curves
verves, and vibrates
melodic and methodic-
all in its tenor 
and embrace.
I am speechless, 
rendered helpless
to visions and vexations
tears and frustrations.
I sway, dip
spin and twirl
My body not my own
as it moves in, 
and through me.
Up and down
mixing emotion 
and sound
I cannot
stand: Music

Tuesday, April 08, 2008

Nine Times

Nine times they came
The men in suits
Hands open
Mouths twisted
In false prosperity
Nine times
Nine of swords
Making Ill fated treaties
Of the soul
Nine times
Engine number seven
Billowed its smoke
For Industrial Revolution
While I lay stunned
And watch them come
Like lighting to dry grass
Their fire
Left me thirsty for
A time before nine.

Monday, April 07, 2008

My name is... 

My name is wise woman, 
but secretly the wind whispers dreams
or orange dreaming of chocolate. 
My name is many names
many faces
and when we meet
we laugh
knowing our mothers flowed with 
the times.  I don't want to flow. 
I want to be rebel against water, 
sand driving rain backwards, 
clouds calling back moisture, 
wind pulling mountains, 
rebellious.  I want to be 
not what she hoped for - 
white wedding to a man
and 2.5; just other expectations 
to name and watch 
rebel against me.
My name is white. 
but secretly 
hammer of sky
star falling upwards
dreams waking laughter
or just simply 
an immovable

Friday, April 04, 2008


staring back 
from the mirror I have
yet to clean because of 
work, work-out, and 
other whimsical oblications
is you,
which is me.
and just in case 
I forget
with all the rush 
and the mess
thank you
for being you
for being me
the woman you've become
staring back at me.

Thursday, April 03, 2008

from page 26 in my copy of PoemCrazy

Silence over whelms me
in this not so crowded room.
A cough and a sneeze are the only
moments reminding me I am more
than an extension of this somberly
straight pencil
and my life more permanent than the word
I just erased.

Honey Bee Haiku

honey bee dust 
divine fruits of labor
nature's silk road

Thoughts on Free

momentary peace
made out of
bartering lords
for weapons
and sections of
genetic purity
with wolfish grins
to sin
more divinely
in the presence
of the holy
dollar sign
and then
there is me
searching for
in a world
too unsure
and not
of their own actions
to searches
but necessary
to be free
and a medium coke,
caught on tape
at every corner
going unnoticed
the eyes
of zealots
with pink umbrellas
and cheap cologne
standing like a 1930s
private eye film
under the lamp
in the rain
watch everything.
Is anyone listening?
can you not hear
the cries of shadow
in the night
under covers
trying to hide
their affections
for fear of
someone else’s
sending warriors
in the guise
of old women
children and
to shame
and cast into hell
their dreams.
What makes these aggressors
any different from
The megalomaniac leaders
In near and faraway places
Innocent faces
Zooming out from
Bringing death
With a price
For oil
And cash crops
Slinking upward
Into the mouths
And minds of
And nations
Too high up to
You or me.
To them
Are fodder
And filth
We are insignificant
and truth be told
we ARE the cancer
bringing change
to this disease
called presidential free-dumb.
So when the tasks
And masks and momentary peace loving
dollar sign grubbing lords of our age
Step out on to the stage.
Say no to what they are selling
Take back what they are spelling
Out as the only truth
And actually be

Wednesday, April 02, 2008


with a red gloss inside
and the words
'Eudaemonic' boldly blazing
across the middle,
a red declaration of
bleeding out
from the canvas
of clay
every day
filled up
and emptied
striving to always
what the artist
sought for me.
but I wonder
if what I was suppose
to be was this.
why not an island
or a tray of bliss-
ful lemons set
out to greet friends?
why not a tissue
or a sports shoe
or even a tea bag
left out to dry over night?
I am white
with red gloss inside
and the words
'Eudaemonic' blazing
across my middle
my declaration
to the world
I will not be moved
to stop and linger in
the loneliness of not full.


the floor felt normal
with the way motion flowed
across my back:
the pad of need,
the stomp of desire,
and the guilty slide of give.

That is

until I sat up and
said "no", "You can't",
and "I won't."

your faces a portrait of
disbelief, mistreat, unkept
weeping, and sweeping disappointment.