Pursuing the poetical, paradoxical, metaphorical, lyrical, artistical, majestical, and mystical.

Monday, July 30, 2012

Air Kissed

 Intimacy happens 
without touching. 
Tongues send syllables 
singing indiscreetly by
 word of mouth like air kisses. 
Fingertips wave them windward
 over the crowded listening.

He aims deliberately for oasis faces. 

  I don't stop to wonder if  
they were meant for me before I 
catch them and press them
 to my greedy mouth. 



Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Eating Digestives

Your poems stick to my 
unsophisticated palette
like peanut butter pasting
my tongue and mind together. 
Soft pink inner linings absorb
this nourishment first
before I swallow it 
fully masticated minus the mess.
It bypasses my stomach,
and goes directly to my heart -- 
the first responder 
to come to the rescue of
my soul's digestion. 


I'm rereading Gregory Orr's book of poetry - How Beautiful the Beloved. I wipe tears away often, as in frequently, unaware of the reason why I'm crying. Sacred places are often found in and on pages. 


The English often have "digestives" with their tea. I've always been fascinated with this idea. What criteria makes a cookie/biscuit a digestive, I wonder? Books are my digestives...... with tea, of course. 

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Kissing

Loverby, 
how do you know 
exactly when
I'm craving one more kiss? Is 
there a magnetic pull from my 
eyes or do 
my lips ask, inviting?
Do you translate the tilt of my chin
as permission or boldness? 

Loverby,
 I read once that women 
who continue
to enjoy kissing 
way past middle age
keep plush
and luscious lips way into
old age, and give smiles 
that send everyone in
the world spinning.

Loverby, thank you 
for giving me a reason 
to smile.
 Keep bending your
dear head and shoulders
down toward me 
to catch and capture and kiss 
my wanton willingness. 

Friday, July 13, 2012

Bright Wood





This bright wood he built with 
only her in mind. It waited hitched
to a pair of horses for her to ride 
shotgun beside him into the future 
on their wedding night. 

This bright wood -- carved and 
and painted with gingerbread --
colors and details the dreams he 
attempted while trying to persuade 
her and the butterflies to remain.  

This bright wood stays shaded 
under a tree heavy with pears
close by the barren plans they made
together before she was laid 
down in the ground alone.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Kayaking

Sitting inches from warm river water
I paddle against the current. Pulling
and scraping bottom I dock to climb
stone terraces where water spills
laughing into black pools below.
Sun echoes off  walls smoothed
and sculpted by wind. Hundreds
of years worth of wind still scribing
away hard edges. I want to lay my
cheek against the firm bulges
above me.

Dry wind peels. Howling wind
scrapes. Wet wind makes walls
weep. Hot wind sucks dry. Driven
wind crumbles. Swirling wind
tumbles odd sections away forming
castle fortress parapets.

Now comes a caressing wind that
pursues until the rocks and I both
splay our inward parts wide open.
Left cleft, without scars or a hint of
being forced, I wait for water to
gush and green things to sprout
from here.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Fireworks

Carnations and dahlias
flare straight up, hot,

dripping fire - fierce at first

then fading harmless

before one final burst.

This is how my heart

feels - lit up by an invisible punk,
a breathing coal sharing heat, flaming

my waiting awake.




I'm ready to glow, ready to trace
hints and clues left by the last

one who set the night ablaze.

Here I go. Catch me if you

want to burn. 

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Sleepover

I was six, potty trained
many years when I surprised
myself and everyone else by
wetting my pants, wrecking
long laid plans for
an overnighter.

What young boy
curious to
be a man
would want
to try
to enter
that?

I came home for clean clothes
and stayed. I also stayed
ashamed, but came away
from that night intact.

Monday, July 2, 2012

Orcas Love Life

We have lived close to the Puget Sound for many years. Just this weekend we finally saw our resident Orca pods when we were camping out on Orcas Island, one of the San Juan Islands in the Sound.

I stopped taking pictures, because I was missing the fun. Missing the magical moments. One of the females has a black heart framing the entry to her promiscuous parts on her white belly. They are all named. The captains and locals who care, know them by the colors and patterns on their saddles and the shape of their dorsal fin. When they die, they disappear. The family is ruled by a matriarch. They stay together for life.

They are tactile and often touch each other with their fins and lie belly to belly even when not breeding.  They roll around and caress each other, smiling all the while.

The things they like most to do are eat, breed, and sleep. In that order. Whatever time is left over, they spend being curious, and playful. Shouldn't we?