Indulgent Sacrifice

Summer comes only 

after strawberries are

willing to bleed full bags 

of life-giving transfusions

filled with sugar

sweetened red

by sunshine's heat.  

They want cut open 

and beg to be

bitten into, leaving

a stain so

everyone knows the 

exact way 

I partook of pleasure

today. 

Sometimes Shalom

whispers like a
will-o-the-wisp,
"I'm with you -
come follow me."

I don't know Hebrew
but surely Shalom
is spelled this way?

I Found a Merry Widow

at the racetrack today. When she said
she was seventy, I almost took the paint
clean off a stock car.  Her husband
of many years retired in '05,
then hurried to die - before

what they had been
waiting for began.

She was there with another man,
one young at heart
who said yes right away

when the racing dream
called him yesterday.

She had tats all over, love colors
permanently inked - reminding her
to decide to choose life,
and say yes to loving again,
and say yes to moving on,

and say yes to throwing away
the cumbersome weight of things.

A tattoo of two hands permanently
reminds her of her first man's
workaholic love that kept dreams
waiting until it was too late.

She was pissed as she missed
him - for this.

Grandkids seek and find the
inked hands hiding, and caress the
flower heart when they hug her warm
skin. They remember grandpa's love
holding them like this.

So does she.

Each flower holds a
memory they get to retouch
over and over again - like when he
balanced his teeth on his head
or put them backwards and upside
down to hear them SHRIEK.

See this other flower? When they touch
this one they see again the cigarettes
he stuck up his nose
or in his ears
to make them laugh.

So does she.

Inked love never wrinkles. When
you touch it, it stays smooth.

So does she.

This woman was light this morning. I borrowed it. 


Evergreen State Fairgrounds Speedway. Richard Petty Race Car Driving Experience. 

I Ponder

Sappho's apple, the 

 one 

left hanging in the tree. 

Were the pickers careless?

Or accidental artists 

who left a dangling 

memory 

for winter's cold forgetting 

when proof is needed, wanted, 

that summer came and 

blossomed here 

as all the world
 can see. 

Being last, the one 

 unpicked 

is a chilly situation. You 

shrivel and dry up by 

way of lonely nights
where no one
 hears you

 wail or moan.

Put me in your basket. 

Enjoy me crisp and juicy. 

Pick me. Eat me.

Sappho, please
don't leave me there
alone. 

Making Fleur de Sel

You labor hard to love me full

as sweat flies off your forehead

mixing with my tears. A salty 

spilling, we fall overboard, to

deep and dark communion places,

flower of the sea reunion spaces.

I dry these lacy crystals,

collect them in a bottle

to shake and  season savory

over all the days ahead.

Loverby is coming home tonight. Lucky, lucky me. I love my farm boy .... and homecomings. 

Waiting

Here I watch a berry begin,
first the flower's middle tousled by
a bee, then the fruited face swells, 

bewhiskered, no juice to give 

until summer carries it to 

me, ripe for wanting, 

ripe for gathering,

ripe for dripping 

down my chin. 

Wallace Falls

When did the 

stones and roots 

stumbling me 

become

stairs leading 

me toward 

higher ground? 

Wallace Falls ~ Goldbar, Washington ~ June 21, 2012 ~ Tough Hike ~ Worth it.  

Traveling

She felt my stare hard
enough in the seat in
front of me to turn
her black skin burning.
The twisted colors
kept me curious -
wondering if she wanted
to know what a silky swish
of swinging hair brushing
a bare shoulder felt like -
as much as I want to know
how a hundred braids
stay in a knot without
anything keeping the
ends from unraveling.
More than her braids I
envy the unhurried love
that handcrafted
this wearable art.

When Awake

Poetry leaves a coupling scent in
the sheets of the dream replacing
thoughts with images used to
remember feelings and awaken
again the sensation of sight.




I borrowed Either or Films title Sensation of Sight as a prompt for this. Attribution. Brilliant movie in my opinion. 

The Tour

The chemist guided us
through her house
wearing disapproval
clamped to his clipboard
of efficiencies.

When Barry, artist of fragile
assemblage asked to revisit a
private moment with a painting-
the man's wrist watch
rattled in alarm.

The chemist tied my hands behind
my back with his eagle eyes
warning me not to touch or let
my camera capture history
disintegrating before me.

I rebelled by taking my leisure
coming down stairs caressing
the banister's curls.

And again I sassed him in
the kitchen, beyond permission,
slipping my barefoot out of its
shoe rubbing love into the
wanting skin of old boards.

Toward the end we sat in Emily's
sacred room as he gave us
ugly green copies of a souvenir 
poem. He did not take notice of
Margaret's two hands cupped
supplicating to receive
the wafered words.



I wrote this right afterward, really mad. Looking back over the day, the poor man really did love Emily and wanted to share his wealth of knowledge and probably saw himself as the sole protector. My memories have grown quite fond of him at this distance. I only mourn the fact that you can't see what I saw. 


I loved seeing her room most, imagining her wide, wide view of the world of words....written on such a small desk. 


Glenworkshop East -Mt Holyoke College-June 2012-Amherst