Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Nonsensical Rhythm

Yellow drops of drizzle,  jupiter gum drops- a time of pink clouds floating on an isle of disbelief.  Time stands still days turn to nights, life stops and starts.  We see the end we see the beginning time stops for no one, who stops for you? Top of the morning end of the night, lifes a breeze chilly and dry.  Move the mountain, glide off the cliff take a breathe and enjoy the riff.  Lose the moment gain the memory- time, time, time...tick tock tick tock clocks and smocks, life goes round and round.  Little yellow butterflies float in the breeze, what do you see?  I see a box a big round box, squeeze in squeeze out leave a mark push it in.  Leave me behind, pull me in close.  Pink swirls of melted twirls keep the movement flowing, glowing, lights and twilights keep me inside the outside of this window. 


(Trying a writing game, writing without thinking.)

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Midnight Fairytales


Flowers in the Sink

I am sorry,
but I have filled
your bathroom sink
with wildflowers.
You cannot use it
to wash away your
eyeshadow and blush
and certainly not
to brush the evening
from your teeth,
but you may,
if it please you,
pick one or two --
orange poppy,
purple lemon mint,
white yarrow, perhaps,
to take with you
to bed.

Gabriel Gadfly


Friday, October 14, 2011

Pretty words, Sharp hooks, Helium Balloons

You Fit Into Me                                        
Margaret Atwood

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

Sex Without Love
Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each others bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health—just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.


On Valentine’s, a buzz
around the flower bins in the strip mall.
Outside, icy sidewalks, grubby snow.
Young men, mostly, on their lunch-break, hover
over the roses and gerberas.
A woman carries a helium balloon,
exclaiming to her friends, glad
she’s found the right thing.
Down the aisle, an old man
hesitates, gripping his cart
with its scant gleanings of bachelor food:
one-serving canned soups, Doritos,
sliced bread.  He is unshaven,
graceless, dressed like someone
who’s never had much.
In his right hand, askew, a lone
red rose in a cellophane holder
like those ruffs they put around dogs
to keep them away
from their wounds.

Monday, October 3, 2011

Beautiful Mind

The mind I love must have wild places, a tangled orchard where dark damsons drop in heavy grass, an overgrown little wood, the chance of a snake or two, a pool that nobody's fathomed the depth of, and paths threaded with flowers planted by the mind.- Katherine Mansfield