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Wake me from the plunder
of being kissed
on the lips by unripened pears
A card board bird’s beak
smeared radioactive with soured honey
Held in molten silence I’m feeling the raptor burn through
as I burst into pustules fish scales and flight
through mute voices
ignoring
the dying of my light
~
~
Artist: Dan Casado
~
Again I woke earlier than you this morning.
Opening the blinds in the next room
I stood there watching the sun move closer
a lover traveling through glass spun from sand
~
The floor was still cold under my bare feet from the night I wanted to
lift myself into the air and dive back down
splashing into the ocean of our bed
making waves of spice and salt and substance
But for some reason I hesitated…
If I laid down next to you
I was struck with the thought that I’d witness your dreams fading
as you turned and opened your eyes.
I didn’t want to chance what I’d see.
And I knew
I’m growing too used to your rambling distances as you angle into a place
further and further away
But who am I to say you’re lost except to me
even intimacy closes certain doors
~
Too often though you prefer to face the wall
While I ? well
Standing here watching you sleep like this
I know now I’m turning towards the sun
~
~
~
I have a small shrine outside my bedroom doorway. Every time I pass the shrine I know I’m praying. Sometimes my eyes glance to the side as I pass. Most often I can keep moving. Then there are the times I stop and I bow my head. Or sometimes I have to raise my arms up high. It all depends on how much I have to say.
Also … I start the day with a really good breakfast and when I get down to the end, I always leave the last bite for the garbage gods.
I definitely give the neighborhood trees my allegiance … nothing overt … I just make sure I look up as I pass. And I’ve started to pick up any litter I find in the alley.
As you can see, I try to spread my religion throughout the whole week. When I pass people on the sidewalk, I look them in the eyes to see if they see me. If they do I’ll smile. Otherwise we can stay invisible. I show respect.
Sundays are different. It’s not because it’s religion. They’re looser. I admit, it’s a little hard if I’m lonely because then it would really be nice to have someone to tighten things up. But usually everything’s great. And I don’t need to pray on Sundays. It’s a free day.
~
artist: Mitsi:b
~
Cold toes
Slip them under me I’ll warm them like they’re endangered species
But rest from words percolating as you thaw It’s far from spring
Sinking into the rhythms of our warming blood
chanting pheromones lost to icy blue snow
we morph like changeling far north foxes as the hairs rise on our skin
Our winter eyes dilating wide opening into internal circuitry
we go humming and sliding off the depths of winter’s edge
~
~
~
We’ve grown tired of being pinched by small rusted tacks
holding tight meant to toughen our skin
plastered like pictures cut from a magazine pinned to
our bellies our faces our sins
~
Listen you old schemers
we’re not looking for saviors
nor suckling blind messengers peddling your news
~
We seek grounding instead
in the wild fecund darkness
deeply cocooned in a memory unbound
Listening to choirs of winged ones spinning
from the silk of our own lightened stories now loosened
and taking flight from the sound
~
~
Photo credit: felixinclusis.tumblr.com
~
~
In the stunned summer sun
rows upon rows of
silent corn stand
their postures attentive
but ineffective
except in the order of things.
I hover somewhere overwhelmed
between grief and loss
Imagining
three sisters rambling in freshened fields
corn, beans and squash
a symbiotic sweet milk of the earth
~
The abduction of the corn
entered altered chastened
bound now to precision
replication
A singular armada of swollen ears
no longer listening
~
A survivor
I depend on the humblest herbs
too common to become a sport
Drinking teas steeped in wildness
we mingle in the blood
By moving together though
we gain momentum
Instead of rubbing salt
like two sticks to start a fire
lamenting these golden
hollow walls
~
~
artist: Michal Lukasiewicz
~
~
In a clearing
the ice covered pond
reflects the cool sun’s glare
~
sleeping dreaming waking
The green light at the bottom of the pond is kept on
~
The writings in books
are like skates on the pond
Cutting figures in the ice
while staying
on the surface of dreams
~
Mermaids come as night falls
cutting holes
from the bottom of the ice
singing their siren songs
to awaken the sleeping minutes
of hearts and minds
keeping time
~
While hurrying clouds congregate
rebellious against the moon
and I sit here alone
in dark wonder
watching the glow
from the warming fire
~
The bright moon
My breath in the air
All I hear is stillness
~
A living journal, my poems are weaving and circling around themselves…puzzles unwinding in a clearing…a dialogue now in waves more than starts and fits, editing me….
””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””
~
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/gomattolson/3238276252/”>gomattolson</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a>
~
~
Along with 1000’s of other wildlings, Coyopa’s poem “Sometime a Wild God” stirs well the male embers. Mark Lewis’s reading is howling good.
As some of you may have noticed, December saw a flurry of attention for the poem ‘Sometimes a Wild God.’ I’m really not sure quite what happened, but I know that facebook was heavily involved. The site went from getting about 250 views each week to almost 20,000 just before Christmas. Yes, 20,000. Thankfully, we’re back down to about 100 a day now. Phew.
Perhaps it was the solstice, perhaps it was some fortuitous conjunction of the outer stars. Perhaps it’s just a mystery and that’s that, but I’m glad – there’s nothing that feeds a writer’s self-belief more than having lots of people from all over the world saying how much they like the writer’s work. And – in the wake of four years’ studying and a distinct lack of soul-nourishing-deep-water-poetry-inspiring time, for all that I’ve managed to drag up the occasional word-nugget from the poetry-veins deep…
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~
Dark glasses in the sun hiding blindness
I’ve been running ahead while looking back
until
collecting silent clues
I’m becoming a butterfly amongst the bees
winging it
as I find my way
down the dark passage
of singing shells
~
Finding a winter rhythm this year is a bit like being in a jerky elevator…..best laid plans, just get to the floor and open the door. The words coming slow in a weathered suspension, collecting clues from poems becoming puzzles….meaning pivoting on just one word … the rhythm finding me in a slow molasses changing well- engrained routines, unsettling boundaries used to the intimacies of osmosis.
Words embracing form
Even substance cannot slow to definition
the holiness of momentum
~
“””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””””
~
The Poetics of Light 