I Want…

I want my poetry to convey the Beauty behind the beauty.
I want to tell you of the Heart behind the core.
I want to show you the Sacred pulsing in all profane.
I want to show you the Meaning midst the random.

It isn’t enough to be pretty.
It isn’t enough to rub noses in ugly.

I want to scratch you…permanently…that you would ever then Bleed Desire and Longing for that Sacred Heart, that eternal Blood of the Diving running thru everything…always.

Beautiful and Meaningful.

Write that on my tombstone…but only if it’s True.

This Morning’s Purple Fog

this morning’s purple fog
slapped my cheeks hard
when I left the house
they were rosy red and pink
but now?
deep purple–
bluish violet blush–
by the purple fog.

it shocked me
with its iridescence
and made me
bite my lip to stifle
exclamation, exhalation
of purple mist breathed in
thru my clenched teeth
and open heart.
and now?
with my mouth so bloody
so torn and pierced,
I seek to write and lips
my pen and paper yes,

I write with
my bloody lips
and scribe with
my bloody mouth
as the bloody breath
of the winter-sotted earth
rises from those
spring-dreaming dirt clotted lungs

and slaps
my cheeks hard…again
with this morning’s purple fog.

Say Not A Word

Hush, Love…
say not a word
as I sit here in light
and desire is wafting
in shivery delight

see how it settles
and falls out of air?
Here, on my shoulder
precipitates there in
a silvery sheen of dewy desire
my love a
melty hot flower of
say not a word, Love
but if you wish
you may bend close
here, to taste of my neck.

The Final Coming Thaw

I am floating on free seas held captive
in the ice of your remove and shrewd appraisal.

My heart passion like living rock moving
red and liquidy, red like plasma pulsing
scorchy and inexorably drawn in hungry
longing for the icy stillness of you.

And where we meet, I melt
you, steamy/dreamy, and yet
you run quick-cold to the reaches
and rime-rimmed rocks and reefs…

And there I sit, captive in you
and waiting for the thaw of Love
to be finally completed.

Your Approaching Presence

Dressed in red
and wrapped in white
I wait in warmth,
wait in splendour
for the high and shivery
delight of your approaching
presence, in your silver
laughter, in your ringing
song that echoes off the stones
and reaches here inside
these ermine furs
so soft.

The Birds of Desire

“She was like a forest,
like the dark interlacing
of the oakwood,
humming inaudibly
with myriad unfolding buds.
the birds of desire
were asleep
in the vast interlaced
intricacy of her body.”
— D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lovertumblr_nph40vd8QN1t0lovho1_1280

Thoughts of Connection

I love thought that runs in this fashion…not on “eros” as a topic…but the way in which it is discussed.

This is Signifier and Signified Thinking and a good example of it.

Eros is an issue of boundaries. He exists because certain boundaries do. In the interval between reach and grasp, between glance and counterglance, between ‘I love you’ and ‘I love you too,’ the absent presence of desire comes alive.
“But the boundaries of time and glance and I love you are only aftershocks of the main, inevitable boundary that creates Eros: the boundary of flesh and self between you and me.
“And it is only, suddenly, at the moment when I would dissolve that boundary, I realize I never can.
Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet


“Chill”…and I concede, gladly!!

Chill has now slithered into our romantic lives & forced those among us who would like to exchange feelings & accountability to compete in the Blasé Olympics with whomever we are dating. Oh, I’m sorry, I mean whomever we’re ‘hanging out with.’  Whomever we’re ‘talking to.’
     “Chill asks us to remove the language of courtship and desire lest we appear invested somehow in other human beings. To even acknowledge that there might be an emotional dimension to talking or dating or hanging out or coming over or fucking or whatever the kids are calling it all these days feels forbidden.
     “It is a game of chicken where the first person to confess their frustration or confusion loses.
Against Chill” by Alana Massey


Desert Tryptich

Crunch-snik skitter-slide and trudge
has been my journey
step by step for long years.
The shifting sands lugubriously,
mockingly move and break promises
of direction, affirmation, guidance
and I am left thirsty again,
having drunk not even gall.
Yet sands still mount in dunes,
in waves, in mute grinding grains
of dull grey gold, and
will not end,
will not stop,
will not relent.

I have discovered
that one doesn’t die of thirst
when the water-words never come,
when the oasis is a cruel ostrich
buried in sand to avoid seeing me.
No, one lives on, persistently
dead in that cruel and sharp core,
throbbing and pulsing pain

(who knew
death hurt
so much,
so long,
so wide,
so deep?)

I turn to survey the cold and thriving
stubborn rim of flourishing thorns
and brush and stunted trees
that snigger behind my back
as they spot one of their own
without the sense to stop
walking and put down roots
and become assimilated.

Mountains stained
blood-light red and purple-bloat
rise in front, and promise a desert end.
Rain falls and I feel blessed relief
on my cheeks, eyes and tongue,
thirst promising to slake
and they touch the sands
and are swallowed up
by hunger so great it is as if
the rain was never there.
Crunch-snik scrinch skitterslide
towards those lofty promises
capped with frozen drink that
shouts to my heart

“Your fire, your fire will melt me and
I will soothe your dry throat always and
you will thirst no more”.

But when I get there, I find I was wrong,
for the snow crunch-sniks like sand,
I skitterslide and trudge as always
thru the same cold and empty world
And I see that like sand,
snow will not melt to become elixirs
I so desperately long for.

I will always long to be beautiful, desired, worthy…
but those jewels belong
to sun, sand, snow and
shall never be apples
in this cactus orchard of desert
to which I cross.