I Don’t Need To Go To Paris

I can stay right here,
no passport, no visa
no access to that fairytale
land of opportunity and liberty

I don’t need to go to Paris
to find those willing
to gun me down, blow me up,
kill me in the name
of their bloodthirsty god
called gender.

Those terrorists
walk the streets
of my world behind
white faces, middle class manners
and smirks to rival the Riddler’s.

Paris comes to me
everyday.

That Eternal Aftermath

It’s burst,
that Red Balloon floating
over the spindly-legged delicate
black lace Eiffel.

It splattered balloony-guts
in violent gouts
so grotesque
it’s nearly absurd,
and their
rubbery red-joke streaks
on the side
of that squatty arc
are anything but
Triomphe.

That’s how it works, terrorism…
that shock,
that
out-of-the-blue-blow-up
and your life
is doomed to never
the same
and yet never
recover
rinse-repeat cycle…

That’s how it is…
in my own private Paris,
misogynistic othering
phobic policing
sacks of pure hatred
shitting swaths
of bullets from
gender-uzis
and bursting Balloons here
and over the rainbowtumblr_ml9q09f3Za1rlrdqeo1_1280

Our Paris, our Pretty Poetic Paris

Good morning Constance…and Pamela!  🙂

If you have been reading here a while you will know that I was sooo blessed by Mama to run across Lynda Bullerwell…her site is over at forget-me-not .
I am continually amazed by her poetry and the truly significant and moving poems she writes.  But even more, I have been amazed and warmed and felt such connection in how it is as if we share the same muse, a flitty lil fairy of the realm Poetic who loves to sprinkle her magic pixie-poety dust upon us each, and then scrape if off and sprinkle the mix onto each other!

There have been times when we wrote nearly the exact same poem, and yet it had different clothes on, and revolved around different images, but it was still the same one…and lately for me, as I have been choked by sorrow, burdened by betrayal and assaulted by online a-holes, Lynda has been my surrogate, and has written out my own hurts and haunts and hallelujahs.

I am ever so grateful…company in this life, especially in inner spaces that had always been solitary territories, is such a gift, such a precious gift.

Lynda wrote a poem yesterday, which just pulled a comment out of me as if I had been with her in the poem’s conception and making.  It tumbled out of me breathless and intoxicated and full of determination to tattoo itself to our outside skin just as Lynda’s poem had tattooed itself inside our heart.

Lynda loved it (thank you for that, Sis), and suggested that I post the comment…and I thought that a collaborational moment may even be better?  She loved that too.

So here is our poem…hers, and mine.  I am taking liberties with her lines and meter.  Any deficiences therein are my mistakes, and any glories revealed were already there.

PS:  Lynda, if it just simply cannot work for you, let me know and I will put it in its original form, which is just fine!  It was the collaborative notion that appealed to me!

Love, Charissa

Our Paris, our Pretty Poetic Paris

ONE:  Just Desserts
(Our, our Poetic)

We could visit Paris, walk in the rain
without an umbrella and sit
on the steps of Eglise Saint-Etienne-du-Mont
when the clock strikes twelve and we are back
in that club rubbing shoulders with Hemingway;
shots of wisdom swirling in cocktail glasses
with cherries, olives or whatever you fancy;
culture parading its diversity
in paintings by Picasso

that make you take a second look

and wonder where a mind could go
to find such muse, blue and clearer than sea water,
these syllables that taunt you in your sleep,
weigh on you in vibrant colors of indigo, azure;
scents of lavender filling pretty stationary
tempting you to write, scratching you
from the inside, these words dying to escape
from pink painted lips that only
want to feel that last goodnight kiss.

TWO: Post-Midnight Aperitifs
(Paris, Pretty Paris)

…but when my limpid pen stirred
to stroke across the paperskin, to move
light mountains like what we saw, it only
squeaked with dry throat and trembled
…oh that wine, it made me laff and you
looked so CUTE with that escargot, and omg
did our sexy waiter actually brush your arm???  
and hey thanks for that lil white flower,
truth is it breaks my heart

more than this Picasso guy, cus he’s no Van Gogh…

…and your laughing lullabye to me last nite
as we slept, you there, and me here,
our stockings half on half off, in
our intoxicated heady cuvée
of life and grape and sea and garden
and you silly songed me to sleep…
…but i most of all loved when
you saw him, Hemingway and pointed
him out to me and me drunk just a scosh,

I said he looked like Hawmingway

cus he hemmed and hawed so much
trying to figure out if he wanted to be brave or to be dead
…and you cackled
like the gypsy woman did when we
put those
silly hats on our heads backwards and sideways
while we lingered at her table there in the street
and
 she spelled the money out of our purses
…most of all I loved that…
cus you made me feel 
brave and knowing
that i was vital and alive and would never die 

no matter how tired and sleepy i eventually get.

Love, your companion in our Paris,
our Principality of Poetry in
our Province of Wonder…
your co-conspiritor Charissa,
Sis