The Turmoil Of Spring


I am wearing the turmoil of Spring in my hair
I have worn it so young and so old
It’s for you that I wear Spring so zestfully there
For your heart, I am wearing Spring without a care
For your soul, well I wear Spring so bold.

But you rush thru the seasons so fast and so blind
Looking into the future so blurred
It’s for me that you strain your eyes, trying to find
Something different, a lodestone to anchor your mind
Alas, you miss the damage incurred.

I guess pacing is part of the problem, my dear
You pull hard, while I toddle along
For whatever our eyes rest on, touch on, hold near
those things take flesh and blood then they stoke up your fear
And they co-opt your voice and your song.

Can we walk thru the seasons together, our hands
Clasped gently yet joined as we wait?
You can see far, rejoice in the coming of that
I can see up close, making the moments grow fat
While the seasons just slip out the gate.

Shaking And Trembling And Speechless

It is
a strange spiraling
of meaning…
draining out
of works that
felt pregnant
with them…meanings…
Meaning.

Now?
prowled and picked over
by hurried lazy eyes
losing meaning, my poems,
like a bike tire
like a sleek balloon
gone sad and pudgy
from too many bon-bons.

See, I write them
in such a way that
it is the reader plugging
into them

that births that meaning
each one is pregnant with…
and the reader midwifes their
own “poem” in the interaction.

but I look at poems now…
living creatures that slid
into this world and onto the page
in my tears of all stripes and moods…
born of water and Spirit…

and they just seem silly, like debris
in maelstrom currents mixing with cast off Micky D wrappers
and the latest pop culture Rapper
hanging in the wastelands with the other vultures.

it is stunning, really…that they really
do not matter to anyone like they do to me…
these lil “Tardises” of words…they are just…

forlorn, they are petals after they have been
trod on by the wedding party and the departing guests
and now are at best mere curiosities better suited
for Ripley’s Believe It Or Not
instead of Lord I believe help me in my unbelief.

I think I wept
for two days
after this…
it was
so
beautiful
as it shouldered
its way in and it left me
shaking and trembling and speechless.

I think I literally babbled as I wrote.
(Sometimes I do that when I get hit
with Creative Fire…I just babble
without words because the

UUUNNNGGGHHH of creating is too
AAAUUUGGGHHHH!!!!)

And then I see the latest
hater-aide clever meme
get hit millions of times
as everyone goes

“O00000h!!! BUUURRRNNN”

and pours another cup of coffee
(one more cup of coffee before I go)
and snaps their fingers where
the newspaper used to live and
pulls up their light-stained cheeks
to the latest send up to entertainment.

And this compulsion to share…
this fucking HOPE that someday
someone would read them

from the inside out

and have their OWN babbling

UUUUNNNNGGGHHH and
AAAUUUGGGGHHH

and the words would snap to,
alive and burning and twine
into the human being’s
very own unique living poetry

just for them
and them alone.

The Sound Of Weepy Rocks

the rocks are weepy tonight
in the mist they hide,
like a sorrowful bride
beneath her veil so misty-thin,
so impenetrable.

the trees lean grey and low
in acts of love and sacrifice
and yet their branches can’t suffice
the blow, the brunt the rocks endure
in the endless name of Time.

and out upon the roiling sea
I dance the waves and they dance me
and we keep time to metronomes
so deep and quiet that their song
may simply be the sound, the weep…

the tears of the weepy rocks 

 

And Dogs Ran At Us Hard | Charissa’s Grace Notes

Last year on this day this poem came to me, along with feelings of overwhelming grief…
today, after the hunters began their work yesterday, legislative guns blazing and celebrating after…

today it makes sense.

we soared high on currents,
uplifts unseen by human eyes
but oh so visible to us,
we dancers in the skies…

ever young and long did we thus fly
until we tired and we had need of
landing, resting…

Source: And Dogs Ran At Us Hard | Charissa’s Grace Notes

Never Ending Irish Rain

Written for My Father…

“…and then you turn your head
your beautiful estrangéd face
to the other side of midnight
and behold that silky rain
(as if for the first time)

that Never Ending Irish Rain
fell green across the golden waters
and washing down those greying sands,
quiet, themselves ablaze, a-falling
like stars straight thru the night…”

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Source: Never Ending Irish Rain

Haunted, Haunting Beauty

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The place of Beauty
in a broken, breaking world,
how to recognize it
rather than define it,
those moments that stop us
dead in our fatal tracks.

Do you know beauty
is conducive to stillness?
It isn’t that which excites
or makes us want to replicate it…

Source: Haunted, Haunting Beauty

Haunting Beauty, Redux

2008-5-10 Auschwitz No 5 - 6-24-2008 750
“it has long been rumored
there was a night, that night
when Juliek, on brink of death
played Beethoven so hauntingly
in the dark for dying men, starved,
doomed to meet dark doom so soon
but regaled in that lurking dark
with beauty’s fire unquenchable…”

Source: Haunting Beauty, Redux

The Hounds Of Torquemada

sometimes scared I hear
the stink and the hot blood
rushing thru the crowds
like demons on the loose
the hounds of Torquemada

sometimes I see them
all the people in the streets
lost and in a mumble
of pain and crazy jumble
and death in every tumble

and I just wanna lay there
in the streets so dirty
teeming with the garbage
of privileged excrement
and tear my chest wide open

and with my desperate fingers
claw my hurt ribs agape
and reach in for my heart
and rip it from my soul
and hold it over head

and let my blood gush forth
in step with all my tears
and wash it all away
why can’t it wash away
oh Jesus wash, oh Jesus

why is it them not me
i think I’m gunna cry
and cry and cry and cry
while my heart bleeds and bleeds
until it’s bled all dry

Nothing Rhymes Orange

“…and the nuance is gone,
disappeared in the mist
along with soft kisses,
it’s all been dismissed

by orange fading soft
into white then returning
to orange, and orange
and then just more orange

so i sit here, i wait,
i remember another time,
other days full of
sweet music and rhyme…”Related image

 

Source: Nothing Rhymes Orange

The Sound of Beauty Silent

Standing beside gull-force winds
strong enough to blow a waterfall
back into its own face, something
no man has experienced but needs to
Image result for waterfall flowing backwards gifs
I watch Beauty roll down and meet unbelief.
And I remember all over again how I am haunted
by the ghost that grows when Beauty glows and screams
to the body transcendent and compelling and

then goes silent once again
a waterfall thundering down
and pushed away with every might
and longing stirs all over again

as I just wonder how it is
that God can be resisted, how
that God has chosen suffering, now
in person and in heaven, wonder

that God is…that God is…that

then the song is sung by Beauty’s
absence in the scattering
the scurrying, no one cannot not be aware
and longing for the shelter

of The Safe Wing Stretched Divine
though it feels ominous, and gone and here
the absence of what cannot leave
beauty…or itself.
Image result for a guillotine
a guillotine to answer to the knife in my clenched fist
and I realize I must go thru this once again, this absence
that leaves all things scattered, scurrying, suffocating
in the Stripping of the Altar, in the scattering of all

and the sound of tombs slammed shut
and the sound of screaming triumph
and the sound of darkness looming
and the sound of Beauty Silent

all compel a halt to movement
so we listen in the stillness
to the absence, to the absence
to the looming screaming absence

and the Sound of Beauty Silent

 

 

 

Good Friday 2017

everyone denied it.

that He was killed
that He was alive
that there was a Door
that the Door was closed

everyone denied it.

that there was it.
that it was.
that she was dressed
that she was it.

She knew better
because dawn had done
and blue was shining
in her golden hope

She knew open and empty
were Something.

My Offering Of Violent Worship

Born transgender…
concealed…
in rushes, in tulies
wandering deserts
and walking lonesome valleys…

and we walked around the sun
50 times, spinning, circling
while I, spinning and circling
spiraled out of myself

torn in two
or maybe parted
by Solomon’s Silver Blade
my inner me stifled and screaming
“Give Her Away! Give Her Away!”

as he just shrugged and said
“I don’t wanna be here anyway”

but then to come to myself slow
trickling back home
and draining up and in
before coming out

the sun so bright
the wind so fresh
creation dancing

and the stink of hate and horror
and the sting of brutal spittle
and eyes that bruise and stab

and the cries of the powerless
and the silence of the othered
and the dust of death settling

I dance, I sing, I SHOUT!
I whirl and lift that dust to the wind
as my offering of violent worship
of our Liberty God, Our Graceful GOD
our LOVING GOD

and I hear Their loving strong whisper:
“For such a time as this you were created”

and I take my place with Ester
and take Mary of Bethany’s hand

and settle into this truest truth for me:

“My maids and I will fast likewise.
And so I will go to the king, which is against the law;
and if I perish, I perish!”

A Handful of Memory

And again…from Last Year:

it was a village
no longer existing
it was a laugh
that echoed that village
and hung in the air

like smoke from a fire
extinguished in nightfall
and drifting in winds
and lonely midst stars
while crickets and frogs

lament as it faded
and pebbles and diamonds
all heaped up at random
and sticks and steel swords
all jumbled together…

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Source: A Handful of Memory

ever Spring, ever Autumn

My own poem from last year…I do really favor this one.

it looks the same to you
whether you stand
in winter or summer

…the gate of my heart…

The Great Gate

Source: ever Spring, ever Autumn

In Every Dear Breath

in that place…
it only exists
between your lips
when you are sleeping

and I am awake…
it’s the same place
between the dark
freshly plowed field

and the deep night sky…
I live there, quick
in every dear breath,
in between them as well

touching your parted teeth
the way moon touches sea
my love touches you
your want touches me

I am a doorway
eternity dwells
and we enter thru
in every dear breath.

Where The Light Passes In

Do you know the place where the light passes in?
That’s where you’ll find me when darkness is seeping
from crevice and cranny while Spring trudges weeping
I sit in the place where the light passes in.

You’ll find me there singing of beautiful life
and of faith like pure gold burnished shiny with hope
as my tears fall like diamonds so soft in the wind
In that place where the light, where the light passes in.

Listen…you barely can sound out the echoes
that buzz in the trees and bounce off the crags
and run back and forth from my mouth to my chin
In the place where the light passes in, passes in

It’s tempting to think that I never have lived
a sad day or a bad day when dark gathers grim…
But I have…what’s the secret? Outside and In?
Why I let the light pass thru, and out, and then in…

I’m the place where the light, where the light passes in.

The Fog Like Still Joy

the fog gathers, nesting
over the deep quiet glen
dialing down sunlight
damping every sound

in this gloam my supple soul
nestles in, gives up control
and ceases struggle to be good,
or important, or subtle

and she feels the fog like still joy.

if you wish to care for the soul
you must decide it matters
more than human life
and simply know…still

 

Our Sacred Desert Story

We set out on tender feet
and tender hearts to match
and faces become flint as we
determined that we would not faint.

When our sojourn was hip deep in heat
and we were well and away, out to sea
she told me of the heartbreak and the horror
and there how we did rain our tears…

We took turns (while we wiled the desert paths away)
swimming away from the ship of us…naked, vulnerable
and healing in the slick water…further and further
and then return and up and back into our desert ship.

It was in the sunset wrought with haze from distant destinations
that make you think about fire, and about what might have been.
We, perched on that rock solid emanating heat and spitting healing
while the sky, bruised by our advances, turned purple in our song.

It was just Day Umpteen Kazillion in our great traverse of deserts,
we walking, swimming straight by myth and extraterrestrial,
feeding on lizards, trilobites, and our sacred Stories our Communion shared
and we, oh so close to our arriving, our becoming, our sacred Desert Story.

 

The Land That I Haunt

Simple, slow
embodied in sinew
and oiled with sweat
traversing territory
between the heart
and the mind…

this is the song of the strong soaring soul
this is the song of the wind in the night
this is the song of retreat into wholeness
this is the song of those swaying stars swinging

in the midst of the tumult of hurried compassion
dwelling in antipode virtue of soul
mired in distant connection called intimate
sucking the bloated cold teat of efficiency

this is the loss of the soul…

and what of me?

I am not quick, yet
I move like the lightening
singing and zinging and sizzling bright
kissing the stars and empowering earth

this is the land that I haunt with my life

Resurrection In Purple Flow

Sometimes when
I am in the presence
of the royal mountain

I can’t help myself.

I run purple, violet
I feast on fallen blossoms
(somehow the fallen sing more
of loss, of all that comes before

Resurrection
in purple flow

This Darkened Path Of Self-Examination

Your vain cold words wielded like an ax
against a tree because you’re cold in spite
of that conflagration blazing behind you
but that ax slinks solo chopping at
a frozen sea that once was us, so insufficient

and now?  It’s just more ice-pick chipping, adding to
that devastating sea of loathing and despair you swim in
like a leper in the Dead Sea of yourself.

Common grief can crack a frozen wall, but a frozen sea?
Alas, this grief is singular…and you giving, so giving…now
but only of more death and dumb destruction…

where was this giving when there was something more to give
besides grief and chippy picking needle peck peck peck ing?

I am searching in dark difficult corners because the light is empty, Fool…

and ‘neath that barrage of belittling comments I face our story,
our scandal, which is merely the scandal in every story that you refuse to read…
instead you hide under that pervasive smothering attitude

while I gasp for air and fumble with my flaws in the shuddering dark
you trumpet your search for beams of darkness that occlude specks of light,
light that irritates our eyes to tears and tear that frozen sea to pieces,
tear my frozen flesh to pieces…

It’s the difficult, dimly lighted places that require much more,
a merciful throne compels transparency that a dictator sees
as only weak capitulation…but it is here…

In the shadow of incarnation I find the strength to walk this…
this darkened path of self-examination.

Abandonment

This was my being’s experience for too many years, and the first poetic attempt to deal with the major stronghold of my life…and the gif at the end…brrr…I lived in terror of those footsteps on the stairs, coming towards me with harsh words and blows…

Source: Abandonment

Fire With Fire

All it takes is a word…just one.
It gets free and yeah, so it trods a toe
but hey that’s okay cus the point is so
important, potent.

Then a couple words,
and a sideways slide
and down the hill
a ways

but that is acceptable
too, because this
is so important

well, the next thing you know
you’re in the WWE (even tho
you’re the good guy)

and death is okay because
you HAVE to fight
fire with fire.

The Very Thing You Hate

It starts small.

Just one word,
connects almost
without effort to
another word

and they twist
together a corkscrew
actually…

and suddenly
that cork slides
so easy so tight so slick

and then
such popping
sudden relief!

the bottle in
a heart so bitter
is open at last
invective is free

but just a sip
then a glug
(one must be
careful you see
to apply bitterness carefully)

just to make a point

just to become
the very thing
you hate

 

When Words Are Written Here

there, in clouds and nothing but clouds
above and below as I…walked?  Or did I
swim, or fly, and in the distance
hearing songs of you…and clouds

obscure and yet they also part
and thru the silver mist She came…
Her Heart and Ears and Eyes (the singing)
stilled and still and still She came Singing

and in this cloudy parting is the only knowing needed
that I am Her child, Her emissary
sent to bend what thinks itself straight
and straighten what is broken, bent.

Me the paper, pen and ink
Mama, unsayable, beyond the think,
the clouds, the parting, emerging and wordless
song…and She the emerging and yes

the clouds parting

when words are written here

 

After A Disdaining Blue Jay

Chilly Morning stretches
night-swaddled wings
(damp in the dawn)

In the frosty filagree
from the handrail
of the back deck
a Blue Jay disdains
the silent feeder
with two quick breaths

puff puff
A galaxy birthed twice
in blue breath

and floats off

in the cold
silent air

in the
morning light

In The Slanted Dust

Language straining paralytic,
thrashing around in a kerfuffle
of dust and cant and sorrow…

exhausting itself and
still and side by desperate
side with Experience…

As Melody
eludes the lack
of knowing hands
delicate and stands
free and unfettered
and still a Mystery
to Language, to
Experience

Ears made for melodies
run to dance and spin
in the Slanted Dust.

Not My Poem…But Yes, Mine

Trumbull Stickney – “Song” (poem)
Song

A bud has burst on the upper bough
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
I know where the pale green grasses show
By a tiny runnel, off the way,
And the earth is wet.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Not yet.”)

I nabbed the fly in a briar rose
(The linnet to-day in my heart did sing);
Last night, my head tucked under my wing,
I dreamed of a green moon-moth that glows
Thro’ ferns of June.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “So soon?”)

Good-bye, for the pretty leaves are down
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
The last gold bit of upland’s mown,
And most of summer has blown away
Thro’ the garden gate.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Too late.”)
– Trumbull Stickney, 1874-1904

“Song” Notes

  • a linnet is melodious songbird finch
  • a runnel is a narrow watercourse
  • a gold bit mown is a field of hay

A Different End To The Story

This is about an event that happened last year…a full grown male human who exercised his power and privilege over other humans who were utterly powerless against him…UTTERLY POWERLESS.

Come to think of it…it fits the absolute fucker, trump, as well.


All full of himself and stiff
gait wobbly, bopping up and down
walk waggly, blipping circley side-side
aggressive lean forward looking
for something to pierce, to rip

pent up all day inside the clothes of decency…

Source: A Different End To The Story

My Vibrant Words

Another work from last year…I really like this poem!


it’s strange, how my words
are vibrant now, and safe…

my words are safe in themselves

they used to need your eyes
like vines need their trellis
eyes constant and seeing
and singing in the wind…

Source: My Vibrant Words

My Exodus

Reposting a poem from last year…any good poem applies at a number of different levels, some known and some unknown and waiting to be discovered…

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I moved away while you weren’t watching
(it was easier than I thought it would be,
escaping past your X-Ray eyes
that look for flesh and blood
and thus missed my exodus)

I live by the sea, now…

Source: My Exodus

Blue There Living

The recent poems I published are my first since my surgery.
I find them quite informative to my rambunctious mind.

They jumped up, arms raised, excited small children
who wish the teacher would call on them, thus
sort of birthing them into the soft pure
air of truth, astonished at the blue
blue blue there,
living
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The Edge Of Truth And Wonder

when I happened
upon this floating
basket run
aground there, on
the edge of water

and land, the edge
of full and empty
the edge full
of sky and space

I wondered
about who had
taken the child
who laid there in

the basket, in
that place and in
the edge between
those flowers gathered

in the edge
of truth and wonder

Boats Of Beauty

Some people think
these boats aren’t real,
are just conjured up
from mid air and
the rare taste
of my desire,
pungent, raw
and sweeter than
pure honey dripping
off the velvet
waters of time

but conjured boats,
the only boats
that float in dream time,
real Behind Time
on the surface
of the waters
in all places,
and all times

in every ever,
every where

the conjured
boats of beauty

Night Air

like the blossoms
soft and pink
and tender reaching

branches gentle
tracing tender
secrets of the

night and edges
on the glowy
downy silky

milky moon
so limerent, high,
so beautiful…

my fingers crawl
across your cheek
(your sleepy cheek)

kissing
caressing
blessing

in
the still
night air

 

Roses out of Ruins


She walked, head held high
like a servant who pilfered a sweetcake
from the grouchy old cook
(who ruled her kingdom with iron,
a slave who fancied herself sovereign).

She took their glances, their …

Source: Roses out of Ruins

Under The Ice (For Jennifer, In The Winter Of Her Recovered Contents)

it’s a dark desert to be endured
it’s some kind of bleak mountain
to be climbed, it’s boring and grey
and monotonous but it’s equal parts
beautiful and devastating too
1-3or_1c2iwiwjvwsori6jvgit sees the sorrow in everyday occurrences.

it’s a man drunk at a party because
he doesn’t know anybody and plays the fool.

it’s a woman who tries on a dreamy
dress at a boutique and feels bad for
wanting something nice for herself.
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these snapshots of despair
seem so trivial in isolation
but they are oh so meaningful
these moments of weariness

they tell us we’re not alone
they let us feel sad while
they rip our souls to pieces

they are so gorgeously wrought
and exacting at the same time.
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this hurts me

I’m not sure if this
is a recommendation
or a confession.

I adore deeply
I have changed my life,
been cut to my core

but these moments
they are bleak
these moments
they hurt
the-gray-tree-1911-jpgblog
their painful penumbra glows
with sharp, precise clarity
and everything else
before and after
feels like
a fuzzy
dream
8e9c027e6c3af7d6e42a49dc643dcf4e
it skulks along a snowy New England lane
so beautiful that you hardly even notice
the despair lurking there under the ice

you’ll see what I’m talking about
under the ice and sinking down
into the forever bony grip
of a moment

a moment
of weariness.
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Oh Brazil! You Never Knew Me!

I recall writing this in somewhat of a fugue…for my bestie Dani.


Landscape of Disruption and thick Decadence
washing ever over me in those thin emerald waves
teal and deep blue, muddy yellow and tan.

Your streets of light and music,
aimless, drifting bacchanalia…

Source: Oh Brazil! You Never Knew Me!

Miriam’s Song

A poem from 3 years ago…seems appropriate in light of the marches!


Roll back stormy waters, roiling steely dark and deep.
Roll back clinging finger-waves and the icy grip they keep.
Make a way thru waters where there isn’t any way
And lead me laughing, walki…

Source: Miriam’s Song

In Arpeggio Miles

Ohhh CONSTANCE!!  I have been transcribing this poem for a friend, the lovely Michelle Terry (Hi Grl!!)…and I fell in love with it again.  Aaauuggghh!!  I LOVE THIS POEM.

It’s about an evening that plays out between two hearts, two souls…it plays out between The Earth and Space…it plays out between waters and land, and heart and bodies…it plays out between Love and Lover and back again…it plays out between the carnal and the ineffable…desire and Desire…

it plays out between where it happens and where It Happens…

And Subjects…The Divine and Human, Self and Self, Self and Subject…

I like my metaphors and use of them…I like the references and hints dropped.  I like the movements, from Prelude to Finale.  It is sensual and spiritual all at once, and it still feels really good.

Some critics have told me it is too long…perhaps they are right…but I allus ask them what do they expect me to do about that?? For I have about as much say over how long it is as I do how tall you are!

If you’re a new reader and dabbling, I hope you will take a run…   ❤

In Arpeggio Miles

Prelude:
There is an indigo bunting
outside my window singing
in the moonlight streaming by
a million miles an hour.
But it is not the window
on my mind tonight…
I keep returning to that door…

Source: In Arpeggio Miles

Sonnet Of The Phoenix (For JD)

Oh Holy Lightning Strike like Griffin Swift
upon this yearning heart in desperate need
of Your Mercy Severe, Your Holy Gift
Give us Grace to Find the Phoenix-Way!

To rise in faith from Ashes and from death
to self and self reliance, come what may!
On resurrection wings and Spirit’s breath
alive again and all is well this night

that breaks and shatters with the rising dawn…
and not a single fire road in sight,
and what will be well it shall simply be
and what will not be well it will be gone!
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Come Holy Fire, we answer Your Call!
and All Reborn, and Love is All in All,

“Someday…someday the snow will fall!”

Dread and Presences

I am reblogging this poem from 2 years ago…here is the key passage:

“I step to the rail and look back
peering intently into the fog
thick and lingering,
but 2014 is shrouded, hidden
and if I hadn’t lived it
I wouldn’t have believed it
was anything more
than a dream.

It was a year that hollowed out
thinned out, emptied out
but never declared its intention.
I don’t think it ever knew
or if it even could…”

Charissa's Grace Notes

Dread.

I feel it still.
Laying at the base of my throat and throbbing
dully, quietly slumbering with one leering eye
cocked open always and leaning towards my heart.

My heart…
chipped and worked, touched and chilled
by the frozen fingers of dread

and shards of it lay scattered at my feet
clear, jagged glimmering
broken.tumblr_nf01s3Hemc1sjr8bdo1_1280

I step to the rail and look back
peering intently into the fog thick and lingering,
but 2014 is shrouded, hidden
and if I hadn’t lived it I wouldn’t have believed it
was anything more than a dream.

It was a year that hollowed out
thinned out, emptied out
but never declared its intention.
I don’t think it ever knew or if it even could.

It was a year without windows
but many doors
and ladies
and tigers.

There is more to life than meets the eye,
more than can be measured by the senses or a census
but this morning there is just the fog behind
and…

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Silken Tears: Written in the memory of Leelah Alcorn

As a poem…I love this one.  I was blessed to capture some delicate and beautiful imagery, and it emerged in a nice meter that is augmented by the rhyming patterns and their shifting nature…matching the shifting nature of the poem.

Frankly, I was envious of her…and horrified with myself that I was so…this was written in Leelah Alcorn’s memory.

I cannot read this without weeping.


i saw her there, in the dark woods,
so fair of movement, fair of face
she walked beneath the milky moon
and bathed in silken light like lace.

she glowed with beauty’s blessing kist
upon her b…

Source: Silken Tears: Written in the memory of Leelah Alcorn

This Brilliant Indifference


I am a childe of dark, a childe of light.
I was born beneath the shining moon but just outside it’s golden touch there, on dim green meadows blanketing the warm red earth
in comfort midst the…

Source: This Brilliant Indifference

Between the Lines

I need to repost this poem from a couple years ago a day early…and I don’t even want a SHADOW of eyes on this that aren’t willing to LABOR today to birth understanding of what I am writing about…

it’s so fucking obvious what I am writing about…

I am writing about what we are all mealy mouthing by blaming it on a specific year (as if the year were a shambling zombie…as if the year were different than any other year, as if WE were not the shining difference every goddam SECOND)…

but every single person SHOULD labor with this poem, and labor HARD…

cus it’s the liturgy you will need as you’re pulled inexorably to your end…

if you DO decide to click on this…then really get your hands into it, and don’t go looking for pretty words and cutesy lil poetic kuans…cus this aint it.

This is the blood of a Poetess…

this is the stuff of poetry, however poorly executed it is in my fumbly arthritic heart whose joints ACHE and SEETHE with rage at death and grief at the ways we pull our snugglies around us and pretend…

Jenniferlittermate, there will be much balm for you here, you are indeed ready.

“…and there I walk, alone between the lines,
my feet upon the ties, the ties that bind
and my heart ponders lines, and ties and spaces
in between the lines, the ones inside of me and what is hidden
there to see by those who stop and look and listen

…and take the time to read between the lines…”


Tree-lines mark the end of alpine meadow-frolics green
and the start of stone relief against the ever-constant skies
stretched out in steely greys and stellar silver blue sky-lines,
and space between the lines…

Source: Between the Lines

The Poem “Just”? 


Hey dear ones… Has anyone read “Just“? It’s posted a day or so ago… Not a like or comment… Does it suck? Is the homophone play just too much?

I’m curious, cus this was birthed in that lil flurry of poems regarding time… But just was not singing enough… Until I saw a tie to time and diminishment and justice cutting up and down that continuum…

You can take out the word just… And it limps along off-balance… A commentary in itself…