Time After Time

We live on borrowed time,
a day, a moment lost
in a convoluted continuum,
living to the minimum
just to be safe.

Living less won't get you there.
There's no time bank where
you redeem mediocrity
for that One Golden Moment
of youth
or love
or the perfect vermouth
in life's Martini.

The bold move won't
guarantee the maiden, but it's worth a shot...
The meek might be waiting
a long time to inherit
what's left of the earth.

miscellany

Do we voracious readers, who live in our books, do we search for who to be, trying on fictional identities - looking for the key to ourselves? As if the key will let us into a wholly formed personality, a fully furnished room to let?

For Sale

Quentin Tarantino came by today
to look at that bedroom suite.

Sweet.

He's living over in Black Forest now,
disguised as a fireman.

I recognized him right away though.

NaNoWriNoMo

Gotta report, NaNoWriMo is not on the agenda this year. I had plans, but there you go. I am working on a sestina that has my head spinning, but the edits I intended to accomplish on my erstwhile novel, 'Strays,' are just not getting done. As a justification, I might add: I completed a grant application for a client, am in the process of distilling the poetry for a chapbook, made significant progress on my quilt, got the downstairs windows replaced, put out two postcards, designed my Christmas card, attended a workshop at Kozo, and managed three weeks ago to incur some vague not very important discomfort to my hip by moving too many boxes and items of furniture that should not be moved by Someone's Sainted Mother.

It's November. Only the duck hunters and the deer slayers need bestir themselves. Since returning from Illinois, I have to admit to symptoms of being entirely smitten, entirely unexpectedly, entirely absorbed in this whimsy. So forgive me, imaginary readers, for my sins of omission, if sins they be. Small crimes, more likely.

Hiding in Heaven

I can just see you up there,
tipped back in an old chair on the porch,
sipping a beer,
looking down on our foolishness.

You're chewing snoose, spitting
into an old soup can.
'Gol-damn, I thought they'd know better
by now.'

Apparently we didn't learn a thing
in the last twenty years - no surprise there.
You're the only one among us had any sense.

Sure as I'm born, I know you're up there:
all dogs go to heaven and you were a bad dog.
A handsome dog.
Dog-gone.

Singing ReNee Home

My dear cousin Maurice's wife, ReNee left us in mid-October. She was surrounded by children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren holding her hand, stroking her hair, singing the hymns she taught them, generation unto generation. This is a prayer for ReNee.

Light a candle, the light has dimmed,
Light a candle and sing a hymn.
We're singing ReNee home.

Light a candle and say a prayer.
Turn around, she'll still be there.
We're singing ReNee home.

Light a candle, the light stays on.
Her grace and love within us strong.
We're singing ReNee home.

Light a candle, sing to the sky.
The beacon shines on, Heaven is nigh.
We're singing ReNee home.

crazy marie

is a dog warden
in the mad river valley

she lives in vermont
these days

the first time i saw her,
she was like a neon sign
lighted from within.

i said, who are you?
and i want to be your friend -
whadday think about that?

she was pretty cool about it.
after all, i was a potential
customer.

it didnt surprise me she sold
electronics,
with all that light within.

i never bought anything
she sold.
but she shared her light.

you drive a hard bargain

i'm all right
alone, i think
i am.

i was, anyway

until you rolled up in that gold
oldsmobile:
'you'll look good in this, babe.
wanta take a ride?'

i said, 'sure.
sure, i do.
i'd like a ride.'

we drove north
and then back home.

you took me back home,

in your gold oldsmobile.

Brew Me Another Cup

Your coffee's too weak for me,
may as well drink milk and tea.
It won't take me where I need to be.
Your coffee's too weak for me.

I take my coffee black:
just take this cup right back.
It won't make my heart go pitty pat.
Your coffee's too weak for me.

I like my coffee black and strong,
Black and strong, you can't go wrong.
It'll hit me fast and last soooooo long.
Your coffee's too weak for me.

C'mon over here and brew another cup.
We can work on gettin' it up
to snuff.

Stay the Night

Stay the night, he said,
as the dull oaks and blazing
maples retreated into the
dusky hillside, the hillside
slipping into eternal night.

Stay the night, he said,
as distant coyotes howled
at the sorrowful silver moonrise,
moonlight bleeding into indigo sky,
the soundless sky clear and vast.

Stay the night he said,
and led the way.
Moonlight and shadow held the night at bay,
Blessed night into blessed day.

Stay the night.
Broken things reflect the light.

Ladies' Choice

We could grill steaks, if you like,
or grab something to eat
after golf.

Your choice.

If you could make it Tuesday, that'd work.
Or whatever day, if you're not
committed.

Women do change their minds, I know.
We could do it a different night.
It's your choice.

But Wednesdays I bowl.

Old Dogs

I'm OK by myself,
but I'm even better
with your trusting eyes
and warm kisses on my neck,
entreating me to
scratch your belly.

Give me some sugar, baby.
come on over here, old dog.
I've got a treat for you.
Got a new trick
we can try.

maudlin

Our kitty, Beyellen, has gone astray, and I am distraught. The dog prefers to hang out in her garden apartment rather than to hang out with me in the house. Perhaps the intermittent sobbing has something to do with that. I try to distract myself with watching the caulk dry on the kitchen counter and am seriously considering touching up the paint in the bathroom, maybe working in the garage for an hour. To my credit, I am not seriously thinking about cleaning the house. I considered golf, but honestly cannot concentrate and don't want to sully the game with my wretchedness. I think I'll drive into town, maybe go to the farmers' market; I'd check the mailbox, but I know she's not there.

It'll Be a While

I guess it 'll be a while
before I can bear to look out that window
again.
I see you there, poised and petulant.

It'll be a while before I can
walk down Sunridge without looking back
to see if you're following,
waiting 'til you catch up.

It'll take some time before I stop checking
the patio door
to make sure
I didn't hear you out there on the step.

Every rustling branch
brings me to the door,
to the windows, heart
in my throat,
a hole in my heart
just your size.

Hey, Diddle Diddle

A mid-September rain pours
down, the gray sky light
and rain straight down the windowpanes

Low clouds feather down Limbaugh Canyon

I scan the woods,
looking for our beloved Beyellen,
wishing her appearance,
listening for her at the door,
seeing her silhouette
in the kitchen window, one paw
slightly raised in elegant appeal

She has gone missing.
I imagine she is with Mr Jeeves,
a handsome tuxedo cat with a bobbed
tail,
a local gentleman cat who has sought
adventure: a feline fling.

Hey, diddlediddle

I imagine they are living in that vacant house
down on Wheatridge Street.
Mr Jeeves brings her fresh mice and an occasional
squirrel.
They dance by the light of the Harvest Moon.
They are safe and dry and there is no need
to worry.
They are safe and dry.

I will wait.
She will soon come
up the drive, tail at full mast.
The back door is ajar.
They are waiting out the rain.

Second Shot Blues

Wow! I really got hold
of that one - just keep
your head down, how hard
is that?
Man, it is out there, did you see it?
I'm going to try to put it on with that
4-hybrid.

Shit.
Hand me the sand wedge.

Fetch

who can resist the pleading eyes
of a Labrador retriever
who could refuse to throw the ball
when faced with such ebullience,
eternal optimism?

you don't have to teach a dog
about
seizing the day

carpe diem

une title

Summer fades
into the pale
August sky

Asters bow farewell
to blackeyed Susans
across the canyon wall

[Somewhere] in the deep woods
the first aspen leaf
turns to gold

OR

Deep in the woods
the first aspen leaf
turns to gold

Where You Aren't

I suppose
you're laughing your bony ass
off
up there
laughing at our small lives
our petty anxieties
our desperate clinging
to your loss

It's all about us
now, I suppose
our loss
our grief
our self-indulgence
remembering how
you weren't and where
you aren't

I'll join you
soon enough
and have a laugh,
play a hand of pitch
and drink beer
on some celestial porch, watching
the sun set
and admiring
the livestock
at the dimming
of the day

I can wait.

Heat Lightning

I saw August in your eyes,
in the sun-faded sky.
A scrap of the past,
past the summer heat and dog days
along the Mississippi.

Hot nights and windows steaming,
radio turned low.
We lived in the heartland,
heartbeat to heartbeat
deep kisses on hot summer nights.

Late August clouds scuttle across
a fading sky, August blue.
Thunder booms,
the electric night returns,
blood hot.

Objects in the MIrror

Are Closer
Than They Appear

The past looms: amorphous,
sudden;
unforgotten still

A glance reveals

you've aged, mercifully,
and
mercilessly.

Blessings and curses meld
into a receding image of youth,
a ghost of the future

And the best we can do
is to stay between the ditches.

match.com (in process)

Although you like dogs well enough,
I think you'd not tolerate one
in bed.

And the cats....well...

I hear your last girlfriend
cut a bit of a wide swath
back home:
a conversation I don't want to have.

But then, we're not talking about
a lifetime
or even a long time.

And you're clean and fit
and make me laugh
and live so far away that

I don't really have to think about it

much.

I'm Not That Girl

I'm not the girl who couldn't resist
Martin
while I was dating Bill

or the girl who ran off with Ralphie
after Roger learned 'Creole Belle'
on the banjo, just for me

I'm not the girl who walked away
from you
and never looked back.

I'm not that girl
Anymore.

You Can Get There From Here

if you take 59 out of Douglas
on up to Gillette and north into Montana

The ZZ Top Road Show: destination
Miles City

Who knew 40 years ago that
your whiskey-brown eyes would
remind me of Omar Sharif -

or that you'd look that good
with your shirt off

Noted.

Missy - Size 9-10

'Brown fat looks better than white fat,' she said,
that summer in Wisconsin when we took
towels and Bain de Soleil up on the roof-
basted and baked ourselves -
we looked great that summer.

My friend was plump, as we used to say about
pleasingly round girls - plump
like soft pillows, with
dimples in their pretty knees,
and maybe their elbows

Girls with curves
and possibilities
Blond and pink with China-blue eyes, or
dark and sultry, smoldering
with Mediterranean mystery
and a little flesh on their bones.

Something to hang onto,
girls of substance.

I envied them...they had
cleaveage.

Now I'm built more for comfort
than for speed
and the sun damage
is traced across my face, a map of summer afternoons
on the roof, days at the lake.

Barring the spectre
of melanoma,
I cherish every sun-soaked
rooftop hour, every orange tube of
Bain de Soleil, every day spent
at the lake.

Summer of '69
Best ever.

A Murder of Crows

object to the cats in their
dawn hunting trip
across the brittle lawn

dry, dry

a crow the size of my
St Francis statue
surveys the scene
from the birdbath

his wire legs bend as
he takes a crow-hop
off the granite bowl
onto the bone-dry lawn and
struts toward the cats

who, being no fools,
head for the patio

crow companions skrawwwwk
their approval
the cats embody
insouciance
in the face of the insolent crows

an elegant unspoken balance
in a dry land

Anatomy 101

Some days i'd settle
for someone to just scratch my back,
reach that one delicious
point of relief when the itch
you didn't know you had
is scratched.

Not rubbed. This is no massage.
But scratched
where i can't
reach.

Scratched across shoulder blades
and that spot where my bra
sits all day long,
then lower, right at the bottom
of my trapezius
and down lower
and i bend to offer the length of my latissimus dorsi
and the curve of my obliques.

Then up and down, moving across
scratching the length of my back
just above the gluteus medius
and a final
gentle
rub
and a pat.
There.
Better.

J Alfred Prufrock Scuttles Across the Floors of Silent Seas

I saw you again tonight,
a new girl on your arm,
stroking your wrist, in the local
bistro

(well, it's a coffee shop with intermittent
music)

'We grow old, we grow old,
we shall wear the bottoms of our trousers rolled.'

The music doesn't change much,
and the girl looks a lot
like the last one, with a little more meat on her bones -
a good sign, I think.
She's too young for you, but it's not as if
it's a long conversation
with an old friend.
It's just a distraction.

'In the bistro, people come and go,
No one speaks of Michelangelo.'

The earth turns and the coal train
moans around the south end of the lake.
I'm glad I saw you tonight, my friend.
There's a continuity that should be maintained
among those of us who appreciate the river
and the rhythm of inland tides.

Starring...You

it's a real pisser when
your life can pretty much be
summed up in the chorus of a
country western song

having all the originality
of a bad script that you don't
remember writing
and it's too late to edit

but then you find some poetry in it;
the melody's a bit ragged, but catchy

and you realize:

they're playing your song

You can do everything

but you have to get up really early in the morning.

jan elizabeth

Run, Lola, Run

you are an open
wound - as if
yet another toy, another boy
will staunch the bleeding,
will better define you
somehow

the latest trip, the latest fall might
produce a crystal ball that reveals
only the present
and a prism of unrefracted
hope

you stalk your prey: a night
a day spent like
small change in a penny
arcade,
magnified in the fun-house
mirror...
but what's behind you?

you cast no shadow

The End of Things

There were angry moments
when no kind word was said,
love unspoken;
no embrace tendered.

We cry bitter tears
making and un-making vows,
plotting our escape.

Till we find no peace;
till we take no prisoners;
till we break apart.

And nothing is ever
the same again; nothing is
ever
quite the same.

The sun disappears
each day behind the mountain:
but yet he returns.


Red sky in the morning.
Sailor! take warning, for the
day holds quiet skies.

Angels on our Shoulders

Angels sit upon
our insubstantial shoulders
as we pray for help

Copyright

All images and poetry appearing in this site are the exclusive intellectual property of Jan Bristol and are protected under United States and international copyright laws. These images and poems may not be downloaded except by the normal viewing process of the browser. No images or poems may be copied, reproduced, projected or altered in any way by use of computer or other electronic means without the written permission of Jan Bristol and payment of fee or arrangement thereof.

Kids Don't Float

kids don't float
we bear them up with
love, with
blood and bone and hope -
and hope that it's enough.

we bleed tears and sweat
money
and hope that it's enough

we pray to the saints and angels,
lest they forget to pray for us -
we cannot pray enough

kids don't float
they are borne upon
the breath of god

The die was cast be
fore we dreamed the sea and light
ness beyond bearing

The Worst of It

You come wheeling into the trailer,
a hailed-out Bar Queen
in full sail.

Mascara-stained eyes in
a stranger's clothes. I don't
want to know where you've been.

I still see you in a green
and yellow print dress, like
a daisy all sunkissed and pure.

Daughter, you break my heart.

We break upon our love,
we break upon our own hardened shells.
We break. We break.
I cannot hold you close enough.

Ghost Trees - Fox Island

Ghost trees: witnesses
to the earth's breaking bones
Resurrection Bay

Seward - the Ceaseless Sea

Wave dancing porpoise
cutting graceful arcs along
the foaming boat wake

Sea otters sliding
slick shiny sinuously
slipping seaward

Thanks for sharing your
dysfunction and personal
pain. It was absorbing.

Gone Fishin'

The Ballad of Resurrection Bay

'Twas a dark and rainy morning,
Eric of Higby at the wheel.
We cruised onto the Bay, determined to stay
and fish for the wedding-day meal.

The cod they were a-runnin'
the halibut wily and deep.
Porpoise jumping beside, 'twas a hell of a ride -
the fish were five hundred feet deep.

The poles they were a-bending;
We cranked the lines in tight.
Our shoulders were aching, fish there for the taking,
testing our mien and our might.

'Twas a fine Alaska morning,
light rain and a little chop.
by mid-day we'd filled, a few hours we'd killed,
so we headed on back to J Dock.

The bride stumbled into the cabin
and laid her pretty head down.
The bridesmaid she found her, put an arm around her.
The groom cried "Another round!"

The Huntress pulled into the harbor.
We'd conquered the fishies this day.
We were brave and true, the intrepid few -
To the fish! To the crew! To the Bay!

View from the Wedding

Things I Learned in Alaska

Things I Learned in Alaska

You can't have too many minutes on your phone.
Things can always get worse.
But they get better.
Titanium sets off the TSA alarm.
Older women with bath salts get patted down.
Bring your cane and board early.
Gate N is not that close - pee on the plane.
There really are moose in the streets of Anchorage.

Nanking Cherries

Spring Haiku to the Garden

The cat just crapped in
my freshly turned flower bed.
Spring has arrived.

Showing Your Hand

Destiny reveals Herself
in a hand of cards
carelessly shuffled
by the Gods

Whaddya Want, Whaddya Need?

I want to make love
again
before I die.

but I
don't want the mess
I don't want the fuss
I don't want to spend time
thinking 'bout "Us."

I don't want to get laid,
don't want to get paid.
Don't want to admit
I might be afraid.

But someday...it's not
asking so much.

All I need is a partner in crime.

Voices

I hear it in your voice:
that catch -
a hesitancy defining
our tentative touch,

our delicate dance
around the
past,
around our hearts.

I hear it in your voice,
not yearning
but hopeful

Maybe things are good
now for you
better now
for a while

almost
normal.

Old Friends, New Choices

I love you, dear,
dearly. Vaguely -
but still:
it's love on the half shell,
yours for the taking.

I love you, my friend,
over the years, over the miles
I smile to hear your voice;
smile to think that
maybe someday

we'll make a new choice -
or just be too old to fight what
we might have had,
and embrace an old friend.

In a New York Minute

I'd be a fool for you
in a New York minute,
in the wink of an eye

I'd be a fool for you
if you even try,
just give me half a chance

But then again,
I've done that.
It wasn't so much fun
that I'd take another run
at it.

Who's fooling who?

Patron Saint of the Ordinary

Nothing much happened
today. Quite uneventful:
Simple perfection.

May Day

A Nod to Waylon & Jessi

Storms never last, do they, baby?
Bad times all pass with the wind.
Your hand in mine stills the thunder,
You make the sun want to shine.

Flawed and Fabulous

I'm looking at sixty in the rear-view mirror,
I drink milk right out of the carton.
Nonetheless, my dear,
I consider myself a bargain.

My new hip seems to work just fine
most of the time, and my dental work is paid for.
Got a few miles on this heart of mine,
but she's open and you'd adore her.

My hair is more salt than pepper these days,
And I don't have all original parts,
But I'm better than ever in most every way,
Except those annoying farts.

Still, I try to keep that at a minimum,
and I'm working real hard to control it.
Probiotics are helping, but then again,
there's always something - you just gotta roll with it.

I'm built more for comfort than for speed,
that train has left the station.
But this old engine's still got steam;
we're on track, we're just not racin'.

So when you wonder about us old girls,
we're yet among the living.
Should you desire to give us a whirl,
remember: we're not grateful,
we're just more forgiving.

Somewhere Around Here

I've got a sestina in my head,
and a sonnet in my pocket.
If I can just get them down,
they'll be the best I've written yet.

If I can remember that opening line,
and re-create the internal rhyme
I wrote on the back of my grocery list,
I'd be sitting pretty.

I know I've got a witty one-act
play in one of these notebooks,
or at least an outline.
Or maybe some dialogue I heard
on a train.
All the same...

Once I get it organized,
this lyrical bit, infused with wit,
I'll have something really good
to submit.
Somewhere.

One of These Days (Song)

A little country song that's not quite finished, but one of these days...

One of these days, you're gonna take me back.
One of these days, we'll be back on track.
One of these days, I'm gonna see you again.

I'll write that letter and apologize.
I can finally look you in the eyes.
One of these days, I'm gonna see you again.

Out of the blue, you'll post me a card,
tell me how your doin', and where you are.
One of these days, I'm gonna see you again.

Maybe someday, we'll try to anchor down
find some sweet little Midwest town.
One of these days, I'm gonna see you again.

One of these days, you'll take me back,
we'll get our love right back on track.
One of these days,
I'm gonna see you

again.

Mars and Venus

Your eyes meet mine,
hot
longing
in your eyes
when they meet mine.

You touch my hand,
and I wonder -

What is it that you are
proposing,
exactly?

Commingling our spirit breath
in deep passionate kisses?
Hearts pulsing, beating breath against breath,
moving in concert with the
oldest rhythms of the universe,
rocking in the cradle of the universe,
touching the very center of the universe,
briefly - too briefly;
soaring beyond ourselves,
loosing our bonds,
binding our souls.

Or, do you just want
to get
laid?

Another Night Alone

Another night alone, and I
don't really mind
it
except
I hear the coal train every hour on the hour,
and I don't sleep
all that well,
but then, who does, anyway?
And it's not as if
you were ever
really
here
(that much).

It wouldn't be so bad
if the dog didn't have gas
and the toilet
downstairs
wasn't running because I can't fix
the flipper or flapper,
whatever it's called...

I suppose I could hire someone
to do most of what you did
or didn't do
around here,

but that old dog is another matter altogether.

Sunday Morning

1. Chickadee time at
the feeder: chick-a-dee-dee.
Look out for jaybirds!

2. Chickadees flocking
to the feeder - jaunty black
caps salute the sun.

3. Black cat quiet, lurks
beneath the Ponderosa pine,
a lethal shadow.

4. Silently she creeps
closer, then still - she pounces.
Feeder a-flutter!

Colorado Springtime Haiku

Spring arrived today!
Enthusiasm ran high.
It was gone by noon.

Jaimie Willen's Woods

Sunshine on my back,
cold East wind stirring the chimes.
In memorium.

Hot to Trot

I'm too hot for you
full of spice and ginger,
I'd burn your fingers.

Sssssssst!

Sonnet to Recycling

I am so bloody tired of recycling:
rinsing every blasted dried tomato bit
from sharp-edged cans, cans that cut my fingers,
tuna tins, plastic peanut butter jars with lids.

And what about those lids? Are they OK
to recycle? They have no symbols in sight.
I squint and rub a soapy hand to see
if I've missed it somehow, that symbol.

I haul it out to the garage and sort
it into bins, into baskets and piles.
I drive thirty miles to recycle this stuff -
thirty miles in my old Ford S-U-V.

Then I enjoy McDonald's bacon, egg
and cheese biscuit with a medium coffee.

All in styrofoam.

A Cloudy Friday Morning

The Milky Way is
stitched across the night - sequins
on a bridal gown.

+++

We dare not dwell
on what might have been, or once was
nor the dark within.


+++

A foggy Friday morning
as I lie abed,
cat on counterpane.

Larceny

The heart's larceny knows no pride,
no bounds.

And that door swings both ways.

We are equally as willing to deceive
as to be deceived.
Stolen moments like fools gold
glint in the shifting sand.
We reach to capture them
even as we realize they are sham.

Charmed by their glitter,
we are willing,
in that moment,
to believe.

Tanka in Process (5,7,5,7,7)

Slipping the surly
bonds of earth, the spirit
rises in the night sky.
A red comet, giving up
the ghost of an old lover

Whip-Poor-Will

Whip-poor-will's bitter-
sweet song pierces the twilight.
Leaves rustle softly.

Dancing With the Angels

We dance with the angels,
you whisper in my ear.
We drive along in that Oldsmobile
you had
before the radiator blew.

Your sweet breath
in my ear, our deep kisses
soft and warm
in the long summer nights,
hot and dark by the silent river.

White Shell Woman

What sacrifice made to White Shell Woman,
who shed tears
of fire.

She grieves for our lust for power, our mad
desires
unchecked.

Her serenity belies the fury of
her tears.
We fear to look on her dark side,
and find our own shadow life
Unlit by the stars
where our lives play out.

She weeps beyond the Milky Way,
unchanging.

One of These Days

I'm going to die one day
in spite of unfiltered vinegar
and RAW ONE vitamins for Women.

I hope it's in a flash - if not
a flash of glory, a flash of
hope,
of redemption;
not a whimper of regret.

I'm going to die one day.
But not today.

Fear of Flying

We weren't perfect, you and I,
but we had fire, hot and white
burning cobalt the vault of night,
blazing across the sky
beneath us.

As Icarus, we flew too near the sun
without a thought or care
for what me might lose, we dared
risk the heat for the fun
of it.

I miss you, and what we lost
in careless flight,
never calculating the cost,
embracing the night
as we flew too near the sun.

The owl called your name.
We dared not hear,
as we dared not tame
our fear
of
flying.

The Ways of the Heart

The ways of the heart are
lonely
and wild.

Known only late.
We fear our inner wolf,
howling at the
bleeding
moon.

Ephemera

Passion, reflected in the cold light
of the moon, is half in shadow:
Like Icarus, we fear proximity
to the sun, too near the fire,
lest we
burn.

She Wears Midnight

She wears midnight
like a cloak,
trailing a million million stars
in her wake.

You'd Be Just as Gone

You'd be just as gone,
and I'd be just as lonely -
no use to play 'if only.'
That's just a game
and anyway, things'd be the same -
you'd be just as gone.

We don't know why we're apart,
unless you count the time
I punched you in your sleep
when you flirted with my girlfriend.
Or the dreadful days of summer
when you worked afield.
We drifted, lost among the deep
wounds of time,
too much alone,
too much in love.
Too much altogether.
There is no why.

Too many years
to think we could regain
a vestige of the same
old heat, the same old fire-
memory trumping desire.
You'd be just as gone.

And I'd be just me.

Blue Skies Redux

Only blue skies make me cry:
I see that patch of blue and think
of you, or some old place when
we were true, and good; some
old place long gone when the love was
strong and we were not acquainted
with that deeper shade of blue.

Only blue skies make me cry,
a cloudy day won't touch
me that way, or clutch at my heart
till it hurts, like a blue sky day.
When it rains, or the sky is gray
it don't take much to get away from those
light-weight blues.

The rain falls as a blessing,
not some life lesson in taking
love for granted or the hubris
of youth. Clouds cushion the truth of time
and its relentless march
across your heart.

Say a Little Prayer for Me

Our prayers are known
before we breathe them,
before conception, before the first star
cooled in the sky's velvet vault.
Our prayers are known.

Sunny Days

Another two-part run at an idea, or maybe three:

It's the sunny days that make me cry;
overcast and gloomy - that's not so bad.
But when the sky is the color of your eyes
that patch of blue just makes me sad.
Blue skies have those frivolous clouds
full of promise and hope.
They act as if you're not allowed
to get all down and mope.
But I do, when the skies are blue.

Sunny days are all perky,
make you think of thirty things
you need to do when skies are blue
and clear. No time to cry in your beer.
Need to put the clothes on the line,
maybe sweep the steps one more time.
Or clean out the shed. You don't dare
stay in bed
on a sunny day.

It's damned hard to ignore
a sunny day knocking on your door
with a bouquet of memories and a list of things undone.
It's hard to lie in the sun
and fool yourself.

Our Perfect Grief

A couple of tries at a tanka - but i couldn't remember the order of the 5s and 7s, then just kinda winged it - wung it? Neither meets the criteria, but here they are:

The moon's bold specter
crosses the vault of night
as silver shards silently
pierce love's fragile
shell, revealing all was lost.

The moon's bold specter
crosses the vault of night,
its silver shards silently
piercing love's fragile shell -
and our perfect grief.

This needs some work and may just be combined at some point.

The Altar of Dawn

The Sun God bows to
Dawn's pale altar of light.
The edge of night marks
the moon's chaste descent
as [avenging] angels weep,
the promises of night [yet] to keep.

One More Wish

What if you were granted one
more
wish
before you
die that endless death
of peace and joy.

One more wish: a day,
a moment,
a memory.

Would you change the past,
or mold the future?
Recover what's been lost, or
conjure gifts yet unseen?

What would it mean? Not a
dying wish, but a wish
for more. One more.

One more breathless kiss,
one more longing look at love?
One more randy roll in the hay,
one more lusty night?
One more poem, one more tale of
Scheherazade, woven endlessly into a night
of a thousand nights -

Or one more dance -
Just one more?

The Raven

The Raven of Dawn soars
across the sky,
following the Sun God to his Western lair.
She sheds her long shadow as she flies,
the mystery of night trails
behind her like a veil.

I Dance Alone

I drink too much,
I laugh too loud,
I dance alone while in a crowd.

I'm not for you,
don't say I'm wrong.

I dance alone,
it keeps me strong.

The Phonecall

I said I'd call -
didn't mean to be vague
and weird.

I meant to call,
but you're three hours
from here

and I lost track in the dark of the moon.

The Postcard

I got your postcard, baby,
I got it in the mail.
That old boy on horseback,
he looks anything but frail.

Looks like he' a Mountie,
and Mounties, they don't fail.

I got your postcard, baby,
and I read between the lines.
Guess you don't really want me back,
too many heartless crimes.

Looks like we'll both be moving on,
we'll ride on down the line.

Looks like we'll both be moving on,
turn our backs on better times.

Hot Mama

I am one hot mama, baby,
you ought to try me on for size.

I am one hot mama, baby,
you know I'll tell you wicked lies.

But baby, in the mornin'
You'll look at me with lovin' eyes.

I am one hot mama, darlin',
You know I'll take you back to school.

I am one hot mama, darlin',
You and me, we'll break some rules.

You won't regret it, little darlin',
Stick with me, don't be a fool.

Love Lost

When did love softly go, [turn]
turn to betray us,
silently, a thief in the night?

When did love softly go, [turn]
stealing away, now
lost to us, as shadow in light?

When did love softly go, [turn]
breaking our hearts
quietly, like fog in the night?

When did love softly go,
go softly away?

Howling at the Moon

We deny the wildish wolf, our familiar,
howling at the bleeding moon - fearing
like Icarus we might burn from the heat of our
passion
to fly into the sun,
to lie, burning together,
burning
apart,
burning by the light of the moon.

The Horns of the Crescent Moon

Look to the night sky -
to the horns of the crescent moon.
I swing on the tail of a moonbeam
singing away the blues.

I swing on the tail of a moonbeam
from the horns of a crescent moon.
I swing on the tail of a moonbeam,
singing away the blues.

Look out your window to the night sky
I swing on the horns of the moon.
Swinging away on a moonbeam,
Singing away the blues.

haiku:

Night sky, crescent moon
I'm swinging on a moonbeam
Losing these old blues.

tanka:

Look to the night sky
to the crescent moon, and smile:
I ride a moonbeam,
Singing away my old blues,
I ride a moonbeam to you.

I Want You to Know, Part III

What I fear is that I would be
Too Much -
or worse, not enough.

I fear that I could not sort socks
or blend in with your circadian rhythms.

I fear that in person I would disappoint
you, and our conversations would fade -

I fear I've been too long in the wind

and
you'd not love me
enough.

I Want You to Know, Part II

But I'm not so sure I could live with you,
or any other biped,

or that I would cook dinner
every night,
or Keep Up Appearances.

I'm not so sure we'd make it together
after so many years apart;

that we'd be as special as our phone calls.

But I want you to know: I'd try.

I Want You to Know, Part I

I want you to know
you can always call;
that I still love you across
all these years;
that I want to send you
Nikki Giovanni love poems and
the ballads of Leonard Cohen.

I want you to know
I want you.

I want to hold your hand
as we listen to Gregorian chants and
say not a word.

I want to lie in bed not moving,
breath in breath,

to walk arm in arm down a
tree-lined street in Milwaukee.

I want you to know I still believe
in us.

Honey and Bacon

My friend and I talk
around our desire,
fearing it's not real -
fearing it is.

We skate across the frozen
lake of our past;
we speak fondly, remembering
ourselves in that foreign country -
wondering if one truly does not forget
how to ride a bicycle.

We give one another honey
and bacon
and Chinese poetry from the '70s.

Postcards arrive, and
are examined for hidden meanings.

I recall his shampoo
and the cut of the hair on the back of his neck.
He recalls a scar now faded,
no longer remarkable.

We live alone, and far away.
I could visit -he has an extra room
upstairs.

This One Could Work

You would like him, I think -
No, I'm not ready for him
to meet my friends, he's
shy.
And quiet.
I don't want to scare him -
ha ha.

He's got a good job and
travels a lot. That
could work.
He's allergic to the cat, but
she's outside mostly and we
stay at his place anyway.

I'm going to cancel my
e-Harmony account.

Next week.

Love Songs for an Unknown Lover

i write love poems, poems
of desire hot and cold,
directed at the callous moon, the uncaring
stars

with you in mind; dare i
want you?

i write of old lovers and friends
with measured passion and sometimes,
i play with
internal rhyme

with you in mind,
do you mind?

is it love, or curiosity
that has cradled my heart
in your heart
and come to this

inelegant mind
fuck

Do you want me too?

Winter Shaman

I need a Winter Shaman
to chant away February's cruel winds,
to bring medicine strong against the March snows,
a ceremonial smudge calling Spring.

Do not bring that bad Coyote.

You Want Sugar With That?

Mama told me not
to give nothin' away -
But we might be able to work somethin' out,
You might get some sugar from me,
If you came around.

If you came around,
I'd offer you coffee
and a big slice of pie -
I got plenty.
You want sugar with that?
Or maybe some cream?

We Are Yet Lovers

I would not regret
your touch
Or shy away from
much
that involved dreaming
you awake.

As we sleep separately,
soundly,
alone

under the same cold moon,
we close an eye
to desire, to the fire
we have banked.

To what end?

Come to me tonight
under the cover of your dreams
in the guise of deep
sleep
kisses.

We reach across the sacred sky,
star-crossed palms touching,
a single heart beating in the night.

Although we lie apart
in the winter of our dreams,
we are yet lovers.

February 1st

Mid-winter love:
my desire is a cold fire
awaiting your sun.

So that's it

I count maybe 17 poems for January - and I still need one for today. But 17 is not half bad. I owe what, 14? But I'm not worried about that right now. I'll come up with something before daybreak.

Don't

Don't touch me there.

don't
touch me

don't
touch

don't

+++++

Don't
touch me
there

Touch me
there

touch me

There.

New Parrts - Wear and Tear

I no longer have
all my original parts:
the first to go was that tooth
I had capped after the incident at the roller-skating rink.

Then there was the appendix that went the way of an ovary and tube, and not to forget:
the tonsils.

I don't miss any of it - well, maybe the tooth.

And now I have a shiny new hip, better than new.
Your hand rests where waist meets hip, unseen ceramic and titanium.
Titanium can tolerate a lot of heat.
There's some unclaimed bliss to be had.

Keep the Lights Down Low

Lies, lies, tell me wicked lies
as you touch once-creamy thighs.
We'll keep the lights down low
and navigate the remembered territory
of the past.

My loins do not burn for you,
but there's a banked fire down there
somewhere.

old friends and lovers

At first this poem contained a reference to long marriages - i'm keeping the poem sort of intact; it's in flux.

We need old friends and lovers
to see us with loving long-ago eyes
when we were twenty, sweet and pure,
neither marred [unblemished] by deep joy nor our mistakes,
nor fear of the shallow past.

Old friends and lovers
are careful
and quiet;
they share a kind heart.

They are bivalves,
breathing with one breath,
constant as the shoreline
and the sea.

One heart beating,
creating flawed pearls:
desire and memory.
They are each other's better angels,
old lovers and friends.

this was written in response to the half-heard news story regarding the endangered species of long-lived marriages.

I Ride the Moon

I ride the moon through
the Southern Sky

Singing through her tattered veil
I pull the tides behind me.
I sweep the stars out of my way,
and scatter them across the horizon.

I rest in her dark plains and imbue her
with fullness and light.

We turn away from the sun,
luring earthly eyes toward us,
seeking our wisdom.

I ride the moon,
Singing through her tattered veil,
My song of hope and longing.

Originally, the last word was "loss," but today I like longing better.

Early January

I'm about ready for this surgery:
The bed's moved to the first floor den,
The far children called, the near child
moved in for The Recovery.

I baked New Year's Good Luck Gingerbread
Pigs,
Christmas has been packed up and stored in the attic.
I have a package to mail,
I need to get to the library and
pack my bag.

But that's not so much left to do.
I think I'll leave the bills unpaid
'til I'm home again.

There's a Crack That Love Falls Through

Just when we weren't looking,
When nothing more was new
We turned uncaring faces and found
There's a crack that love falls through.

Who would have thought it?
But I can verify it's true:
Turn your back, then look around:
There's a crack that love falls through.

I suppose it's like a cravasse,
deep and dark and blue
You barely notice at the time,
The crack that love falls through.

One day you feel a shiver,
a prelude to the blues,
a lonely note from the other side
There's a crack that love falls through

The words we left unspoken,
Little things we wouldn't do -
lost and gone forever-
There's a crack that love falls through.

A woman of a certain age,
I have seen love come and go -
have lost it when I turned my back:
There's a crack that loves falls through.

Boris

I have a cat who wears his
gray pin-striped suit with aplomb,
a gentleman cat who seeks
my company,
and purrs in my lap.

If I had a man like that,
I'd feed him good
and stroke his back.
I'd admire his fine gray pin-striped suit.

And I'd swoon
as he purred
in my lap.

I don't know where this came from -

some old thorn in my side:

I wonder if you sometimes
recall the long autumns in
Chesapeake Bay, or
the scent of the Ponderosa pine
outside our window.

The heart's larceny
runs deep,
but forgiven, mostly.

Niiki G's "Deal or No Deal"

inspired this one - and a nod to Christian LaBoutain's amazing website:

I find myself
Still willing to be
a fool:

Powdered, perfumed,

In my red-soled shoes.

I might give it whirl,
if the light was kind,
if the stars aligned.

I could order that dress
off the internet,
and get a pedicure in
Wild Woman Red lacquer

to match my red-soled shoes.

If the light was kind,
If the stars aligned.

I'd let my hair down
and dance by the light of the moon
in those red-soled shoes.

Someone could hold me tight -
This time I'd do it right,

If the light was kind.
If the stars aligned.

Sleepless Nights

produced a lot of stuff - I have been waking up at 0230 for some reason.

Capricorn rising:
Half-moon in a veil of tears
Sails the southern sky.



I'm over here, Lord
Sitting in the back pew again
All decked out in Hope.


Chatauqua Mountain
red rock ablaze in dawn's cold fire:
January morning.

My lonely heart runs
with the moon, up the canyon,
catching on a star.

A Poem a Day

My friend Elane, who gifted me with Nikki Giovanni, misunderstood a conversation wherein I said I was reading a poem and day - she thought I said I was writing a poem a day. Well, after thinking about it, I decided to try - what was I thinking. Further, I determined I would put each day's poem on the blog - forcing me to get off my ass and on my blog. Thus said, I tried to make up for the days I hadn't written a poem thus far (I decided to do this on the 20th).

I assigned myself
a poem a day - it was
so much easier when I didn't
have to.
Now it's work.
And left undone, I throw another bone
to Sins of Omission.

All these poems will need work - but that's ok - I did a lot of work in January, and here it is, no particular order. I'll do better in February, I promise.

Bears and Packers and Titles, Oh My!

What's an old midwestern girl to do? Look at it this way, either one is a win for one of my old faves.

I Used to Be Cute

My dear friend, Elaine, gave me a volume of Nikki Giovanni poems - the title is "Bicycles," it's wonderful and has inspired a collection of poems I'm working - so, this is one of the first:

I Used to Be Cute

I used to be cute:
tight and sweet, juicy
lips
warm.

You would have noticed
the long line of my waist,
my slender feet in strappy sandals with
high high heels
accentuating my calves
and my short,
 tight
     skirt.

I would toss my dark hair,
pretending not to
notice you
noticing me.

I used to be cute.
You would have seen me.

Kudos to dear Susan, another invisible old lady who used to be cute.

HIp, Hip, Hooray

Cannot believe I have not blogged about my hip, other than anyone who knows me would realize that does not interest me much, but last month pretty much was all about Jan and her upcoming surgery. It's over, I'm vertical most of the time and in no pain. It's still all about me, but hey...the excuse this month is recovery. I have no philosophical insights, nor did the fear of going under the knife (I love that expression) bring any profound wisdom my way. The life change I'm considering is increased flexibility and hope that that may lead to some interesting situations. I'm thinking at least a few strokes off the golf game. The profundity occurred in the friendships and family I have - being blessed cannot be overstated. Casseroles, phone calls, gifts, cards - I have not been as good a friend to others, I fear. So, maybe there was some sort of epiphany involved. I also have been blessed with a big foam pyramid with several lateral velcroed straps. I think I could ride astride it, or maybe it is to be fastened to a chair - as with so many things in life, no instruction manual.