So, ok. I never did get my 2013 poetry for NaPo posted, and if you want to read it
here's a link .
For this year this is what I have.
April 30
It Means A Lot
I say that often these days but
it's true, and I am
beyond grateful
from the bottom of my
heart
(cliche be damned, damnit,
this really does come from my heart...)
You make me love you all, the tug
is undeniable, and I do-
support is a rare commodity
in my crazy life. So
to those of you
brave enough to respond and read
my poor offerings this napo, thank you.
You all have no idea
how much it's meant,
how your zephyr's have lifted my wings...
.
.
.
April
29
Entrepreneur
I.
She sits, her face cast
green, by the laptop's light
still as a squirrel on alert
analyzing stats, making
decisions
that tomorrow will,
hopefully,
bring sales.
The tv speaks to a set of
deaf ears,
thoughts swaddled in singular
intent
as she rethinks the battle
map,
repositioning the pins on the
board
trying to stay both invisible
and ahead of competitors.
The mojito, condensating just
behind
the laptop, provides a quick
libation;
each sip calls the sandman
who will silence the gears of
her mind
and send her into oblivion.
II.
Eyes pried open by morning
light
she wakes, uncertain and
still under
the blanket of last night's drunken
collapse into bed.
She thinks of the day's start
to get herself going:
1. stagger into bathroom,
2. feebly remove sleep shorts
and tank,
3. adjust temperature of
shower, step in.
4. then stand awhile with
face in pulsed water,
scour away webs, wake;
catch a sniff of the fresh
drip Columbian
seek that first cup and plan
what the day will bring.
Nowhere is a thought of her
imbalanced other...
1. the hard, long overdue fuck,
2. the small group of friends
forever shrinking,
3. the sense of belonging to
someone
other than her business.
She's given up on finding love.
She'll be rich instead.
.
.
.
April 28
Spirit
I watch the contestants on some reality show and share
their personal trials, how they create and move forward through the wall
when it stops them mid-stride, and the complete brain drain that manifests
as a halted schism in mid-motion
and I am inspired as they continue to cull buckets of ideas from their inner wells,
keep at the act and art of creating the creation they envision
as they breathe life into their craft.
I think about spirit and how it's motioned by desire, or personal need
to prove one's worth, and how they've learned to temper their personal mettle,
and wish I could do the same.
.
.
.
April 27
Internalizing II
All this new medi-speak makes my head
spin like the clothes in a dryer; around they go
and go. So many questions rattling around
my pin ball brain, bouncing off the buffers
of my thought process before finding a ganglion
to squat on; questions that birth even more questions
and veer off in tangental arcs of searching for proof
of what is written in self-help books.
There's an avalanche of information
best absorbed in nibbles, chewed slow and long
and digested slow as snails, then washed down
with two tablets of alka seltzer.
.
.
.
Beaching It
Unless you're a member of a select sect
of sun-worshipers, naturalists and voyeurs
you cannot know the unspoken creed
that courses their veins.
Not all is pleasurable; the getting there
almost a punishment. They endure
the heft of heavy backpacks; the tug-of-war
with jumbo-wheeled carts systematically arranged
to ferry the days needs: cooler, chairs, toys and towels
as they huff through the sand wishing for cabana boys.
But after all that
there is the arrival at a small plot of beachfront heaven
where they'll stake their blankets to the sand;
the same spot every time; a tiny place
where they commune with themselves and feel
as one with nature and all her contrary shifts
and revolving cast of characters.
.
.
.
April 26
Jonquils (small song)
Five petals and a ruffled cup
of sweet butter, so mellow to the senses;
golden trumpets true and strong
that clarion March tempests.
Can you hear them as they blast
their scented notes to welcome the spring
and open to the suns lengthening arms?
.
.
.
April 26
Cat Poem
I can't stop now, not when
I've done the obligatory cat poem
for the last few years. But still,
where is geffo this year, originator
of said challenge? Ah well,
I'll offer this kitty ditty out of respect:
Someone once told me that if you rub
their pussy paws in butter
it imprints on them that they're home.
Strange, how licking a puddingish,
unguinous substance can do such a thing.
Right now it's just me - there's no stray
I've taken pity on and taken in; no clawed
curtains; no unseemly food dish to wash.
No other life to claim but my own.
Perhaps that's why I'm lonely.
.
.
.
April 25
Confessions of a Drunken Foodie
They look so muscular,
all those Mister McHottie prep chefs
in their prissy cooking coats, oozing sex
as they palm and finger their beefsteak
patties into perfection.
Note that certain camera angle
and their heads
sweated and tilted just so
for the camera, a show of intensity
on their busy brows
and, oh, those biceps
rippling beneath snug shirts...
Yes, we all know the food will be orgasmic,
but as for me I'd rather see what's underneath
and delight myself by nibbling the cheesecake.
.
.
.
April 24
Internalizing I
These days unfurl surreal as I find myself
making multiple piles on the coffee table
of informational pamphlets and papers
that define drug side-effects, how-to-survive
books and a list of doctor's phone numbers.
There's so much to comprehend; when I try
my head short-circuits itself and devolves
into a bucket of chaos. I am doomed to change
into a chemo demon replete with bald body,
sallow skin and red-orange...
well never mind, you get the picture.
I will become a hermit in my home
not for pleasure but in order to remain
infection free and unburned by the sun
and bloat my body with three liters of liquid
each day, brush my teeth five times a day, pray
all day as I cross all my digits and hope for a win
while I shut the door on almost everything I love to do
for the next nine months as I try to rebirth myself.
I suppose writing poetry about it is stranger still. I wonder
if there's a book of poems on the subject that's available?
Or perhaps it's a subject that's well avoided by those
who's health muse is alive for fear of getting it themselves
or maybe they just feel inept at offering support,
that lifeline back to hope, and instead they remain silent.
These days I try not to squat in the scary shadows
of my mind but I worry that luck and control have forsaken me.
What's to come next is beyond both;
I must submit myself to medicine, become a lab rat
in a maze searching for a morsel of faith,
ever trying not to give up.
.
.
.
April 22
Pacific (small song)
Tradewinds tickle bamboo chimes,
carry their clinkity-clank in the air current
as we snuggle in the sun-warmed hammock
and sway to our private rhythm, and dream
of things yet to come as well as times past,
comfortable in each others nakedness.
.
.
.
April 23
Rolling Stones Gather Nothing
What was it that shook the core of your mountain
down to it's essential bowels? Who taught you
about pain and disappointment - a parent who abandoned,
a wife who betrayed? Whomever it was they took away
the precious gift of your trust, your ability to walk
over the invisible bridge; cracked your doomed foundation
without your consent.
You say you are good at amusing yourself, but this is a ploy
to hide what you lack; the golden rings you fear to grasp; in secret
you hunger though you refuse to admit it. Instead, you don a mask;
this comes easy to you for after all, you've become a fine actor.
You're a loner, a drifter, and home is wherever you lay your head
for the night. You've given up the fundamental needs of most,
prefer the safety of tall walls and moat. You have a need to hoard
everything that crosses your path; this distracts you
from your private despair, is substituted for what you lack.
If you are wounded by my observations, I ask forgiveness.
I do not seek to add another brick. But I know you - you are me inside.
We should get together and share our strategies.
.
.
.
April 22
Pacific (small song)
Tradewinds tickle bamboo chimes,
carry their clinkity-clank in the air current
as we snuggle in the sun-warmed hammock
and sway to our private rhythm, and dream
of things yet to come as well as times past,
comfortable in each others nakedness.
.
.
.
April 21
Once
The rain falls soft like half-forgotten memories.
The drops puddle into a pool where their drips ripple -
so many slipstreaming through my thoughts
brings me back to you and the moments we spent
stuck now in our cemented past; hardened off
and as indelible as permanent ink.
Two young fools who jested in love's court
and squandered a golden chance to grab the rings of joy
thinking there was too much life left to be lived apart.
Our sojourn was brief; it left me a small chest
of yellowed photos to look at with nostalgia
and sometimes, with regret. I am left now to wonder
how my life might have been different.
.
.
.
April 20
Jay
Outside the window the trees are half bare, but he remains.
He has not flown south and sits now on the balding Mulberry,
head twitching at every sound. Each day we eye one another
through the window pane.
He arrived in early Spring sporting an electric blue coat
and a pure white shirt. He's stayed close and visits each day
knowing he'll be fed.
He tells time by shadows, or by following the squirrels
to our free food bar. He'll swoop in and beak a nut,
then reappear for the next easy feast.
His coat and shirt have grown grayer each day
since summer's end., and by degrees as the seasonal sun diminishes.
I know there will come a day when he'll leave me
but for now he affords me an enjoyable reprieve.
I hope he will stay until spring.
.
.
.
April 19
Chameleon
Never mind your kaleidoscopic shifts-
one should be more concerned
with the emotional brush that paints you
and learn to tread like a falling feather
when you blaze red, or succor you
when you are drowned in blue.
Some say you are an enigma
impossible to know; that you have no sense
of unique self when you prism and blend
depending on where you are
and who you are with.
They should learn instead to bore beneath
your mutable skin and listen with patient ears
for the quickening of your heart.
Only then will they understand why
you hide behind a crayon box.
.
.
.
April 18
Mr Right?
His touch lingers, phantom-like, long after I've left;
and though I've tried to smother the flames that rise up
in those moments they burn me, persistent and threatening
to consume the seams of my sewn-up self.
Run, I think, and read again my book of blood-scripted rules,
reread them into infinity - do not train my eyes on him; do not
venture from my private island but instead pour out
the tears of my experiences upon those unruly embers
for I know all too well what will manifest. Heartache
is a forsaken slice of pie, and he's no different than any other man
out for a quick bite even if he is damnably blessed with everything
I could ever want to unstitch myself for on a permanent basis;
it's not his fault. It's mine
for stepping backwards and falling down; still dreaming of him
even though Rule #1 says it's folly, you dare not risk it.
.
.
.
April 17
Tree
I. Spring
Bare limbs wake from slumber and sense the slow
sap-flow as it courses from core to myriad fingers
as busy roots suckle the snow-wet earth,
make the sugared fuel needed for rebirth.
Months pass while we impatiently wait
until one day you wake and produce a profusion of buds.
Soon now those buds will spawn and unfurl
tender spirals of bloom to reveal your perfection,
elicit oohs and ahhs from us mere mortals
as you clothe half of your mirror image.
II. Summer
Long limbed and fulsome, your leafy canopy
provides a cool respite from the torrid sun
and a refuge for birds, their nests tucked close
in the crooks of your arms; and when you dance
with zephyrs your green lips whisper
approval in their ears while your sense of rhythm
and movement makes ballerinas envious.
When your fruits grow plump and heavy
from summer showers and long, sunlit hours
your tasty treats provide life to many.
III. Fall
Soon you will shed and rest, but not before
your leafy canopy chameleons into sunset colors
as you make a flamboyant exit
and remind us not to forget your magical beauty;
and even though your demise draws near
you continue to give: insulation from the cold
for nesting critters; kindling for fireplaces;
fabric for artistic creativeness.
IV. Winter
The half moon symmetry of your dark limbs
against a snow cloud sky is stark and striking,
and reminds us how you mirror your roots.
Now wind stripped and naked we can see the nests
you cradled and hid from our eyes before you slept.
If you should fall or snap limbs from the heft
of ice and snow you provide us with fuel
for hearthside fires and blaze away the cold;
and when the fallen snows outline your limbs
you are breathtaking in the morning sun: naked,
lambent with light, nature's delight
and ours as well.
.
.
.
April 15 (an attempt at my own red wagon)
Red Car
sleek,
sexy,
slick
with the fruit
of spent
clouds
latches the eyes;
sparkles
a somber palette,
imbues life
in
the gray
day.
.
.
.
April 16
Nothing's Certain
We live in a world of unbalanced check books
but get along with the act of living, grow busy, forget
the beauty around us. Foremost we lose our sense
of changing nature, the love we take for granted,
our health and dreams;
and just when we think we've found our be-all,
do-it-all, fix-it-all equation something cracks our world apart
and scrambles us like an egg;
sucks the marrow from the bones of our foundation
and changes us forever, for better or for worse.
Only when we've seen death, or watched someone waste,
do we remember the beauty all around us
as we try to heal the raw lament of that which we have lost.
.
.
.
April 12
So Many Grains of Sand
I'm just sitting here watching the wheels go round and round, I really love to watch them roll,
No longer riding on the merry-go-round, I just had to let it go - John Lennon
The dawn sighs and stretches west by the minute,
seeding aeons of dreams with waking reality.
So many lives reboot and get on with their assembly line routines:
essential grooming, a fast bite of breakfast, the busy commute
to stressdom ad infinitum.
It's not something most people think about
but rather endure, all because we think we need to keep up.
We are an army of ants building hills filled with mazes
trying not to get lost or stuck in the dead ends.
One wonders why we do this, and if it's because we've been brainwashed
to believe we must;
or perhaps it's a herd mentality that moves us along our assorted ruts.
It takes courage to step off the grand wheel and walk away;
but necessary if we are to regain our true selves.
.
.
.
April 13
Unsustainable
This is how I am-
I move from one passion to another, consumed
by the medium of the moment
until I am spent,
ready to seek a new project.
I have not found a terminus, or learned
to sluice my fires;
I know only to consume
until the source slackens,
then move on to the next nova
and chase away the chill
of my starless space.
.
.
.
April 14
Substitute
If you should find me watching
some classic love movie
accompanied by Kleenx
and a bottle of red, half drunk,
don't think I have a heart hidden away somewhere;
don't think yours is something I want.
You will never be him,
though you could be his twin;
and that's good enough for me
when we fuck. I know how to pretend.
It's only when the new day cancels my dreams
and I open my eyes to see the empty,
blue bottle I keep on the window sill
that I loathe you all over again.
.
.
.
April 11
Diagnosis
It's in the still moments when my mind's a loose tether
and my thoughts turn inward to loiter among the litter
of scary things like lumps, malignancy, cancer -
that's when my fears fly like a flock of startled birds
up and out of me, wild and unheard,
and I think of things such as blood moons and catastrophes,
and things like surgery, coffins, chemo, suffering -
the mind always seems to conjure the worst;
and I am made to feel small in the swirl of mindless chaos,
just another nameless statistic in this journey called life.
How does one live through it?
I suppose now I'll discover the mettle of my true grit,
and how much I have of it.
.
.
.
April 9
Hyacinth (small song)
O, blissful scent
and profusion of purple,
how you make me unravel.
I could live my life
nose-nudging your bells, inhaling
your blithesome perfume
and wanting for little else.
.
.
.
April 10
New Home
New sounds prickle the ears: the creak
of the stair's third step; the hot water faucet's
soprano C aria if opened too far; the radiator's
contented gurgle a purr; the oil burner's shudder
when it clicks on;
and at night the new south faced vista
filters through the sheers to ink a silhouette
of dervishing leaves and branches on my comforter's canvas
while the hoary moon winks at me
through countless aeons of space.
So fresh and new now but soon old; dissolved
by the tedious ennui of ephemeral days,
it all becomes unheard, unnoticed
much the same as all new relationships eventually turn -
taken for granted, expected to always be there, waiting
for us until we return.
.
.
.
April 7
Grief
One wouldn't think these five letters
could be so omnipotent as they slice
one's soul into tidy sections
and then go on to reboot the brain,
reset priorities back to what they should be;
recall memories, both good and bad,
banish greed and competitive needs;
restore humility
and reduce us to primal need
until we seek comfort from those
whom we've forsaken somewhere in the past
and pray forgiveness.
Perhaps this is not a bad thing
but a timely reminder
doled out when necessary
to rid ourselves of our jaundiced skins.
.
.
.
April 8
Beach
Lambent fog blankets the beach;
the surf is a hushed whoosh of waves;
everything is hazed.
I drip with mist as I make my way along
the slack tide line littered with shells
that reflect glints of breakthrough sun,
then set up today's home away from home
eager to lotionize and lay out.
For me this is living within the pearly gates;
it's a sanctuary to escape to; a place
where I can caul my wounds;
free therapy for the taking.
.
.
.
April 6
Dread
Tonight it's a bottle of Merlot
sipped slow, a good remedy
for my low barometer mood.
Outside the rain falls red
as it pounds the panes
while in my head the blood beats
its pressured cadence while I think
about tomorrow's procedure;
a sonar guided needle to suck out
a smidgeon of tissue - I can only hope
for the best; if I'm in luck another twenty years
to tick off all my to-do's before
my molecules morph back into ylem.
.
.
.
April 5
Defining Rain
How do you define "rain"?
Perhaps you'll say the sky weeps,
or perhaps the angels or God even,
shed divine tears as they watch
us sinners rooting around with the evils
that squat in our brains...
How do you define "rain"?
The mirror cracks and all that you have built,
be it home, career, marriage, crumbles
as you watch, helpless
and blaming everything and everyone
but yourself...
How do you define "rain"?
Brimming clouds grown heavy with seed
burst and bring sustenance to all living things,
allow life to continue, or end....
How do you define "rain"?
I suppose it depends on your frame of mind
at said given moment....
.
.
.
April 4
Sherlock
Oh, but I do understand
you and your oh, poor me portrayal;
always the misunderstood heathen, the unappreciated
soul with a knack for hiding in plain sight, you've learned well
the art of disguise;
and your lemon-puckered, nay, elevated deductive powers.
You think yourself
above
all
smarter even than your supreme maker;
elevated and so eagelesque, smiling at nothing less
than something new to afford you a nice chew of thought.
Keep an eye out though, because there will be those unexpected bones
that chip your teeth when you bite down; not a delightful thing;
most always a shock. But mostly, please, don't pander to yourself.
Fear not, I still love you; even with all your distractions.
.
.
.
April 3
Online Matching
I look at their photos and ask
could I grow to love that guy with
the thinning hair, or the one
with the I have kids baggage? Should I
walk the gangplank and risk
peeling back the layers of my husk
while I bathe in the waters of doubt
to find, at long last,
true love - that golden nugget?
My inner skeptic whispers no, but
dare I listen and take a merry ride
on the carousel of this social experiment?
Should I trust my what's to come next
to match.com or whomever says
they'll find me that non-elusive mate,
ripe and ready for marriage?
I sigh, and relent;
give in to doubt and expense,
and logout.
.
.
.
April 2
Confessions of a Food Addict
This persistent yen is an ache
for certain textural flavors: the rich velvet
of pasta carbonara; the spicy hot
of a fresh mango salsa combined
with the crisp crack of a blue corn tortilla;
the meatiness of a perfectly singed rib eye
brushed with herbs and clarified butter;
and nothing compares to the fizzy tickle
of a fine champs or the kick of a well spiced
bloody mary, the bite of a good Johnny Black
at the back of the throat, so breath-taking;
and even all this cannot slake
the desire for more. The nagging need
to taste and chew and savor is a paramount
compulsion, one that lives for the dance
of the palate as it samples the food of gods,
and the saliva gush when recalling that last
bite of brulee caressing the tongue, whispering sex;
better than sex to a food junkie, so attuned
to the endorphin rush of multiple flavors, alone
or mixed together all at once, it doesn't matter.
Screw the diet, the rotund figure, the health risks
which nag at the back of a food-stoked skull.
All that matters is that the next nibble erupts
into screaming hot sex on the budded tongue;
all self-control banished for one more bite.
.
.
.
April 1
And So...
Quitting hour ends another days drudge
and I am done with banal encounters,
soon forgotten somewhere
in the middle of mindless routine.
The left over time is mine to enjoy;
it's a short-lived sigh until
the shrilling of tomorrow's alarm. But
in the meantime I am free
to indulge that tasty bottle of shiraz
waiting so patiently to be popped;
or lose myself among the clicks in cyberspace;
or perhaps make a bold venture out
to visit the local pub.
It doesn't matter. What does
is that it gives me the desire to breathe;
and if I'm luckier still,
a reason to smile.
.
.
.
