February 1, 2017

beautiful mess



Morning arrives again at once with distant machines
creating a mechanical overture for the day

Finches in clusters outside my window have a confidence I've hardly known
yellow breasted spirited chatter

I awaken with gray light turning pinkish-gold 
unalarmed, yet mystified 
by 
snips of dreams
taking their leave

like

an unwanted newborn beneath a vacating womb
belting her first call
to arms
that never arrive
or a dear-to-heart lover in a hospital bed
tortured by inner child demons
I want to de-bowel on his behalf
because perhaps what I've learned of love
is endless Hari-kiri
and the demon
is really me

Years ago I used to dream
of sunny day tsunamis begetting silent screams
unfazed I walked biblically to higher ground
helping others
casually

Later in the day
between traffic jams, earthly toils
meditations peppered with faces swirling smoke
golden threads lassoed around each body in the world
shimmering pulsating cocoons
from my tiny fairy sized hands
and I,
shrunken down
in a dazzling chrysalis
within a cavernous space
where my sternum stands
guard

I've been writing these thoughts for a long time
first poem at age 5
about my cat Charlie
journaling as I grew
letters to a mysterious you
rhyming to leave a clue
I used to pull over in parking lots
so not to crash
scribbling it out
beating it down
adolescent fire
or in dark movie theatres
other words would dive in, rustle around
too loud to hear the movie stars say
"Oh you darling, mm mmm..."

Stealthy twitchy fingers rummage to find something
ANYTHING to write upon come on
!
a crumpled receipt business card nubby pencil lipstick 
doesn't matter  
just write the words
and leave me be
later find what had been scrawled
oh dear
like a demented doctor
or 1 year old
words rollin tumbleweed
indiscernable yet 
satisfied

I think another poet simply said it better
I could put in an unsent letter
I need you, I don't need you
I need you, I don't need you
And all of that jiving around

(Leonard Cohen)


This is a map that began when I was born:
a late blooming rose
but mostly thorns
in wood

a feral timid story
for variations of you
created by me

but the best one yet
is baking still or painting itself in my favorite hues
blues turning purples

take me out to sea
I want to see the whales
and birds be free
while the wind whips my hair
into shapes only you can see
I could just touch your chest gently
it doesn't have to be
more than we
can bear




The others before were all
hands pumping hearts
which is fine
delicious and good
some made me laugh
or feel understood
as should

We could meet 3,000 miles away
in a museum
at the end of the day
gnawing enigmatically
upon the long-since-gone bones
put upon canvases 
by passion flinging moans
scattered peonies
dripping down
wavering lines
coloured rivlets
searing time

I know what my old yoga teacher would say
it's a waste of energy
go within
not without
your body is a shell
the one you are searching for
is not there
it's romantic fancy
Stallion meets Mare
shake it off
go to the light
little moth

I nod my head
in the morning sun
make my tea
take a bite
toast with ghee
cinnamon too
my nickname from one that
came before
i wish it stuck
but on another's tongue

memories of a different you
a different me
or as we are
all shredded messy mess
beautiful confetti

the kind we
like best