Teal's Poetic Vision

POETRY CHAPBOOK RELEASE/READING - June 1st!!!!!

Sat, 31 May 2008 14:16:47 GMT

I'm very excited, even if they did spell my last name wrong on the bookstore website.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is a wonderful bookstore in Lansing called "Everybody Reads"
(http://becauseeverybodyreads.com). They have been hosting what they call "First Sunday Gallery Walk" since November or so. On each first Sunday of the month a different local performance artist will perform. Past performers include local singer, Barb Barton; poet Melissa Dey Hasbrook, who read from her chapbook "Blame it on Eve", poet Chey Davis, who read from her chapbook "Bad Dog Behavior" (along with guest poet, Silvana Rojas), Lisa Sayles, who read from "Year of the Phoenix" and from her new chapbook, "Nothing to Say" (and guest Poet, Lisa Sinnett), poet Deena Tyler, who read from several chapbooks, including her most recent "Ready for Me: Rough and Raw", painter, Gail Bohner, and quilter, Rina Risper.

But the series is far from over, folks!!!

I would like to invite everyone to come support your local artists - poets/writers, singers, painters, etc.

Everybody Reads is located at 2019 E. Michigan Avenue- Lansing, MI 48912. (Please call (517) 346-9900 if you have any questions, need directions, etc.)

The First Sunday Gallery Walk series starts at 2:00pm every first Sunday of the month, and is hosted at the front of Everybody Reads bookstore.

The following individuals are signed up to be the guest performers over the next few months.

JUNE 1 - POET - TEAL MERCAEANT, releasing chapbook: "Rainbow Tapestry"

JULY 6 - POET - SUSAN HARRIS, releasing chapbook: "The Substance of Things Hoped For"

AUGUST ? - TBA

SEPTEMBER ? - POET - LAURA APOL, author of "Falling Into Grace", etc.

Please keep an eye here and at the Everybody Reads website for further updates.

ANNOUCEMENT: First Sunday Gallery Walk Series - Poetry/Music/Etc.

Sat, 08 Mar 2008 15:10:45 GMT

There is a wonderful bookstore in Lansing called "Everybody Reads" (http://becauseeverybodyreads.com). They have been hosting what they call "First Sunday Gallery Walk" since November or so. On each first Sunday of the month a different local performance artist will perform. Past performers include local singer, Barb Barton; poet Melissa Dey Hasbrook, who read from her chapbook "Blame it on Eve", poet Chey Davis, who read from her chapbook "Bad Dog Behavior" (along with guest poet, Silvana Rojas), and poet Deena Tyler, who read from several chapbooks, including her most recent "Ready for Me: Rough and Raw".

But the series is far from over, folks!!!

I would like to invite everyone to come support your local artists - poets/writers, singers, painters, etc. Everybody Reads is located at 2019 E. Michigan Avenue- Lansing, MI 48912. (Please call (517) 346-9900 if you have any questions, need directions, etc.)

The First Gallery Walk series starts at 2:00pm every first Sunday of the month, and is hosted at the front of Everybody Reads bookstore.

The following individuals are signed up to be the guest performers over the next few months.

APRIL 6 - POET - LISA (LEE) SAYLES, will be reading from her chapbook "Year of the Phoenix", as well as her newest chapbook, which is yet unnamed.

MAY 4 - POET - SUSAN HARRIS, chapbook: "The Substance of Things Hoped For"

JUNE 1 - POET - TEAL MERCAEANT, chapbook: "Rainbow Tapestry"

Please keep an eye here and at the Everybody Reads website for further updates.

Fri, 01 Jul 2005 17:49:59 GMT

I've decided to make this journal mostly friends only. At least my own poetry.

So, if you read this and haven't friended it yet, please do. And let me know so I can add you.

Love,
Teal

Random poetry related stuff .... and a poem by Marge Piercy

Thu, 19 May 2005 13:05:02 GMT

We have a printer again. Which leaves me hopeful that I will get the chance to print off all of my poems so far. I can't believe that I have written over 500 poems at this point in my life. Of course some of these are crap, others are mediocre, but some, if I do say so myself, are really good. :-)

Yay, poetry!

Oh, and just for your enjoyment, here's a poem by Marge Piercy (she wrote this one for Joy Harjo, another poet I adore).

Still the Desert (by Marge Piercy)
________________________for Joy Harjo

Daughter of the desert
turning like earth itself between
the red sun and the black moon
can you find what you need
beneath a tangle skein of freeways?

It is all desert still, although
the city fathers have sucked water
from the mountains to pretend
this is a huge oasis
with dry rivers of cement.

Will the right dates of beginning
and ending fall from the palms
into your palm? Will the night
winds whisper the syllables
of your secret name of power?

You will sit on the continent's back door
step and let the restless waters
carry to your feet a message
not in a bottle but in a poisoned
fish whose scales shine in the dark.

Words and music, music and words
gyre from you on the night where cars
swarm like locusts and oil wells
in yards pump their heart's blood.
Your blood runs underground here.

Your sacred beauty is dangerous.
You bring fire into a tend of plastic wrap.
Words are helium. You could ignite
them or yourself: a poet kneeling
on a dump of used and wasted images.

(from her book, "Colors Passing Through")

.

Some great poems

Tue, 17 May 2005 12:16:58 GMT

"What the Oracle Said" - by Shara McCallum

You will leave your home:
nothing will hold you.
You will wear dresses of gold; skins
of silver, copper and bronze.
The sky above you will shift in meaning
each time you think you understand.
You will spend a lifetime chipping away layers
of flesh. The shadow of your scales
will always remain. You will be marked
by sulphur and salt.
You will bathe endlessly in clear streams and fail
to rid yourself of that scent.
Your feet will never be your own.
Stone will be your path.
Storms will follow in your wake,
destroying all those who take you in.
You will desert your children
kill your lovers and devour their flesh.
You will love no one
but the wind and ache of your bones.
Neither will love you in return.
With age, your hair will grow matted and dull,
your skin will gape and hang in long folds,
your eyes will cease to shine.
But nothing will be enough.
The sea will never take you back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Things" - by Lisel Mueller

What happened is, we grew lonely
living among the things,
so we gave the clock a face,
the chair a back,
the table four stout legs
which will never suffer fatigue.

We fitted our shoes with tongues
as smooth as our own
and hung tongues inside bells
so we could listen
to their emotional language,

and because we loved graceful profiles
the pitcher received a lip,
the bottle a long, slender neck.

Even what was beyond us
was recast in our image;
we gave the country a heart,
the storm an eye,
the cave a mouth
so we could pass into safety.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Beneath My Hands" - by Leonard Cohen

Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.

Wherever you move
I hear the sounds of closing wings
of falling wings.

I am speechless
because you have fallen beside me
because your eyelashes
are the spines of tiny fragile animals.

I dread the time
when your mouth
begins to call me hunter.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

I want them
to surrender before you
the trembling rhyme of your face
from their deep caskets.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want my body and my hands
to be pools
for your looking and laughing.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Electra on Azalea Path" - by Sylvia Plath

The day you died I went into the dirt,
Into the lightless hibernaculum
Where bees, striped black and gold, sleep out the blizzard
Like hieratic stones, and the ground is hard.
It was good for twenty years, that wintering—
As if you had never existed, as if I came
God-fathered into the world from my mother's belly:
Her wide bed wore the stain of divinity.
I had nothing to do with guilt or anything
When I wormed back under my mother's heart.

Small as a doll in my dress of innocence
I lay dreaming your epic, image by image.
Nobody died or withered on that stage.
Everything took place in a durable whiteness.
The day I woke, I woke on Churchyard Hill.
I found your name, I found your bones and all
Enlisted in a cramped necropolis,
Your speckled stone askew by an iron fence.

In this charity ward, this poorhouse, where the dead
Crowd foot to foot, head to head, no flower
Breaks the soil. This is Azalea Path.
A field of burdock opens to the south.
Six feet of yellow gravel cover you.
The artificial red sage does not stir
In the basket of plastic evergreens they put
At the headstone next to yours, nor does it rot,
Although the rains dissolve a bloody dye:
The ersatz petals drip, and they drip red.

Another kind of redness bothers me:
The day your slack sail drank my sister's breath
The flat sea purpled like that evil cloth
My mother unrolled at your last homecoming.
I borrow the stilts of an old tragedy.
The truth is, one late October, at my birth-cry
A scorpion stung its head, and ill-starred thing;
My mother dreamed you face down in the sea.

The stony actors poise and pause for breath.
I brought my love to bear, and then you died.
It was the gangrene ate you to the bone
My mother said; you died like any man.
How shall I age into that state of mind?
I am the ghost of an infamous suicide,
My own blue razor rusting in my throat.
O pardon the one who knocks for pardon at
Your gate, father—your hound-bitch, daughter, friend.
It was my love that did us both to death.

Poetry by Pablo Neruda

Tue, 12 Apr 2005 19:36:53 GMT

Here I Love You by Pablo Neruda

Here I love you.
In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself.
The moon glows like phosphorous on the vagrant waters.
Days, all one kind, go chasing each other.

The snow unfurls in dancing figures.
A silver gull slips down from the west.
Sometimes a sail. High, high stars.

Oh the black cross of a ship.
Alone.
Sometimes I get up early and even my soul is wet.
Far away the sea sounds and resounds.
This is a port.
Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.
The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire.

(I will post some poetry as soon as I write some more - I go through cycles where I write a lot and then I write nothing, or very little, and right now I am in the second half of the cycle, they will start flowing again soon. So, until then, I will try to share some of the poetry I love with y'all)

A poem to ponder - by Naomi Shihab Nye

Tue, 12 Apr 2005 13:50:45 GMT

"The Art of Disappearing"--(Naomi Shihab Nye)

When they say Don't I know you?
say no.
When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply.
If they say We should get together
say why?
It's not that you don't love them anymore.
You're trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished.
When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven't seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don't start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.
Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time.

Hurricane

Mon, 28 Mar 2005 20:49:46 GMT

A new poem

Hurricane (3-27-05)

We swirl in
then out
then in again
hovering
in the center
then slipping back
into the storm
if we could find a way
to live forever
in the peaceful eye
I wonder
if we would

Home

Wed, 02 Mar 2005 14:52:57 GMT

.... A poem

Untitled (3-2-05, 9:40am)

I once thought in squares and corners
that a home must have four walls
with a brass knocker on the front door
but I have come to understand
that home is circular, an embrace
my lover's arms surrounding me
home is lace draped on my table
or silk ribbons in my hair
home is my rainbow blanket
stretched across our king size bed
home is this morning, this moment
this poem whispering memories
lacing words into a tapestry
there is no house big enough
to contain this home
that dwells in my heart
this landscape of love
that has no right angles
instead each point leads back
to the center
this center I call my soul

Poetry from Joy Harjo

Mon, 14 Feb 2005 20:45:16 GMT

This is My Heart by Joy Harjo

This is My Heart

This is my heart. It is a good heart.
Weaves a membrane of mist and fire
When we make love in the flower world.
My heart is close enough to sing to you
In a language too clumsy, for human words.

This is my head. It is a good head.
Whirrs inside with a swarm of worries.
What is the source of the mystery?
And why can't I see it right here, right now
As real as these hands hammering
The world together.

This is my soul. It is a good soul.
It tells me, "come here forgetful one.
And we sit together.
We cook a little something to eat.
Then a sip of something sweet.
For memory. For memory.

This is my song. It is a good song.
It walked forever the border of fire and water.
Climbed ribs of desire to my lips to sing to you.
Its new wings quiver with vulnerability.

Come lie next to me.
Put your head here.
My heart is close enough to sing.

c Joy Harjo

From A Map to the Next World, W.W.Norton 2002 and Native Joy for Real, Mekko

For your enjoyment .... random mix of some of my poetry

Mon, 14 Feb 2005 16:15:24 GMT

A little longer than I had planned but ....

The Lady Van Winkle (9-16-04)

she felt faint
the world was open
and falling
the air was not her breath
though she was reaching for it
her hands spread
in question
kneeling
into a small fire
she was melting
into a vision of radiance
of memory
lifting her eyes
to reclaim heaven
she became a song
on someone else's lips
just before
she slipped into
the darkness
of a long long sleep

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tapestry (9-14-01)

Macramé and velvet sit uniquely
beneath the fingers, beauty found
in differences rather than similarities,
a blending of knotty flesh with
silken twine, and I bend under your
touch like yarn on a loom,
let me be forever the tapestry
you create with your fingertips,
let sweat from your wrist
discolor my left corner, let me
embrace you in return like a warm
woolen cloak in January,
a chenille throw covering your lap
as you write poetry for me
about my fingers on your skin

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Truth About Eve (8-1-04)

Time has a way of altering stories.
This is the truth about Eve:

Lilith, the beloved, was never Adam's wife,
she was his sister, both made from the clay
of the blessed earth -
first Lilith, then Adam.
Adam was content to have
only beasts for friends,
but Lilith wanted more -
soft hair to caress, hands to link with hers.
And so she reached into herself
and gave birth to a woman whole.
Eve, with the silky black hair,
awoke to red-haired Lilith stroking her cheek,
and instantly she knew love.
Adam, seeing their happiness,
demanded a love of his own,
but Lilith refused, saying,
"She is made of my flesh,
if you would have your own,
make it yourself."
Adam grew angry as time and again
he tried
and failed.
Finally, he prayed to Yahweh
to make him a bride of his own
to make her love him, and not Lilith.
And Yahweh came, and from Adam's rib
fashioned a woman, soft and pliable,
with her hair even blonder than Adam's.
And when Adam awoke he found her there,
sleeping, waiting, and he named her
Eve, like his sister's mate.
But Lilith and Adam fought
as Adam lied to his new wife,
claiming to have been born first,
to know best.
So one day, Lilith
copper-haired temptress,
led the fair-haired Eve
into the center of creation
and loved her
as she loved her raven-haired mate
every night
and light was spilled onto the earth
and into Eve's eyes
and she returned to Adam,
satisfied but hungry
and very curious
and ever since then women have struggled
to find that sense of satisfaction
in the arms of men whose
best friends are beasts.
While Lilith and her Eve
left the garden of ignorance
and moved to a neighboring town,
into the land of Nod,
where love was many colored and bright
and men there knew words and gentleness,
loving more than beasts and conquest,
and women were unafraid and proud,
loving when and who they wanted.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Untitled (3-11-02)

I am eating my own inadequacies
in a bitter salad of rejection
had I been expecting this
I might chew easier
but the surprise is like pebbles
in a stew, breaking my teeth
with each bite
leaving me hungry and unfulfilled
and in a few hours I will bake a cake
called disappointment
and it will flavor my kitchen
for days

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Celtic Memories (3-4-02)

Bringing it full circle,
I find I have been sleeping all along.
There is a subtle weeping along the borders,
a fear of catharsis and completion.
If I face the past, must I let go?
What of my memories of tweed and velvet,
feeling the mist from the shore
upon my cheek, racing horses and dogs
to some imaginary finish line.
The tides would rise to me, I often dreamed
it so, and I, a Celtic maid by the sea.
I search in my heart and find my family there
always, they are near me in Canada,
Ireland, Scotland, America - my ancestors
reside in my skin, I feel their drumbeat
coursing through me. Blessed Epona, free
me from the blackness of sleep, the blindness
of my youth. Let me not be lost in my old age.
I am seeking relief in a dance of trees,
kissing Queen Anne's lace and lilacs,
the taste of brine upon my lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("Untitled", 6-7-04, 6:40am)

In the early morning quiet
just after my shower
but before breakfast
every sound in the house
has meaning
the clock ticking behind me
reminds that time
never slows down
edges me toward the fridge
encouraging me to eat
and go
the cats scuffle somewhere
down the hall
and pretend to be us
last week
arguing over something
intangible
(and ultimately
unimportant)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("Untitled, 6-6-04, 7:52pm)

She is a loud woman
who takes up lots
of space
A long time ago
she stopped
softening her words
with question marks
and now treats them
like darts, like
arrows, going straight
to the point
without holding anything
back

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("Then there would be no need for a Revolution", 6-1-04, 10:30pm)

If every woman
could name herself
belonging only to herself
knowing herself
as the Goddess incarnate
knowing her lips
were lovely
and her thighs perfect
just as they are

If every woman
knew what her voice
sounded like without
quesiton marks and hesitation
each word a song
of joy
in living
breathing
being
(female)

If every woman
was free
to be who
she wanted to be
then
we wouldn't need
a revolution

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("Untitled", 6-6-04, 12:40pm)

William Carlos
_____Williams writes
so precisely
_____that even
a cat's footsteps
_____become visible
on the page.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("The Need of a Poem", 6-6-04, 3am)

She doesn't understand
the need of a poem
at midnight
or noon
being dragged out of you
whether you want it
or not

She is immune
to a muse
that beckons during lunch
or who claims
that laundry can wait
another hour
while you finish this
sonnet
sestina
verse

She has no connection
to the breath
found only in weaving
words on a line
fingers to flesh
a lovemaking
with sound

She doesn't understand
this need for poetry
in me
but she is beggining to see
that it's not going away
anytime soon

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("Untitled", 6-6-04, 2:30am)

From my rented attic with no earth
I peer below me
glimpsing the edges of grass
behind the well-kept garden
I long for the wildness beyond
but find I would settle for
the tailored land
in its fiesta of color
striving to be more but always
cut back, the daisies there are
little gossips, telling the lizards
what they want to be when they
grow up, but the lilacs are dying,
shedding life after life
in their imitation of snakeskin
not understanding that a flower
can never be cold blooded
This frame around my window
keeps me from seeing more and
I feel trapped here, married to
these four walls in a way
not wildflower could understand
but the rose knows me
and feels pity when I weep
against the glass

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

("The work of an apprentice elder", 6-6-04, 1:55am)

As I see it
this is the work
of an apprentice elder
to see a leg and praise it
to become a tree
in the knowing
of a single leaf
to dream a body into being
from a magenta sunset
nestled quietly
between day and night
wearing a certain strength
in her hair
leaving shells and pebbles
on her altar
a rose petal to rest
near the center
she is more than a door
she is a doorway
an opening
a roomy archway
that leads you
to yourself
she will whisper to you
of your beauty
leaving you blushing
but begging for more
she will teach you
to reclaim your words
and your household
to breathe with dignity
to be grateful
for the little things
as you stagger
from some of the big ones
she will teach you
to be your own shelter
when the rain falls too hard
and you find yourself weeping
in the night

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("Untitled", 6-6-04, 1:30am)

There is a certainty in this
the smell of patchouli on my skin
and an openness to dreaming
that is always a welcome embrace

The soft sound of bell and drum
to send me into trance of dancing

My body is whole here
and I can hear words echoing
reverberating in my muse-rich
imagination, but it is your smile
that brings me here again and again

And the knowing behind those eyes
of all my soft places

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("In A Dream", 6-6-04, 1:20am)

I am potent, never questioning
the power of my hips, the promise
of spring, so certain of what life
will bring that I stand smiling
legs apart and proud, the window
beside me stands open and a breeze
filters through to ruffle my hair
and laugh with me

Here there is no lonely,
no fingers reaching in the darkness
to claim flesh they don't own,
no weeping of small children
huddled in corners, no wickedness
on a summer's day, hidden
far in the top of the barn

In this place of sunlight
the paintings don't mock me
pretending to know all my
secrets, their eyes full of blame

No, here, I am beautiful
and blissful, dancing in
billowing dresses, with my lover,
the wind, serenading me
on the shoreline

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("Letter To Myself", 6-6-04, 12:20am)

When you woke me this morning
your brown eyes wore compassion
like a mother, seeking only to soothe
the aching in my chest, wipe tears
from my puffy cheeks, and rather than
linger in silence, I whispered
Good morning
like a bird opening its wings
a warble of half-asleepness echoing
from my lips

You are always with me, love
your hand resting in mine
a promise of forever is always
in your smile, you know me
like no one else, yet you can
sometimes be my harshest critic
while you are also my dearest friend

In the evening, my lashes light
against your cheek, my teeth
rest sweetly in your mouth,
my breast brushing your arm
as I drift off to sleep
with my hand tucked quietly
under your pillow

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("A poem", 6-7-04, 7:55am)

there is ink
all over my fingers
from writing all night
poetry that seeps
through my skin
onto lined white paper
filling page after page
with sounds and memories
a poem for your lips
a poem for your smile
a poem just to write
a poem

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

("This Argument", 6-5-04, 10:20am)

this is an argument
set on auto-repeat
you use the same words
over and over
fight after fight
I know them so well
that I could say them
with you
for you
instead I shut up
and shut down
stop listening as I
try to find my center
grounding into
some hidden
memory
trying not to drown
in the heat of your anger
to find a calm spot
in the middle of the attack
this attack
I could make without you
I know it so well
I know you so well
and my heart breaks
again and again
as I think of how far we've come
from your arms around me
upset with youself for making me cry
wanting to make things better
but now my tears mean nothing to you
even though you bring them to my eyes
more and more of late
and I feel the past slipping
into a quagmire of regret and madness
each piece of happiness
becoming tainted by repeated abuse
rehashing the gentlenesss
with a harsh tongue
ripping my memories
into the tiniest of fragments
do you regret the money you spent
on our weekends together
or on gifts for me
you say you don't see
that generous, loving person
others see
but why is that,love
because you don't let me
it's this need you have
to control every aspect of our life
makes me run
sends me to notebooks
and phone calls
friends who understand me
when my own wife refuses to
when my whole life feels upside down
and empty
and I am empty right now
except for this dull ache eating
right through my center
and into my poor, bitter heart
that has built walls now
walls from you
and what you have put me through
continue to put me through
and this argument keeps dragging on
the same one we've been having for months
for years, really
and I don't know why I keep trying
if there is even a point in responding
because you are arguing with yourself
not me
and you do not listen to me
except
to catalogue it
so you may use it as ammunition
in some later argument
I need not really be present for
for it to happen

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Untitled, 6-4-04, 11am)

she went to the doctor today
asking about this pain in her chest
this wetness in her eyes
and he can find nothing wrong
nothing
but she knows she is dying
swears she hears ghosts
in the night
asks for another round
of forgetfulness in a pill
another late night substitue
for her lover's arms

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Untitled, 6-3-04, 8am)

And so we come to this place
where I learn your betrayal
and it was not just once
but over and over
that you have gone to her
talked about me
painted me as the villian
in this play of yours
and all because
I wanted to have some say
in my own life
all because
I refused to just lay down
and take it
let you make all the decisions
for our life together

Instead you say I nagged
I bitched, I fought you
every step of the way
but what I was fighting for
was my voice, my person
the necessity of not losing me
in this need for us
in this desire to make you happy
and so I fought
to keep from breaking
to keep from dying inside

And I am alive, love
even if you do
talk about me behind my back
to the one who holds the key
but did you ever think
that by talking to her
the house-keeper, warder, mother
that you would make my life
a little harder
that by sharing our arguments
with the one who loves you most
puts me in a place of feeling unsafe
as if I now have to watch my back
in my own home
only
it isn't my home
it has never been my home
it is only the place I sleep
until you betray me again
and again
and again

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

(Untitled, 6-2-04, 2:50pm)

over and over we exchange words of flame
that barely seem to chip through this ice
that erupts from beneath like a wall of stone
we can sing together and climb over this rubble
until the next time the frozen lake breaks forth
and then we are back in this place of angry
retorts that mean nothing more than distance
and your kisses that were warm two minutes before
become icicles against my flesh, leaving me numb
and empty despite the warmth of the afternoon air

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

("Inspiraton: Ode to Anne and Sylvia, 6-2-04, 9am)

Sexton and Plath inspire me
to create a road before me
blackberries for the journey
slipped into my white pocketbook
beside the cigarrettes and fish
my red hair to wrap around my shoulders
like a blanket of air
to rise up again and again
despite conversations with our boy
long forgotten in the night
years past but always just inches
from memory
I am barefoot and bleeding
but reaching for meaning
in the smallest word
you, us, we, me, I
these are the sounds
that resonate against flesh
keeping my eyes open
and blinking
whether I live in London
or Boston
or some small corner
of the Midwest
yearning for a culture of poetry
that leaves me breathless
and weeping for more
Anne, Slyvia, give me kisses
from the darkness
rest gently against my cheek
and fill me with creation
bring the morning
this morning
any morning
to me
and cruise beyond Mercy Street
into the freshest apple
cut
into two pieces
a star shining
from the center
the meat
tender
and juicy
in my hand
and I offer it to you
offer you to you
in appreciation
for this inspiration
in my fingers
and on my tongue
words to lather my imagination
and wrap around me like gossamor
like velvet, like thick thick wool
to warm me, nurture me, feed me
bury me under these layers
of meaning and light
and I shall be reborn again
like the Lady Lazarus
but without losing flesh
in this making of life

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

My father and I (2-5-04, 3:04pm)

When I was younger we would fight for days
whenever I would speak my truth
He knows I am a lesbian, a witch, on the very left,
an opposition to his right, his pro-war, anti-abortion
anti-any-choice for anyone not like him
But this truth is belied by the fact
that when I see him
there is always this polite veneer
this glossing over of truth
a mock respect
when I haven't had any in years
calling him by his first name
behind his back
I don't tell him that I am my own best critic
that I am a perfectionist
thanks to never being quite good enough for him
I don't mention the time he drug me up the stairs
his arm around my neck, hatred in his eyes
I keep to myself my disgust
at his "man-of-the-house" attitude
that he carries into my apartment
There is little truth between us
and little hope of it ever being there
for my father
is the king of decievers
the lord of lies
the betrayer and breaker of dreams
no, it's best to let things lie
pretend there is no anger in my hands
seeing him only once a year
which is both too often and
not often enough

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Untitled, 2-16-04, 2:16pm)

It's not just that your fingers feel like heaven in my hair
Nor is it the way my heart warms when you wrap me into your arms
It's not the way you make me scream when you've taken me to the edge and over
Nor is it the way you laugh with me for hours
It's not the tears in your eyes, brave enough to cry in front of me
Nor is it the poetry you sing in my ear each night
It's not any of that, or it's all of that, but mostly
It's the way you say you love me when I need to hear it most

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

one word poetry - abstract

Fri, 11 Feb 2005 19:24:56 GMT

Abstract ... or is it?

Untitled (2-11-05, 2:20pm)

the world is abstract white
in this tiny cubicle
of nothingness
only changing colors
on the screen
open one up to possiblitiies
it's true that the world is small
and that truth is stranger than fiction
and that our lives are sloppy
spilling over into anger, sobbing
memories and rarely reached dreams
but life is about dreaming
and trying and taking those chances
those scary steps that could send us soaring
or let us crash to the ground, failures
but just today I read somewhere
that we should try to be the best we can
and if we fail, we should fail with blazing colors
and so it is that we come to this simple truth
that life is not the abstract white of the office cubicle
it's not the geometric shapes found in glass buildings
instead, it is a rainbow that goes on forever
and ever, endless with opportunities we have yet to fathom

http://oneword.com - abstract

New Poetry

Mon, 31 Jan 2005 19:24:03 GMT

Not necessarily one of my better pieces, but it -just- came to me. (So, please be gentle, this poem is still very raw).

Untitled (1-31-05, 2:15pm)

Mama,
Second to my lovers,
It is always you
Who can hurt me most -
With a callous word,
A jealous gesture
A judgment, a look.
Oh Mama,
I never told you,
Did I?
You knew
That Dad could anger me,
Send me flying into rage.
But you never saw the damage
You inflicted
With your lost soul,
Searching for oblivion
In a bottle of pills.
Even now,
In the middle of
My thirty-second year,
I fear that phone call
That says finally you have succeeded,
That you have fled this plain
That kept you angry and afraid.
But that’s not the way to go, Mama
That’s not the way to go.

small but sweet

Wed, 19 Jan 2005 15:51:34 GMT

Untitled (1-19-05, 10:30am)

there is a layer of snow
like lace
covering the maple
in our side yard
and this tree
dances like a memory
in its dress of white

Another winter poem ... :-)

Wed, 05 Jan 2005 13:28:26 GMT

Untitled (1-5-05, 8:10am)

As much as I love Autumn
I find that snow dominates
my poetry, soft snow,
hard snow, freezing rain
or hail, percipitation
has this tendency to overwhelm
and perhaps it is when
I feel buried or frozen in place
that I tend to relate
to cold places and pale skin
snow men, snow women, snow forts
around my aching heart
and yet there is joy here too
laughter and snow ball fights
hot cocoa after hours of play
or spiced cider following
an evening spent carolling
filling the neighborhood with song
perhaps it is this ability
to transform itself that brings
winter into my work
this ability to be built
or to melt into change
despite our best efforts
to remain the same, always the same
but would we not die in a barren winter
lost to the grey that surrounds
the clouds a permanent fixture
blowing violently like the trees
perhaps it is more the potential
the unspoken promise beneath the snow
that spring awaits, that the light
will return, and that one morning
buds will break through the surface
not just crocuses blooming through the snow
but daffodils and dandelions, irises and lilies
will come alive with color and replace the grey

A new poem

Sun, 02 Jan 2005 21:58:07 GMT

Swirling

Swiriling (1-2-05, 4:50pm)

there is this swirl
wrapped in a peaceful sound
that lets me rest here
sleeping, hibernating
in this womb-cave of my mind

in this time of gestation
as memories and new ideas
form inside, growing
I find the strangest comfort
in silence, in solitude

here are the questions
I've been needing to ask
waiting for contemplation
patient but present
and finally, slowly
I find words to dance
on my page
swirling, swirling,
swirling

Remember the one word poetry?

Thu, 30 Dec 2004 19:10:29 GMT

One word, sixty seconds, go!

Today's word was "Below"

Untitled (12-3-04, 2:00pm)

below me
is the old year
laying on the ground
in front of me
open for examination
for criticism
for regret
but I let go of the need
to regret anything
this year
instead I give myself
permission
to claim each breath
as my own
to stop apologizing
for a need to be
exactly as I am
at any given moment

oneword.com - below

Mon, 27 Dec 2004 16:17:49 GMT

Thought this might be fun. Enjoy!

This is actually a multiple choice option :-)

Write a poem based on one (or more) of the following prompts:

A) An erotic Christmas/Winter memory/fantasy

B) A winter tragedy

C) A winter celebration/happy surprise

D) Having to put a beloved pet to sleep on Xmas morning/having a loved one die on (or near) Xmas

E) Describe an awesome Yule myth/ritual/experience

F) What happened THIS Holiday season (Yule, Xmas, etc - your choice)

G) Write a fury about the holiday season

H) Write a love poem to the season

I) New Year's Resolutions - either write a poem listing them, or venting about your feelings one way or the other about resolutoins

J) Whatever you feel moved to write. But even if you only write your grocery list in poem form , try to write something. :-) (*pictures a poem titled "letter to my pantry"* Hehe.)

Poems I wrote for specific people (as requested via a meme in my primary lj ladyteal)

Mon, 20 Dec 2004 14:55:46 GMT

For violetscorpion:
(Written 12/16/04, 2:12pm)
I have seen your strength, your wings are magnificent when you dare to use them, but mostly they are kept safe, tucked into that box under your bed with so many of your dreams, not forgotten so much as hidden, but you know they are there and when you are dreaming at night in your bed you pull each box out and examine the contents, only to wake weeping in the morning, the boxes still safe and sealed beneath you - one day, dear butterfly, sweet dancing lady, those boxes will burst open and you will be Pandora's opposite, by opening the boxes you will find the light of hope, by dreaming out loud you will find your voice

For entaru:
(written 12/16/04, 11:10am)
listen ... can you hear the sound of your own soul, sleeping here in the darkness of memory, in the shadow of dreaming, it's always there with you, weaving in and out of your fibers, through your stomach, your kidneys, your heart, but now, as it opens to embrace so much more than it ever has before you are frightened, what will become of this, what will become of you, how much change can you go through and still be the same, but dream, my friend, dream and love and all will be as it should be

For jenlove:
(written 12/16/04, 1:55 pm)
The golden key of possibility

despite the cold of winter
that sits so loosely
on our chests
there is a key inside us
golden with opportunity
ripe with possibility

this is the gold found
in rutliated quartz
weaving designs of infinity
into a very finite mass
and so too are we
boundless yet bound
to this body, this life

this is the ripe peach
leaving juice
to run down our chins
and in the center
is the undigested promise
of another peach
another tree

to climb and explore
another opportunity
to become that peach
that peace
inside ourselves

For dragonlily03:
(Written 12/16/04, 2:10pm)
Caught in his gaze, you could do nothing but stare back, forgetting to breathe, forgetting why you were leaving in the first place, and his lips were hungry as were yours, and this fire, this dragon-life between you, spiraled between you like lacing on a bodice, and with one more kiss you fell into the fire, into his arms, into the moment and you are burning still

For aboveinnocence:
(written 12/16/04 - 2:05pm)

once we walked under the dancing maples
autumn in the air and in our eyes
one small tear for the wind on our faces
but we were happy

there is a stream from Pennsylvania
that runs through your heart
tying you forever to a land of peace
and poverty, a land where money was scarce
but love was everywhere - if you just knew
where to look

but I wonder how many times
you forgot to look, forgot to name
your needs, your wants, your desires
because you didn't want the hassle
as you used to say

you say you have found your voice now
and I can hear it too, echoing in my imagination

which brings me to this moment of retrospection
remembering an autumn morning, sunlight streaming
through the falling leaves, and you, walking just ahead of me
then looking back to make sure I was still there

For justalilboygirl:
written 12-16-04, 11:15am
rice pudding for breakfast
tapicoa after dinner
and she knew sweetness
roundness, fullness
her tongue was an expert
drinking in creams and custards
chocolate and caramel
and softest flesh
left trembling
just before midnight

I don't think it's done yet .... but here's a new poem to chew on ..

Wed, 08 Dec 2004 16:12:46 GMT

If this whisper of winter ...

(Untitled, 12-8-04, 10:54am)

If this whisper of winter stops begging to be heard
and let's its voice ring like the bells seen everywhere
then we will have a flurry of white, covering everthing green
draping icicles on the lonely trees, leaving life frozen
suspended, in wait, yet beyond the sleeping earth,
inside the snow covered houses, lives are in a frantic rush
planning and packing, wrapping and decorating, music blaring
in every corner of the house - it could be Christmas
or Chanukah, Kwanza or Yule, but this time of year
bustles and jostles, no one is immune to it, though some
are joyous, while others are depressed, the rest of us
are just busy, searching for warmth in the bitter wind,
and awaiting the return of evening sunsets and gentle rains
that don't freeze on your windows and reach down into your bones
but even in the middle of summer, winter whispers, just as
we are summer dreaming even on the longest night

Random winter poem

Wed, 24 Nov 2004 18:04:01 GMT

Untitled (11-24-04, 1pm)

the snow is flying past my window
like a misted dream, promising
an escape from today's melancholy
come to me ice queen, lady of snow
let your blue lips burn me
and I will dare frostbite on my soul
for one more embrace in your arms

but even now you are already fading
a memory of bliss in this heated office
your eyelashes blending with your pale cheek
your slender fingers waving
in a muted goodbye

and I am here again
sitting in this concrete and plasterboard
the demon computer my only companion
trying to distract me from the window
from your forbidden delights
your frozen dessert

Morning Flowers

Thu, 18 Nov 2004 13:52:16 GMT

Morning Flowers (11-18-04, 8:30am)

This morning was a fragile flower
opening to dawn with glistening petals
and as you opened your eyes
in the haze of waking
all I wanted was to kiss the sleep
back into your breath
to give you release from the pain
from the daylight reminding you
how difficult it is to walk

Though I know that this will pass
that Vicodin and Flexoril
will slowly erase the agony
of each breath inside your back
I want it to be gone now
I want to save you, raise you up
to hero status again
I want the sunlight to be welcome
to be a celebration of living

And then morning will be a flowering dandelion
proud and lionesque, stronger than light
and you will be laughing, reaching for me
just before the shower beckons
you will tease my skin with light carresses
and I will kiss your neck, pressing close

But this morning, this very morning
you are stiff, breathing light
and I am always too far from the edge
just out of reach, yet I reach anyway
touching your fingertips in a need
to comfort, in a need to be near
and I will keep you here, in my thoughts
all day, until evening brings me home
once again, with flowers for my wife,
something hardy with fragrance
to distract you from the pain

this silent longing . . .

Wed, 10 Nov 2004 16:00:01 GMT

Poem behind the cut

Untitled (11-10-04, 10:47am)

There it is -
that silent longing
comforted only
by the sound of flute
and bell, bird song
and wind whispering
in the trees
sitting in my gut
like a lonely widow
mourning the life
she used to know
reaching into the creek
embracing
the cold water
the flowing earth
beneath
hosting this
near winter experience
flavored heavily
with nostalgia
and cinnamon
and I come back
to this
with open arms
diving into yesterday
in this search
for tomorrow

surprise . .. . a poem

Tue, 09 Nov 2004 02:21:11 GMT

Lament of an Egyptian Maiden (11-8-04, 9:16pm)

I dipped myself in gold
to become your beautiful perfection
the metal,so warm before,
burning me in its intensity
now is cold like ice against this skin
my breath has become so shallow
as I weep inside my silent tomb

It's been awhile

Fri, 05 Nov 2004 19:52:36 GMT

since I posted in here. I just haven't really written a whole lot lately.

But, I wrote this last night. It's a little raw and needs some work, but I think it's pretty decent.

Untitled, 11-4-05, 10:30pm

I'm missing something I've never had
a silence to wrap sound around
not the noise of television or the radio
I need the trees singing, I need
raindrops on tin roofs, on hillsides,
I need to hear the crickets,
the woodpeckers, the horses running
I need to embrace the storm
that is coming, become the lightning
and the thunder, be the waves
rising and falling, again and again
on the waiting shore. I need
to be my own lover, to write
sonnets to myself, remember
my own divinity, in the quietness
of the day. I am missing
the certainty of yesterday and yet
what I need is to embrace
the unknown, to find that
spontaneous moment of thanksgiving
to walk free of expectations
those expectations that I heep
on my own head, those voices of
others that propel me forward
or hold me back, in fear, always
this fear of what other's will think
I need to break it, let it go
remember that I am beautiful in
this skin, that this body is
powerful, that this mind is lucid
and bright, and though I may scare others
by just being my dangerous self, I
must not be afraid, for the
joy of living wholey as myself
is worth the risk, worth the pain
ah, but I am struggling with
this ideal, wanting to retreat
into the fantasies in my head.
Where is my center? Is it in that
blade of grass covered now in leaves,
is it in my fingtertips wrapped around
my lover's hand, standing defiant
against a world that would tell us
our love is wrong because she and I
are too similar in our secret places
even if we are very different
in other ways? But we come back to this -
this need to know, to be defined
by some label, and those labels
I once thought so crucial
are now more of the same, another box
to hide inside, to avoid the question
of presence, of meaning, of the song
of my own name, for the only thing
that matters, really, is if morning
brings the sunlight and how my name
sounds on my own lips, after that
it's just a game, a circular path
back to domination and fear
back to handing over our lives
to another, shedding our voices to be safe
but, dearones, we will never be safe
without our breath, without our song,
without those very voices we give away