Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

compassionate release

An idea before July the first.

Don’t be so serious, keep it lighthearted.

They’re always nervous the first time.

Try to keep them calm.
Use your hands. Use your eyes open postures. Everything loose and gentle. Feel them ease into your embrace. What do they do next? What is the next move? It’s always the same. Eyes flutter long lashes, nails along the neck. They want this. They need it. Make them feel they’re the ones who are giving it. You are not in control of their desires.

How am I doing?
I’ve never done this before. Show me how to do it.

I once held a man in my arms who used to be young and beautiful. I saw it in the curve of his mouth and in his full lips. When he smiled his skin folded, creasing into a paper bag.

What does any of this mean? All of it is meaningless.
Take a sip of water.
Do you taste it?
Tell me what it tastes like. But use the right words.


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Friday told him things will be alright.
Sunday felt the change in the air.
Wednesday knew how to let go.
This is not a poem.
Note the hand that pulls the sliding door open.
They are still around the table in the garden with bellies full
and a plane turns to gather the fading light
where wingtips reach the sun.
Dedalus told me not to fly so far up
but Rilke said to give my weight to the mountains.
They light candles to hold shadows in the glass
and silence settles along the rim only to fill the throat
coating tendons and tongue.
I can feel the weight of the ocean if I trace back my steps
to root feet sinking.
The wind senses hesitation
but she wants to be wrong in this.
Watch the garden party wind down
and people disappear in the hedge grove.
We wait for the leaves to change colour,
Still born or ready.

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the watchful

Farmer Oak awakens at the touch of dawn. The window is boarded up.
Light seeps through the cracks and he pulls the blanket over his eyes
while the cat curls into his shoulder.

There is a cup of water on the nightstand and a lamp with a bulb at half-life.
His stomach speaks.
Nearly breakfast.
Heavy footsteps walk out of the room next to his and pause at his door.
Says Tom.
Says Oak.

Tom turns on the radio. Music sinks into the walls.
The cat turns over, mumbling something in her sleep.

Farmer Oak cranes his neck to look at her,
then pulls the blanket over her chin.
He shifts his weight. The bed creaks.
Her dark hair tickles his nose and he brushes it aside, gently.
She turns to him, still sleeping.
Her face, calm.
He is watchful.



written for Memory

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venus de milo

Sleep escapes me
A step beneath me
No arms to guide me
Muscle and bone

Come and find me
Those hands inside me
This sheet around me
Street lights and stone




an attempt at rhyme for: Street

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Begin with Atlas.
The world nestled across his shoulders
The weight is a kiss
Something heady,
soft and full of life.

Now passing cars stencil shadows across the wall,
follow their movement.
Evening casts a sheen
across the kitchen table.

see it?

silver and blue and perfect?

Diane thinks:
Why must the world be a burden on Atlas’ shoulders?
What if he carries it freely?

Picture the earth is a book full of stories
he holds in his arms,
where one face rests in the crook of her shoulder
fitting perfectly,
smooth skin
dampened hair
in divine exhaustion.

End with Diane,
listening to breath.


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leap day

Greetings after hours.
Bars of light spill through the lattice.
There’s a forest out there
swaying with sounds
Like his green eyes and whiskey breath
After their first kiss by the garden wall near the streetlight.
Brick fence.
The wind picks up,
gathering under their coats.
Waiting for the moment
to do what is right.
Faculties align.
Until a glass slip pools around her ankles.
Then a smile.


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a song of you

Sun salutations in
a room full of light.
It’s a reflection you see
your arms stretch
above your head
to the ceiling, slowly,
falling, at rest in prayer
fingers splayed
spread eagled
where palms do touch,
thumb prints sternum
solidly now
the heart’s centre is eager to see
three words come
to life at the base of the spine
or curl in the hollow of the throat where
love’s last breath
is but a whisper upon awakening.
Here this is the beginning of everything.

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