Diplomatic Impunity

The foreign tourist
non-fluent in English speech,
conveniently.

Cooler Heads Prevailing

A lovers quarrel
his imprisonment, her guilt
a cake-baked escape.

Heat Wave (haiku)

Crashing on my shores-
eroding my coasts of skin-
recedes with the moon.

The Seeing Eye (Haiku)

The elephant's mind
never forgets its poor sight-
or its kind kanine.


A Haiku for the wonderful picture prompt from Bluebell Books...

Short Story Slam Week 6-Children's Literature

Night-Vision

The bones of maples dance in meditation
to the hum and buzz of the earth turning.
They sway slightly
                           and
                      slowly
brushing the bellies of the atmosphere.
Monuments of molecules
                tremble and shudder
                                      under
the ominous pressure of gravity.

They harness a secret
swirling in their guts-
that if the song falls silent
the universe will have no choice,

but to parish within the rain.

What Do You See In Me?

I see the fastgossiptalking you
whose sentences crackle like brushfire-
after too many cans of diet coke
and a busy day
full of assholes and errands-
leaving you flustered
and beautiful.

I see the messy-haired you
who falls asleep so easily
and when wakes
in the abyss of night,
barely whispers my name 
(a record 22 times)
to see if I am restless too.

I see the detached and frightened you
who builds walls
to cover the trails
of her thoughts and fears-
so that I may climb the vines
that defend them-
to candidly witness
your bewildered glances.

Reading Comprehension

Leafing through the pages of my life
I found a picture of you
tucked in the binding,
marking a chapter
that I could never seem to finish.

The Contents of a Mother-Son Talk Over Brandy and Cider

*This and "something said in passing" is my attempt to build a cohesive colletion of poems, under the tentative title of "Geneology", dealing with themes of family, not just my own but in a general sense as well. Your criticism of all my works is greatly appreciated, because I dont believe I am every truely done with any of my writings. Thanks so much enjoy.*

*also posted on dVerse poets pub grand opening!!!!*

Her fingers
were the first to fall in love
with him-
attempting to tame
the wild threads of his hair-
as the two of them held onto
the trembling frame of his motorcycle.
At least that is what I gather
from stories I have heard
in times when they seemed much
happier-
perhaps
still in love with
the way the wind
ripped through the hair on their arms
at, onehundredmilesperhour-
perhaps
still in love with
the pinky-swear grasp they had
on their eternity.

The First Painting

*submission for jingle poetry's potluck week 44 "painting whispers"*


In the midst of his struggle
to shape fake fruit lying
in a ceramic beige bowl and garnished
with wilting dandelions, that he found
springing from a crack
at the edge of the road the day before
he threw his palette to the floor.

Kneeling down beside the pieces of shattered
white plastic and primary smears
he gripped his brush like a knife
and plunged it into every color.

He dragged this weapon
over his open palm.
He twisted and swirled it viciously
swiping hues of red and blue
thrashing whites and strange purples
over his callouses
until the bristles splayed out
like palmetto leaves
singed in the morning sun.

When he paused to catch his breath
his eyes fell on the small canvas
that used to be his pale flesh
and it was black.
A textureless, infinite darkness
that swallowed all values and dimensions
of the rainbow he had attempted
to entangle in his fingers.

Intelligent Design

She stands-
in the sitting room.

One eyebrow peaked-
her posture akimboed

and
I am suspended-
in a limbo of
my feng-shui-faux-pas
post-machismo placement

of my old, silly
wall posters.

They simply-
do not go
with her
art-nouveau-asian-inspired
eggplant infused
post-modern upholstered -
color
palette.

A life of language
scrawled on a closed attic door
now reads please come in.

I would like to nominate... brown paper bag girl

http://brownpaperbaggirl.wordpress.com/2011/07/09/on-stormy-days/

Tag:  Promising poets poetry cafe

Something Said in Passing

He was resting heavy in his armchair
and we were watching
the grain of the television,
a laugh track chattering
ambiently.

I stared at him sideways for a while
realizing he was
different that night.
Not angry drunk like the night before
When he put his fist through the wall
beside my mother,
but sad drunk. I could see
his thoughts transforming into words.

"You hear that one loud laugh in the audience?"
He slurred. "That one you can hear,
above all the others?
It always sounds just like your mother's."

He was right. I could hear her too,
as startling as a fist
bursting through the wall and as striking
as broken bottle sparkling on the kitchen floor.

Thoughts of a Presumptuous House Cat Laying in the Sun

Photo property of Jeffrey Lewis

My name is not Marvin
even though that is what you and your sister
decided to call me
after much deliberation,
when I was the last present
on that snowy Christmas morning.
My youthful coat was very handsome then
wasn’t it.
My real name
given to me by my beautiful calico mother
is Fredrick.
I think it’s a much better name
royal
refined
distinguished,
much like myself I might add.
No matter.
I suppose I must make some compromises
in order to find fresh Fancy Feast
placed in the cellar stairway every morning.
And don’t think I didn’t notice
it was the store brand you laid out yesterday.
Don’t get me wrong though
I do enjoy your company.
The contours of your face
make a wonderful pillow
in the dim hours just before dawn.
And you should enjoy my company.
You know you are very lucky to have me.
I could have sold
for nearly one hundred dollars
to that lady across town,
with the expansive back yard and
plush velvet couch
placed in front of the elegant marble fireplace.
Your pull out thingy in the guest room
isn’t all that bad I suppose
it’s perfect for sharpening my claws.
Oh my
look at how brilliantly my paws glisten
in the soft afternoon sun
washing across the carpet.
It’s moments like these
when I realize my existence is
truly magnificent.
I think I will venture outside today
and run around the yard really fast.
Sometimes I am amazed
at how ferocious and agile I can be.
Why just the other day I killed three mice.
They never really had a chance though.
on second thought
the humidity is rather high today
and I do feel slightly under the weather

After The Tempest

A poem inspired by this picture provided by bluebellbooks recent blog

There was an inscription
on the barrel
of a telescope, that I found
deftly floating out to sea.
It read- "there is
great beauty in discovery,
but the truth is impossible
to perceive."
I returned it
to its brine, beneath me
and tacked, obliquely
toward an island
I formed solely
for the purposes of teaching me
the nuances of my
uncharted degrees.

Criticism Of A Self Portrait

*This poem is a product of Art-spiration, thanks to the wonderful images of Bonnie from original art studio
and the folks over at one stop poetry , enjoy...


*ALSO SUBMITTED FOR JINGLE POETRY'S POTLUCK WEEK 44  "PAINTING WHISPERS"

A coil of white ink
extends itself
from the slightest tract of
soft-tissue; a pale membrane aquiesces-
a diligent breath diffuses
beneath a gate of ribs.

This cord
of many sinewous strings;
traverses the narrow alley intersecting
my-self
and
a muraled door, opposing me.

Pirouetting
with the feathered atoms
of hydrogen
and oxygen, along its way;
it has become a wire,
now vibrating.

Its' entrance
into the mural;
although surreptitious, is marked
by a point;
a small hole consisting of
infinite dimensions, each one
flaring out from its epicenter;
tremorous arteries
siphoning and examining
small samples of color
from the strange skin of canvas.

As the fiberous vessels
begin to grasp the mural's edges,
its tarnished surface
subtly resembles a mirror,
splintered and fractured,
in which I can detect faint shadows
of my-self; opaque projections
of an old color film.

I am, now-
two murals;
reflecting upon each other
the infinite array of chroma
and the absense of it.

Cosmetology

A sun awakes to sanitize
a speckled field of grass in sharp
angled flames of silence,
exfoliating the vaporous ghosts of night.

*check out the great poets and poems at poets united*