Friday, November 21, 2008

wanderland


no pictures and no interesting conversation
have left me dumb and my heart's desires moot
now darkness has finally overtaken the sun
and it's time for a painful uproot
I'll pick the corn from my pilgrim's teeth
with splinters of the bones crushed beneath your feet
and I think it is nice how I've learned from you
a most dismal hope in things I never knew
but alice knew as she followed her fate
that though the clock stops time does not wait
and beheadings will happen like it or not
and lovely thoughts tumble into the basket to rot


Wednesday, October 29, 2008

New Hampshire Haiku

High tide cold ocean
Visiting and retreating
Blue waves warm goodbye



Dedicated to my dear friend Chyela who knows how to warm even the coldest day.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

motorcycle


fast you fly up mystic ave.
i watch from the safest place I have
and wonder as i desire your speed
if true love really is only a need
a quiet quivering thrill that rumbles my chest
at the thunder of your motor's eager unrest

skeletons separated by leather and skin
hungry to blur the lines between sacred and sin
american crosses, angels from hell
tender beating heart inside a frail shell
denying how very fragile you are
invisible invincible you race through the cars
forgetting those fading memories and scars

body crouched over your bright holy steed
i'd give anything to know just how to read
the mind hidden behind that mysterious mask
surely you have answers to all the questions i ask
but my words are lost in the wind’s rush and roar
and i join the rest of the-motionless in a colourful blur


Thursday, September 11, 2008

not the third street washeteria

I have learnt the secret to staunching the tears
DEHYDRATION


I wait, listening to the drums spinning
I imagine the rhythmic thumping to be a child’s rubber soled shoe
No need to worry
My soul is labelled non-marking
I will leave no trace of where I have rubbed against your empty cask

How small can a heart shrink?

I call it “strength”
But I know the truth
Constant bumping against the Great Wall
Has caused callouses to grow
Hard, protective, disfiguring

My school colours were black and blue
I wear the bruises under my smile
Occasionally they tumble to the surface of my eyes
Bloated and bloody
But the crescent streak of bleach suffices to distract from the stains

It started out the size of my fist.

When the the door bursts open
With a pop
And comforting sigh of hot air
I observe what is left

I stuff my wilted pebbles back into their sockets
And this blackened lump inside my chest


I call my mother
She still cries
She doesn’t know why
She thinks the tears fall because she has lost a daughter
But I was gone long ago

I left to drain the fluids
And I have been spinning ever since

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

midnight whispers

Ah, hope, love, hate, deceit
At this time of night
They fade to the shadows
Where they belong
The only things real
Are the electric lights outside my window
And their bulbous reflection in each rain droplet
Thousands of little Bostons
Clinging to the window
They will never get in.
My tears reflect your words.
Sometimes I hate you

Saturday, May 24, 2008

raspberry blues

I usually say too much!
Much more than I should
So lately
I have been holding my tongue
In hands too busy to notice
How it is so heavy and wet
And tied up in so many should nots

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

disown (migration)

The words flit through my head
I will not let them land
Letters grasping at the page
For fear that they will nest here
Tearing living things from the ground
Those things which wriggle hidden in my soul
They will scratch
They will pull them into the open
They will devour those small pieces of me
I fear them now
Those winged words whose flights
Delighted my eyes and mind
In their games of diving and soaring
Now I hide beneath umbrellas of immense size
That they may not see me
But more that I may not acknowledge their freedom
I will claim they do not exist
They do not belong to me
They do not belong with me
They are not mine


Friday, March 28, 2008

pocketful of cheer

The following verse is a tongue in cheek response to a myspace blog post (reposted immediately below) by dodinsky who, by the way, plans on publishing a chapbook of his works. In order to repost his words I added his link which appears at the bottom of this post.

Not Today

I greet my day
with a pocketful
of enthusiasm,
but you come along
with a sprinkling
of your biting sarcasm.

From your nostrils,
dark clouds billow.
Frogs start croaking;
I need to get going.
For today, I don’t intend to ride
your mood swings.


- dodinsky -



I haven't really thought of a title-
perhaps "POCKETFUL OF CHEER" will suffice, eh?


My pockets both had holes

Through which my moods escaped
Scurrying like moles
Like children swinging on a gate

They clattered all around me
I was unsure of what I felt
But you stooped to the ground with me
And gave me a bit of help

So now we've pinned all my moods to my chest
Like a kindergarten teacher's notes home to mothers
And at each interaction I choose the best
Selection of one mood from the others


Anyway, I thought it was about time for a cheery thought in this,
my dark little corner of the universe.

Below is Dodinsky's link...

broken by dodinsky

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

uncle wick

the next time I see grandpa
he will not see me
his eyes will be closed
and people will be murmuring "how peaceful he looks"
now that his soul is no longer trapped in his withering frame
rattling the ribs of its cage so that his body curls around the pain

the next time I see grandpa
my eyes will be so clouded with tears
that he will be a still blur
and I will regret sleeping in on cold holidays

the next time I see grandpa
my soul will be so wracked with longing
that it will scream to burst free of my wreck to join him
but he will not beckon me to him
he will not hold my hand and smile
he will not touch my face
or tell me I am a good person
no one will look me in the eye and whisper "beautiful girl"

the next time I see grandpa
I will carry my pain close to my heart
I will greedily guard it
stuffing it into my mouth and swallowing
before anyone can steal it
my belly will ache as the anger twists through my body
I will feint the comfort of others
though I know there is no comforting

the next time I see grandpa
someone will
belch a Sunday song
that was meant for a pretty red bird
shot with a rifle in Missouri
or a bald eagle soaring over the sierras
shattered from the sky by so many leaden tears
tell them to turn and run just like those young boys
because I will rip open their throats so that they can not presume to sing

the next time I see grandpa
I will be angry
he will not ask for my kisses as he puckers and sucks the air
puffing little popping sounds
he will not gaze wistfully remembering his sweet bride with black hair
he will not tell me the story again of the first time he saw her
under that revival tent, singing in the choir
"not that old story again" she would say and roll her old eyes
and he would tell undaunted of how he knew she was the one
and she would smile and say how she pointed him out that same night as the man she would marry
long after the gold rush staking their claims in each other
moral of the story: you are never too old to obey your mama

the next time I see grandpa
I will kiss him anyway
I will be close enough to see the unnatural natural flesh tone sitting on the surface of his grey skin
I will feel the rush of nausea as I catch a whiff of a foreign scent on his body
imagining the rubber gloves prepping and fussing over him in a well-lit room
he will look ready to present the evening news
with his mask of uncaring
I will want to wash his face with the tears I spill onto his new make-over
he will be as hard as he is cold
the stove can no longer keep him warm
even if it burned his flesh to ash
even if I cover his body with my own and breathe my breath into him
he will remain silent and still
he will not help me
his last bit of gold was snatched away

the next time I see grandpa
I think I will understand why
treasure is meant to be buried
in quiet
in darkness






Thursday, March 6, 2008

trained bird

The tracks are showing through your skin
Ripped back by years of wear
Callouses grown and faded
The line moves forever forward
Whether you choose to follow or not
They will reach their destination
With or without you

You lay your pennies down
To slip like bullets through the air and clink into the gravel
Scabby fingers burned by the heat in their eagerness to feel the smoothness of honesty’s monument
Elliptical Polished Hungry

Do you follow foolish tripping along a path travelled
By a memory that would threaten to transform you to a distorted image of yourself
The warning in a whoosh and thrill that leave you breathless
Longing for that ghost who kisses you and gives life to the restless bird
Caged inside your breast
She would fly high over the rules that tick away in front of you
But you must trudge carefully picking over the broken back of this forgotten beast

Watch your step
Twisted briars block your way
Roses whose wild heads hang heavy with perfume
Breathing words you almost hear
But still the path moves on

The thorns snatch at you and plead with you to stay here in your pain
To bleed your prayers into the splintered ties
That bind you hands and feet
As the memory rounds the bend and whistles for your attention
The pain hunts you on this trail of tears and drying bones
There is nothing for you here
Except loss and creosote for your wounds

The rushing is only wind
It cannot hurt you
Only what is carried in the wind
Be mindful
The swirl can lift you it is true
But beware what else has been tossed into this blueness with you
You are not alone
How many others have been raptured only to be dropped without a sound
Broken porcelain birds who were never meant to fly
Appropriately reprimanded
Scolded and humiliated
Left to find their way back
Along this road that has been buried in a world of disbelief
And cynicism that it ever existed

But I have the shining pennies as proof
Shot from the train that passed me
It is a wonder those bullets never harmed us
As children
But now I understand the pain they can inflict
As they work to separate heart and soul from body

That bird was shot months ago
These bones are dry as tears


Monday, February 18, 2008

untitled


Lunacy cries her pearls and diamonds for a city unknowing.
Catch her tears poet and drink deeply.
For beauty and pain-
As read through you-
Are one and the same.


Thursday, February 14, 2008

construction worker's radio

Angst screams outside my window
Broken hearts of men

They wail their indecision
With guitars plugged into pain


Sunday, February 10, 2008

drop of blood on the thorn bush

Red bird
So very small
Does anyone else
Notice you at all
I would not had I not heard
Your repeating repeating your tiny word

I don’t understand the note you pray
Your matins on this the Lord’s Holy Day
But I close my eyes and mouth with you
Breathing out darkness and filling with new
Day, the Sun, the promise of Light
Drawing me out of the troubles of Night
Shadows and screamings
Pain and Fear
Too tired for dreaming
I look up through the clear
Bright new dawn
And search through my windows
For a new sol to wish upon

When did you leave your master's side
To greet the mourning below my eyes
A drop of blood from my saviour’s side
The miracle that I have longed for
A sign, a clue, the fiery orb
St.Elmo sends his final word
Go in peace. Return and find
All you wanted you left behind

Ah, sweet bird
Pray for me
I will repeat that single word
So sweet
Mercy, Mercy, Mercy
On me
Have mercy my lord
Mercy on me

A confession, a profession, a pleading song
Sighing it daily my whole life long
With every action with every breath
Let it flow through me and continue in death

Lord Jesus Christ (breathing You in)
Son of the Living God (profess my faith as I breathe it out)
Have Mercy on me (I breathe it in)
A sinner (Let it go)

Repeat, Repeat
No more than a small bird's
Quiet lonely peep


Saturday, February 9, 2008

hellebores (lenten rose)

These ashes are from the volcano that I have become.
I burn for No One.
He attempts to extinguish me before I escape.
But bits of me roll away
Trickling from my eyes.
Hot, furious, sad, hopeful... all of these.
He closes the cork.
Seals me in.
I cannot escape.
I have vanished; I am invisible.
But I am not vanquished; I am invincible.
I am a tornado.
I whirl.
I would that I could destroy,
But I am trapped with Lucifer
Here in this bottle.
Lucid.
And the tall
Alabaster Japanese man
With his lavender hair standing
Like a flame of knowledge upon his head
Smells of flowers and sweet fruits.
He will slice out the hump from my back
And free me of this pain!
He tells me to have Patience.
He tells me I am crazy.
But I say, "I can do anything- this is the internet."
I am the talking bottle.
The Night Sky does not see me.
She has closed her eye to me.
She will not watch her daughter.
She has disowned me.
But I glow in her darkness.
I will live!
I will fight!
With my bloody knuckles and nose.
He batters me because He knows.
How deep my fiery furnace goes.
How much ash does it take to kill a rose?



Tuesday, January 29, 2008

let's go to limerick


There once was a girl who did not care
When the night sky got caught in her hair
The stars all fell down
And poked holes in the ground
She hopped in one
And still lives there

Sunday, January 20, 2008

i will sing, sing a new song

Last night was an IMAX premiere, fundraising night for the Tennessee Aquarium sponsored by Big River and Blue Water. They opened the new show last night U23D, a U2 concert video in 3D! filmed in Buenos Aires! The show also premiered last night at Sundance. It is scheduled to open in select cities across the country on Jan. 23; so this is a fantastic opportunity for Chattanooga!!! It will be here for 3 months. MUCH OBLIGED, BIG RIVER & BLUE WATER!!!

The film is fantastic. Simply amazing how 4 young men could become such a sensation. How many decades are they going on? Incredible how four men can fill a stage with just their bodies, instruments and personalities.

The stadium was huge! How could Bono not feel like a god? He could easily influence the actions of that bobbing sea of humanity present at the concert. Just as Christ could calm a sea of water with a word, Bono can create a sea of synchronized clapping from thousands of waving hands with only a simple gesture! How must that affect his self-perception? Yet, he has not been selfish with the power he wields. He uses stage theatrics so effectively, but at the same time neither music nor ideals have been sacrificed. Their music isn't "all sex and drugs".


I cannot imagine having talked to heads of state, presented at the UN, traveled the world as an ambassador, been an instigator and promoter of products whose sales will go to aid in foreign countries... They are such a phenomenon! I was drawn into the cult of personality... the sense of awe and worship captured in the humble actions of a stage hand, in slow motion and a mysterious cloud of smoke, dressing Bono in a fresh jacket. But at one point the camera pulled back, and the audience could see the set list taped to the floor at Bono's feet. The realization hit, "Wow, they really are still just a group of 4 men. They are a band!" Then there was the confirmation in the mad, hectic changing of guitars between songs to make a smooth musical transition. The Edge is simply amazing in his non-glamorous, simple stage presence. Such a great foil to Bono's over-the-top ego. Adam Clayton still annoys Michael. I think that is funny.

Bono Vox
Really rocks
Reminding us to wonder
When Johnny'll come home
And ponder how long
He must sing his song
Marchin' all alone

But the drunk man dancin' 3 seats down from me
Makes me laugh cause we all can see
He's thinkin' he's gonna get laid
All because his cash paid
For the girl rolling her eyes
As he bullets the blue skies


HELLO, HELLO (¡HOLA!) THE IMAX GIVES ME VERTIGO!

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

table (for) two

Upon opening the door, I was reminded of what had impressed me the first time I visited table 2 back in August: a beautiful, well-designed interior beginning with an enchanting entryway which I have not seen anywhere else here as we do not have cold winters which chill a restaurant each time a customer enters. The draperies, though not necessary for keeping out the draft, create a sense of transition from work-a-day to something special. An exotic welcome in rich tones, the foyer sets the mood and expectations for the rest of the evening.

As we entered and soaked in the bar, kitchen and dining room, I was disappointed to note that the curtained tables along the back wall were all taken. I had hoped that on a Tuesday night we would have run of the restaurant and those magical tables would be clear for a private dinner with command of the entire hall. As it turned out though, I preferred the small square table close to the bar at which we were seated because it afforded us a perfect vantage point to enjoy the jazz trio.

Our server immediately greeted us and presented us with our menus mentioning the special menu additions listed separately as well as the wine lists: by bottle or by glass.

We started the evening with a bottle of Artazuri Grenache Navarre 2003. Throughout the evening, as conversation waxed and waned, we raised 3 toasts: to a good year 36, MLKing Jr., and Macintosh.

The meal:
Scallop cakes made for a mild, warm start. I always try to do a scallop dish or crab cakes wherever we go. This was the best of both worlds.

We followed the cakes with a mixed greens salad topped with walnuts and goat cheese. I appreciated that the salad was not drowning in balsamic vinegar dressing. A few more walnuts and perhaps the server's pouring the dressing over my salad would have made for an even more delightful presentation. The quartet of garlic, herbed drop biscuits were a tasty complement to the salad.

For my entree, I chose the stuffed roasted pork loin. The loin was stuffed with a delicious spinach and pecan filling and was served over a fantastic creamy polenta. The dish was topped with a thin drizzle of a surprisingly delicate blue cheese sauce. The herbs were just right, but there were some bites which surprised me as overly salty. Though the flavors were an interesting and pleasing blend, the meat was dry. I concentrated on the spinach stuffing and the polenta.

The 10oz. Bison loin (rare) over garlic mashed potatoes, however, was ABSOLUTELY FANTASTIC! Perfect texture, soft and flavorful, seared just right with a nice smokiness that permeated the meat but didn't overpower it. Just as polenta complements pork flavors, potatoes make red meat sing. Asparagus and carrots made for pretty accompaniments, but it was the potatoes that carried the vegetables.

To close our meal, we asked for a tasting of the house-made rosemary ice cream drizzled with balsamic vinegar. The ice cream had a taste I can only describe as clean, but it left my mouth with an oily coating. So, my palate sufficiently cleansed and ready to be done with the strange sensation left by the ice cream, I opted for the low-flour brownie (the server described this dessert, when paired with the chocolate ice cream instead of vanilla, as "the perfect man substitute"- I chose vanilla as I had already enjoyed the Jack Daniels Chocolate Ice Cream when I visited in summer). I was gratified by the generous square of dense brownie served with a very light, soft ice cream zigzagged with chocolate sauce... not too sweet... a perfect pairing with my decaf coffee. Mi esposo had an espresso.

I look forward to visit 3 at table 2.

Sunday, January 6, 2008

forgive me

I recently found myself in a conversation regarding forgiveness. The person with whom I was speaking had reprimanded her sister for continuing to be angry with a lousy boyfriend who had called to apologize for acting like a jerk earlier that day. Let me note here, an act of contrition from him is quite remarkable, but currently she is going way beyond the extra mile for him, and I suspect that his apology is a veiled attempt at trapping her more tightly to himself through the confusion of Christian counsel. The given rebuke was, "You must forgive anyone who asks forgiveness." Now this is a tricky situation, and the imperative to forgive becomes a confusing statement as she is also being told she should leave the bad boyfriend. I simply pointed out the confusion created by these contradictory instructions, but that is not what I want to blahg about.

The concept I will address is what I see as a much larger problem with the admonition as a statement,
a fundamental misunderstanding of forgiveness (though I left it unstated as this is a tricky situation filled with years of emotional and dogmatic baggage - a "God helps those who help themselves" sort of pioneer concept). It is my understanding that forgiveness is not dependent upon a change of heart by the offender. It is the act of the offended's releasing the transgressor from the perceived debt owed as a result of the affront. Forgiveness has everything to do with the offended's attitude but not the offender's. On the flip side, if we find ourselves in the position of the offender we must not ask forgiveness; we should only express our guilt and sorrow over the offense, deal with/ remark on/ claim only our own actions. To ask forgiveness is to place the responsibility and guilt of our offense on the shoulders of the one whom we have already hurt. It is an attempt to release ourselves from the responsibility of dealing with our crimes. How many times have we said or heard, "I said I was sorry!" or, "It is not my fault if (s)he can't get over it!" As the offender, we then pick up a righteous banner and wage a new war, turning the offended into an offender. By this reversal how much do we add to our offensiveness. We increase our victim's burden by placing our guilt on them to deal with. We cannot insist on forgiveness. It is not ours to claim. It is not our right. Yes, we can expect it in prayer, it has already been promised. We can rest comfortably in the promise given through the blood of Christ, but we mustn't expect the ones we wound here to respond as Christ. They did not volunteer to carry our burden of sin, we forced it on them.

(Let me clarify to anyone who thinks I am creating an argument for holding grudges, I believe that we are to forgive even if no apology is made, but I also believe it is far harder to forgive than it is to sin against another person. My position is that forgiveness has almost nothing to do with its recipient. It is a matter between the one offended and God. We are told to forgive because we have been forgiven. We pray that God will forgive us as we forgive others. Also, once forgiven, the transgressor's job then becomes refraining from wallowing in personal guilt and condemnation and beyond that, forgiving others- a sort of pay it forward, hehe. I will also make note here that the difficulty of forgiveness lies in the fact that though God forgives once and for all, we do not forget. The pain of inflicted wounds always smarts. Forgiveness has to happen over and over again. Just like we are "being saved"- we are not saved at any given point in time until we are released from time; so too forgiveness is a process.)

So anyway, all that to say, "When you cause an affront, just say, 'I am sorry!' "