Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Considering Forms of Love


You're on your back,
sweat on your belly drying like sand;
striped sheet,
a smell of tidal marshes
and iron.
The surge and ebb of him is still echoing--
in your pulse and trucks out on the highway,
and the thwacking blades of that helicopter.
It has been searching for an hour,
or fifteen minutes, useless,
like a dog chasing cars.
His breath has turned slow,
and you trace cracks in the ceiling
while they turn into branches and twigs
against a March sky and
you are watching clouds spin
above the merry-go-round
you pushed it fast
to catch and lean back, and back
until your hair brushes the dust
as you wind down from flying.

WWP Prompt 31: Love

Friday, October 22, 2010


October is ending, November's on its way.
Dancing on the precipice is fine for spring and summer,
but it's time to fold the motley and put it on its shelf.

skinwalker's toss

this is a little choppy,
but, hey, Halloween...

Skinwalker's Toss

worn work boots, wing tips, stilettos, Birkenstocks,
flip-flops, moccasins, Doc Marten, Converse, bare
dog trailing a chain, cat, pigeon, owl, rat
no matter the form of the foot it will falter.
ecstasy or peace, the shapeshifter's chance

on one street out of many in any small city,
a building with a doorway in no way remarkable
casts a lure of peace to any who can hear
the screaming dark moon,
like a wild cat in heat

throw off your skin and come to your sister
in the one form you belong to: none
unity, unity, fleshless and free
wild in the space between fragmented wholes

but the door whispers sanctuary, sanctuary, home

the future will hang like the last autumn fruit,
out of reach, out of knowledge
one last new skin could be destiny in flesh
or the anguish and formless insanity
who calls the winner when the coin doesn't fall?
every dark of the moon
the same choice returns

Friday, October 15, 2010

poem from a wordle: the Flock


the Flock

Before the bitter winter comes,
the purple martins gather.
No extract of coal could be more black
than their glossy iridescent masses.

They trade away winter in hook-neck gourds
and staircase-less apartments
for the southern kiss of warmer days,
and the drooping mass of Spanish moss.

Mosquitoes bred in muddy sloughs
they pluck like cherries on the wing.
Their passing, thick as shadow,
is right and perfect on the sky
as a cat on a porch, blue lines on a page,
or a smile on a porcelain doll.

October wordle

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

animal poem for WWP

In answer to your question:
I can, in fact bwaawk like a hen.

( conversationally ) Bwaaawk, bwaaawk, bwaaawk.

( with excitement ) BWaaaawk!

( self-satisfied, or petulant, oddly the same )Bwawk.

and ( because there are always such moments ) Bwaawk?

It's a skill; it's a talent; it's an art.

For other animal visions, see
WWP Trip to the Zoo