Tuesday, October 17, 2017

I'm a horse with a blanket coat
Wrapped across my back,
Strapped easily around my speckled belly.
I feel the double love.
The sun the universe sent to me
Shines above my head.
The blanket that the human brought has stopped the wind,
And I am warm again.

The human will bring alfalfa hay,
And I have dry Bermuda grass beneath my feet,
And in a while, the human's child
Will bring me carrots and a sugar cube
And scratch the star of white that blazes out
Between my eyes and up
Under the shock of my black mane
That hangs down between my ears.
He will rub his nose to mine
And breath deep the smell of my sweat
Mixed with my chestnut hair.
And time and life will come and go,
And that child will grow into
Who knows what,
But one thing is sure,
He will always love horses.

I've found my river.
I go easily in its flow.
It's got the same speed as me,
Though it pushes me some,
And sometimes it slows me,
But it is home,
And yet, it runs away with me,
Down to our common destination,
The everlasting beauty of an amaranthine sea.

The Aegean strait that waits for me
Leads me from its lowly place,
Draws me from my high.
Open arms at sea level and below
Will and woo me as I go.
The Aegean Great sums up all the rivers' flow.
It would have been my fate
No matter which river I'd have chosen,
But I can glow in this river,
And I will go free and effervesce
With this transcendent river.


Sunday, October 15, 2017

He tried to carry too many things
To his car in just one trip,
And I fell out of one of the sacks
But he never even knew.
I rolled like a can down the hill
And clonked into the curb.
There, I decided to make a left
And roll a little bit more.
Now I lay, sprawled in a way
That may seem awkward to most,
But I feel fine, and I am lying
On the sunny side of the street.

If all the world is cheese whiz
And pork rinds
Then we have at least a 50 percent chance
Of casting our pearls to swine

I'm going to hold on to my pearls
Like an expensive rosary,
And pray to the gods of some other dimension,
And hope that they aren't piggies, too.


Orbits are like addictions.
So if you want to capture Mercury
And get it out of the furnacial heat
From its closeness to its star
So that you can study its properties,
You better take its orbit along too.
Put it in the bag to take back to the lab
Where you are comfortable.
Take your time.
You might as well.
But you will see no rhyme or reason
To the many ways that Mercury tends to misbehave
In the comfort of your climate controlled conditions.
Mercury not only can stand the heat
Of the Sun's great kitchen,
But also prefers it.
And while you take the weekend,
Mercury will slip off and put itself and its orbit
Right back where it longs to be,
Where, even its misbehavior is seen as behaving properly.


Saturday, October 14, 2017

The wildest creature I saw at the zoo
Sported six-inch heels and I could see through her floral mini-dress
That she wasn't wearing panties.

Her husky mate ahead of her
Pushed the stroller,
And when he turned around, I saw
The word "Faith," emblazoned on his black t-shirt
With the "T" in the middle
Looking all two-edged sword.

It may take more than Faith, Hope, and Love,
I thought as I walked by.
It may take more than being in one Accord, too.
This might take a Pink Cadddilack!

When I have the urge to skip the night,
Have breakfast and go on with day,
Remind me that even the light can be nocturnal,
And that my journal is incomplete
Without the sweet rest of day---darkness,
Where I put my feet up,
And put my head away for awhile.

Remind me that's it's better,
This ounce of prevention that I take,
That, odds are, I won't die
Before I wake, so it's ok to sleep.
Then I will lay me down,
But I may keep one eye open
Til morning light,
Then run all day,
And still think about skipping the night,
Have breakfast for supper then churn
More butter for later to feel I've earned my keep,
And wonder if ever I could do enough
To prove my worth to you or feel
I've earned a good night's sleep.


Friday, October 13, 2017

I have meat, and I have drink
Waiting for me at castle blue.
And I will eat when I get home,
Back to my home at castle blue.

Persephone ate a pomegranate seed.
She was far away from home
In an underworld where she now must stay
All fall and winter, and she can't roam.

So too, I know that I can't eat
This dangerous food in this hasty place.
I will wait to be consumed,
And to consume in a better place--
My castle blue.

And I don't speak in this foreign land,
Except to encourage with psalms and hymns,
Riddles for those with eyes to see
And ears to hear,
And sometimes, I might talk to you,
Can you hear me back there, in castle blue?

They sit together even if they do not talk.
They're social like that.
They look into one another's eyes sometimes,
And sometimes, they can't,
And it's not because they've told one another lies,
Or done some shameful thing.
It's just that there's a time and a place
For soul searching,
And a time to look away,
And let everything just be.


You can make your own luck.
Drop a penny,
And pick it up yourself.

The most interesting thing
I saw at the zoo today
Was a touring group of Mennonites.
A little boy, almost two, toddled to see the chimps.
He wore jeans and a short sleeve shirt of dark plaid,
And blue suspenders, just like his dad's.

Several lovely women wore plain fine dresses
They had made themselves.
They also wore small white hats
Bobby-pinned to lovely locks of long, undyed hair.
None of them wore a stitch of makeup,
And they didn't need to, either.

Children of all ages and older married couples strolled together,
The newlyweds lagged a bit behind. Yes, you can just tell,
In any religion or cultural setting,
For they are still in love.


Thursday, October 12, 2017

Know thyself,
My loving friend.
You are a complicated
Chemical compound
Whose very equation is complex,
A mixture of brains and brawn,
Heart and soul and spirit,
Love and sex,
So knowing you is sometimes hard for me,
But so beautifully intriguing
And so worthwhile.

But please understand,
Knowing yourself
Is even more difficult
Than possibly we comprehend
At the moment,
Because if knowing you is hard for me
You may not see your lovely forest
For all your lovely trees.

But you are so worth knowing,
My loving friend,
And there is a mighty kingdom
Full of glorious treasure
Within you.

And so my chant
To me, to you,
A mantra
That we will ever be true to ourselves,
And that we will know ourselves,
Know ourselves.

You want to get Lady Luck to disrobe?
A nice warm room with a rosy glow would help.
The sweet smell of oranges,
Nightbirds' chirp,
Knit her a cashmere sweater of heartfelt love words,
And drape her shoulders with it,
And she'll unbutton the one she wore in, herself.
And now, wouldn't that be better?


Wednesday, October 11, 2017

The sky is a giant 3-D printer.
You can have whatever you want,
If you can look up and see it in the clouds in the sky.
Someone's getting a new rib cage--
Right now as we speak!
Someone---getting a new spinal column,
Included: a new spinal cord and spinal fluid.
Someone just wants a little red wagon.
Here it is!

And here is a very special dragon
That a very special someone has wished for
And now has seen it in the sky!

It's all yours, my child!
Look up,
And behold what you will!

I keep looking for a new heart,
But all I found so far
Are heart shaped leaves on the ground,
But even they remind me, "Look up! Look up!
Don't look down!
Look up to the sky!
It's all yours, my child!
Look up,
And behold what you will."

Well today I saw a heart in the sky
Or maybe it was just a dotted "i"
Or a dotted lowercase "j"
Or maybe it was an umbrella
That I borrowed to jump off the barn as a child.
The anxious whoosh of the approaching ground
Broke it spines and turned it forever upside down

It's constant smile eerily derided me
With a continuous, "Good Job!"
For all these years.

I think I'll throw it out today,
And ponder what meaning there might be
In a lowercase "j"


You want to be native?
You want to see
The utter futility
Reserved in all things?
In building houses?
In planting crops?
In putting stock in the buffalo?
In moving west
And making room peaceably
For others to come
And build their dreams.
And with their square white picket fences,
Cordon off the simple winding trails
That you and the rabbit followed
To good spring water back in the day?

Their gospel says this world and everything in it
Is reserved for fire,
And maybe, all human beings would do well
To look forward to the humility
And the futility
Of all things.

- jenn

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

It's not better to give.
It's necessary.
The human condition
Undeniably exists
To perpetuate itself
With the gift of life.

And regardless of your lofty estate
Or lowly,
You will find your heart has burst
If you miserly only take
For all of your years.
Why don't you open your ears
To the music of love
And the generous buzz
Of atoms all around you,
Full and replete,
And share your sweeet heart
With someone who wants you, today?


Monday, October 9, 2017

"I used to dream of hunting down grizzly," he said,
"Or maybe black bear, or brown,
But now, I could never bring myself to shoot one."

In my heart I knew
The cherokee story of
How the black bear grew into being
From the cherokee people,
And is considered their close cousin.

The story of how some of their kin grew tired
Of living within the confines of the tribes,
Went out on their own,
And slowly but surely,
Den by den of anti-social men
Grew coarse fur, and grew hearty and stout
And evolved into what we now call bears.

I could see the sad eyes
On this grizzled man,
And I see him moving his clan
Further and further
Out and away from society,
And I have a feeling,
A new kind of bear evolution
Is underway.

When I have a special function to attend,
I often leave my pants unzipped.
I'd like to think I did this purposefully.
But, even so, maybe subconsciously,
A statement has been made.

And if such a passive stance of
Displaying my yonic underpants,
Can cause such a fluttering disturbance,
Imagine, if all our bootless worries
Could hurry off to tattle
And leave us alone together
In the shade of this chestnut tree.


All dogs go to heaven,
And so do all men.
It's women, so tangled by original sin
Who are accepted, excepted or denied
Based on things....ummm... I'm not quite sure what.

Maybe it's breast size?
Maybe it's how tight her twat is?
Maybe she's born with it.
Maybe it's Maybelline.
But I'm starting to line up more with
Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer
And think that with all the people I know
Who are so sure they're going to heaven,
Maybe I'd prefer to go to hell.


What is truth?
It's saved away.
A barn full of peanut hay,
It waits to be hauled out someday
When it is truly needed,
When the wheat's gone by,
The grass is brown and cold and dry,
And cows need to eat something
To nourish themselves
And the babies they're heavy with,
The ones they'll bare
When springin' time is here
And the wheat is green again.

What is truth?
It's locked up tight
In the china cabinet .
When the occasion is good enough,
And we can appreciate it,
It will come out
And shine it's light on our wishes,
And then we 'll know,
But right now, we're too lazy for the truth,
Too lazy to do our dishes,
So we just throw 'em away.

But someday,
We 'll be thankful for peanut hay
And good china,
And Truth.

Sometimes I pretend I'm married to roger mckickough.
He wouldn't let his wife wear makeup,
And I don't feel like wearing any today.
And sometimes I feign marriage to brent bartau,
Who never let his wife wear a bra.
That appeals to me some days.
And sometimes I pronounce me
Married to myself
And do whatever the hell I want,
Whenever the hell I want to.


Men can discover,
To their surprise, they had
A long lost son, a long lost daughter.
That's how it is when you're a dad,
Sometimes, I suppose.
But a woman dang well knows
When she's become a mother.
And this is just one of the many ways
The sexes differ.

I walk with a wild man.
People stare at him.
He wears no shoes.
His hair is long, unkempt at times,
But something about him shines.
Like Merlin, he is magical.
His smile, mischievous, and powerful,
His eyes are alive. He sees all things
Like a child on Christmas Day.
This world is his oyster.
He opens it from within,
And then the day begins to go his way.

And now, I'll go and walk with him,
With my hair combed,
My shoes tied up
Around my feet,
My smile just as mischievous,
Albeit, a by-product
Of his contagious grin.


Saturday, October 7, 2017

Two little kittens,
One's a male,
He comes up and kinks his tail
And stares directly into my face
And wills me to pet him.
He settles in as I rub his back
And scratch his chin,
And he purrs without remorse,
Loud as a galloping horse
That wins by a mile.

The little girl slinks quietly in
And rubs her body on my shin
And furtively looks around.
She rolls like a ninja on the ground
And up into a ball.
I stroke her soft fur tenderly,
But still, her myow, so plaintive to me,
Seems to be a cry out over second place.

What is it about our estrogen
That makes us less confident
And feel we don't deserve?
That good things are only reserved
For the men?
Maybe because that's how it's been
Since the earth took a swerve
And began revolving around the sun.


Thursday, October 5, 2017

My cat looks in the mirror and sees
A woman singing lullabies
And playing the guitar.
I look in the mirror and see
A tomcat napping,
Dreaming of scrapping
And finding his amour.

It was almost trained out of me
To the tune of "You're a lover, not a fighter."
But now I see, I'm really quite a bit of both.
And so, I see the cat in me,
And to "quoth the raven,"
Nevermore will I be untrue
To who I really am.


Sunday, September 24, 2017

Abundance Principle

You know how it is when you open a brand new tube of toothpaste,
And you put a big blob of it on your toothbrush,
Just like the beautiful people on the toothpaste commercials do?

You brush your teeth with a cheesy grin,
Cheating the dentist out of his millions,
And all is well until you get a big dent in the middle of your toothpaste tube.

Because then you see that you're down to half empty.
You dab a mere dot,
Which the hygienists assure us is plenty,
But we feel it's not
Unless it's fluoridated.

But the smile is now wan as you stare at yourself in the mirror,
And you notice your hair needs a doin'
If you're going to keep up with the Joneses.

Then, first thing you know,
You're down, a quart low,
Squeezing the tube with a roller.
Barely enough to dot an I,
And you'll have to scrub hard to cross all your T's
While you gottem.

And we won't talk about bottoms here,
But the same principal is abundantly clear
When it comes to toilet paper.


I'm caught in the middle
Somewhere way between
Fall boots and football,
Somewhere between the crowd turning me on,
And the crowd turning on me.

There is a fine line in life
That many say one should not cross,
But I say,
One must bring one's big hand
And one's little hand
All the way up to the stroke of midnight and beyond
When attempting to live the dream,
In order to assess what is real,
And what will turn back into pumpkins and rats.


Saturday, September 23, 2017

Mother Earth is a big mama possum
With us on her back,
And we ain't gettin' nowhere really
Unless she takes us.
We can fight and jostle as she goes,
Tryin' ta get some better position,
But the only revolution that matters
Is her around the sun.

But when we die,
Some say we fly to where our treasure is.
Mama Possum shakes us free
To go where we want to go.
We may find ourselves on the forest floor,
Or fighting a war we can't win,
Or seeking knowledge in the akashic college of old.
But whatever we do and wherever we go,
Why do I feel like we will know
That our questions of who had it right here on earth
And who had it wrong
Will be like a baby possum asking it's mama
What kind of cheese the moon is made of.

All the grizzlies look the same.
The polar bears do, too.
All the giraffes--so similar,
The zebra, the okapi, here at the zoo,
The deer mice, the house mice,
The meerkats, the wallaby, the kangaroo,
The markings, the coats,
Are so like the others of their species.

But look at the stream of human beings
Tramping along the boardwalk
To view the animals,
Hair color, eye color,
Size and shape---
A neon sign of diversity
In the animal kingdom.

Well, us, and the goats.

We need Hawks and we need Doves,
Here, in the animal kingdom.
The law of the jungle is the secret way
That keeps us in balance and in health,
In rivulets that we can't see.

But the Great Spirit displays its complex grandeur
Through every one and every thing that lives,
Through the quick glances we might catch of all the individual ones.
We can, if we try, put together,
The cosmic composite,
So that we can fathom the entirety,
Though we might never truly know it.

But this is the animal kingdom.
What of we humans and our complicated societies?
I'm not sure, but I feel it is the same.

And so, My Brother, My Sister, just maybe,
The one you hate,
The one you call 'enemy,'
Is a part and parcel of yourself.

But if you find that too hard to swallow,
Maybe you could at least admit
That your enemy is also somehow a child of the Great Spirit.


Monday, September 18, 2017

I've learned to leave when the cool kids leave,
And not to show up
At places they don't go.

Now I'm not cool,
But there's a reason they are,
And we could all learn from that.

I remember a church potluck dinner.
I was standing in line
Right behind a woman who had already been through once.
She turned to show me her plate
And pointed to something that hadn't quite satisfied her delicate palate.
"Don't get any of this," she said,
And pointed with her fork to a broccoli slaw.
"It's bitter!" she said as she
Clinched her jaw in an unhappy grimace.

"I made that," I said,
And her eyes got big,
Her jaw unclenched and hung agape.
"I'm just kidding," I said,
"But I could've made it."

It's one thing to warn others of some deadly thing
That waits to bring a mortal fate,
But to criticize food at a church social,
Well, now that's just bad taste.

I don't like this raspberry pie,
And I'm not going to try another bite.
I tasted one like this at church before,
And I didn't like it then.
I was told that it was good,
And that I should like it.

But I don't,
And I won't eat it anymore.

I hope you like your bacon crisp
And all your pancakes flat.
And put too much syrup on them!
And after all of that,
Could we just go back to bed
And sleep and dream
And live in lala-land
Until such time as reality
Lines up with you and me?

I'm out early walking in the wind.
It sounds like waves rolling out
And rolling in over the tops of the trees.
It's quiet here after the storm.
The animals are safe and warm in their burrows and nests.
Nothing is moving about.

I open my heart to the mottled sky.
I accept the duality of all nature,
My goodness and evil
And that of my family and friends.
I stand quietly on this airish hill
Where my hair blows free,
And I freely give my love again.
Yet I survey the dale
Where I live and take back my love, as well.

And now I know. I see.
The wind has blown the stale old lonesome out of me,
But just as soon as it comes again,
It will blow a fresh new lonesome in.


Friday, September 15, 2017

By the time I rise,
The Morning Star is high.
She's painted a fresco,
Something she remembers.
She's dabbed the clouds with color
And the skies with things that made an impression
On her at some time in her youth.

She takes time to represent it fairly,
An accurate history.
The faces are the actual ones.
She remembers them so clearly,
And she saw it all from the beginning.
She's not confused
By who hit whom in the latter years of the war.
She knows who started it.

All other biographies might begin their story in the middle,
But not the frescoes of the Morning Star.
Blood still cries out from the rocks to her.
The heavens still resound
With the echoes of the injustices,
And the fairnesses,
That have ever been found to occur upon this earth.

But know that at this point in human history,
When you pick a side,
It may be based only on whom you think you saw throw the first punch.
And then again, you might be right,
But you might be very wrong.

But look to the frescoes.
Meditate on the ancientness of the Morning Star.
Make the world better wherever you are
By choosing to be uniquely you,
And loving those whom only you can love.

And when it's time for your countenance
To appear in the morning skies,
The Morning Star will smile as she paints you.
She will be sure to depict your good side.


Thursday, September 14, 2017

Two flies buzzed about while I bathed.
One got swatted,
The other, unscathed,
Continue to fly between ceiling and floor,
But was it steam from the bath,
Or something more forlorn
That made the remaining fly
So heavy and morose?
Its spiral only seemed to go downward.

I don't think flies get married,
But perhaps these two were quantumly entangled.
Some connections are Cosmic and Real like that,
Even if they are "unofficial," or "officially" labeled "bad."

But whatever matrimony the excepted nomenclature of the day
Might try to enforce as "normal" or "good,"
People and flies will feel what they will for whom they will,
Right in the face of peer pressure or
The hegemony of political correctness.

Behold the broken hearts!
That felt that they were unwanted
By the Trees,
Used--like so much chlorophyll.
Innocence, imminence,
Wam, bam, thank you ma'am!

The trees say, "No!
What you don't know
Is that I had to let you go
For just this season,
But you always return
By the vernal equinox,
And I didn't know the reason, either.
Til now, I thought you didn't want me."


Wednesday, September 13, 2017

I have a winter garden
Where my kale and cabbage grows,
Turnip greens and mustard
And even when it snows,
My dandelions flutter
And shine bright yellow suns
At carrot tops and vining hops
And blush chrysanthemums.

And if you come and walk between
The clusters of love and rows
Of herbs and mints
And smell the pungent tingle
That tempts your nosy nose,
Then I will walk with you,
And we will find magic in the unseen.
We'll be fed goodness and graciousness.
Our love will sprout, and stay
Forever Evergreen.


Tuesday, September 12, 2017

I'm stranded on a desert island,
Or maybe that's "dessert."
All I found to eat is coconut.
I struggle to blast them open.
The milk is not that sweet,
But I've discovered the heartiness
And flavor of the meat is satisfying
Like nothing else I've consumed.
It makes me wish that I'd been marooned
A long, long time ago,
Or maybe that's "macarooned."


Monday, September 11, 2017

The curtain is alive
When the wind is in it.
It fills and billows
And spills it's lovely
Fragrant wine.
It giggles and stares
And shrugs its shoulders
Without a second care in the world.

Its first is something no one knows,
Until the wind forgets to blow.
The cup runneth over not.
Joy is gone.
The spirit has wandered far away.
No life dancing round in the curtain today.

But somewhere
Someone is settling in,
A loving smile,
Tweaking a chin,
Nuzzling the whiskers,
As ten winds blow
The curtains all aglow.


Friday, September 8, 2017

There is a source,
And it is more powerful
Than all the location
You can put together.
There is a source.
The great force of physics we might call Love,
We might call Tao, or The Way.

I used to be able to talk about it,
Without having any form of understanding.
Now, I understand it quite well,
But I can't say,
And I won't.


Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Oh how I love an open window,
An open door, an open life.
I lie in my bed at night and close only my eyes.
My mind goes out, into the dark
Following the song of a lonesome cricket.
I scurry along with my nose to the trail
And my tail to a pining moon.

The stars snap their fingers and sway to the song,
The song that the lonesome cricket sings,
And the moon bobs along through the midnight sky
Like a big pale balloon that's been lost by a child.
And I am just mully-grubbin' my way to the creek
Through an airy gate someone left ajar--
Chasing my dreams out and over, across the Milky Way.

And I hope when I cross that starry river,
And shake the shimmering dust from my pelt
And shiver, and look to see
That someone has left a door open for me
Yet again.


Tuesday, September 5, 2017

A storm brewed off the coast of France
And brought someone else's winds to me.
I liked these winds.
They blew cool and high and free
And made even the limbs and leaves in the tops of the trees dance.

I wanted to go and stay
Where these breezes blow,
To live and always be
Among the high cool snows
And freedom of the northern seas,
But a voice inside of me said,
"All the winds are within you."

And so I've stayed.
I made a forest grove my home,
Where not too many winds have ever blown,
But sometimes a good friend will pass through here
And bring me cheer,
And let me know I'm not alone.
And when I feel my spirit stir,
The refreshing air swirls up and even down.
The tops of the trees tremble,
And even the ground cover blows.
Then I hear the voice again and know,
"All the winds are within you."

Certain flowers don't bloom,
But the bees still buzz.
They hover and hope
To be first when it does.

But certain flowers wait to bloom.
They smile and wave and stand the wind,
The sun, the moon, until just the right bee comes along.
And then they grin
And petals fall to make for them
A bed of roses--
Just right for the right bee,
And a night of blossoming.


All I ever see of me is my shadow,
And depending on how my shadow has been informed,
It passes on to me its information,
Albeit limited, and somewhat distorted.

The only time I ever see my spirit,
I close my eyes and look down deep inside.
I dream when I'm awake and when I'm sleeping,
But these are just hints to the wide and spacious places that are "me."

My shadow only ever tells me gossip.
My dreams provide oases that mirage.
My heart tells me that kettle drums
At some distant Celtic Mayfair long ago
May be all that's keeping me alive.

And if I can hear the song that they are singing,
And if I can understand the ancient brogue,
My shadow will wander off to go out dancing
And leave me with my dreams to be alone.

I can enjoy the perfect rhythm of the drummer.
I can know that somewhere hearts beat gay.
And I can be as happy here as they are there
In their happy mansions of eternal day.



Sunday, September 3, 2017

It's a woman's prerogative
To change her mind,
Because she can want to
And not want to
All at the same time.
Because there is some strange call
To come and swim upstream,
To be caught in a moment of hormones
And the gleam of another salmon's walleye.
And yet because there is some higher logic,
Some greater sense that one cannot
Make a dollar out of fifteen cents,
Or a silk purse from a sow's ear
Or a kangaroo,
Or chicken salad out of chicken poo,
Or enlightened progeny
From DNA that's stingy or unkind.
And so, yes,
It is a woman's prerogative
To change....her.....mind.


Wednesday, August 30, 2017

I think it has something to do with fishin',
I hope, or basketball,
'Cause fishin' has noodlin' and crappyin', and all those
Weird bait names.
But basketball is where I hear the term,
And it always makes me fret just a little,
So won't someone go ahead and tell me,
What's a nuttin' butt net?

If you start the day with achin' and begs,
Some bitterness must remain.
Your quarrel is within you,
As is your kingdom.
Better to take a vow of silence
And chastity,
And eat and be satisfied.

Then take a bow at the end of the day,
Only after you've reached your destination.
Know that something has been done
Out of not doing,
Not saying.

Then sleep and dream
Of bacon and eggs in the morning.


Monday, August 28, 2017

I think of you and me
As opposite hands on one body.
And when I spin with arms out wide, I see
My hands make a circle in the sky.
Right is left and left is right.

And now I stop.
I bring my arms up straight above my head
And clasp my hands together.
And they realize
How happy they are
To be one.

I come to the airport at noon.
There's not a cloud in the sky over here,
But somewhere rain has canceled your flight,
And like the heavy jumbo jets,
My heart, too, is on standby.


Saturday, August 19, 2017

A man in a motorized shopping cart
Stopped me on my second pass by.
He thanked me, because he said
He was just sitting there feeling sorry for himself,
Watching the rest of the world go by him on two feet,
When he saw me go past
With my shorts up my crack,
And he thought to himself
That at least he would not be caught
Walking around walmart with a wedgie.

Glad to be of service, Sir.......


Wednesday, August 16, 2017

No is almost the opposite of one
If we can only
Considers the letters.
On is the opposite of no
And also that of under.
So if it is beneath you
To negate a few of life's possibilities,
Will it behest you to behold
None of your dreams coming true?

If good is the enemy of the best
And the opposite of bad,
How important will it be to be had
Yet never purchased?
And how lovely to bequeath
Some innocent blunder
As the inheritor of the request.

In other words,
Serendipity provides
Beautiful answers
To those who are open to see them.
Clear your schedule
And wait for me,
And I will see you later,
Yet sooner than you can imagine.


Wednesday, August 9, 2017

If you study anatomy,
You will know the amazing mechanical way
The tendons wrap.
You will see the foramen left
For vessels to pass through bone.
Or maybe they are screwholes
For some great invisible hinge
To hang us in our place at night
To open us to dreams.
And maybe the dreams download
Some great mysterious program
That lies there dormant in our brains
Until our spirit wakes
And reaches into the spirit world
With both hands to take
The beautiful living things
Promised there
And bring them
And plant them
Into the gardens of hope
That might still be.

And as we walk the rows of green,
Barefoot, and discerning
Between the peanuts and the careless weeds,
Hoeing out unwanted things
And making room for our dreams to grow,
We feel the pull on our mechanical tendons,
The whir of stress on ligaments.
Gears grind,
And we wonder if we robots
Can have a soul ?
Or if the downloads of these dreams
Are merely carrots out ahead of us
To get us up to hoe those peanuts
One more extra day ?


The sum of peeps and chirps and howls,
Quacks and honks and mews and moos,
Grunts and whinnies and snorts and chortles
And every other sound the animals make
Can be translated to just two things:
"Mother," and "straight."
One is a cry for food and protection,
The other, a prayer to know the fastest, safest way to their daily destiny.


Thursday, August 3, 2017

Locust are subject to plagues of their own.
Hordes of them lie dead in the street, or dying.
Instead of the sky, they've pressed their buzzing wings to the road,
Upside down, on their backs.

Maybe an invisible angel of death
Came and leafed through them.
Maybe it just picked out the first hatched.
Maybe it carefully took one of every ten,
Carefully moving the decimal point over each time
On the way to the tally of decimation.

It makes me wonder what unique trait
The firstborn have to make them
Such easy prey for premature pickins.
Is it that they are more pressured to be perfect,
Or that they see a world of adults
Before other children are born,
And the confusion of what to be--
Grown or childlike, makes them resort
To extreme measures, while earthly pressures
Make them quite willing to take the bait?
Or maybe it's something we just can't see,
Something pure and innocent and weak
Lying around in their junk DNA?


Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Meet me down by the mailbox.
Someone else has made the bed.
There's a mud puddle there
So you can wash your head and face,
Flutter your wings,
Get the sand and water in between
All the little places where your feathers connect.
Then maybe we can get a little sleep,
Get a good start, begin again
In the morning.
We'll bound up out of our mattresses twin,
Just like Ricky and Lucy Robin
Or Dick van Dyck and Mary Tyler Moore.


The burro lays down in the shade by the fence.
His narrow eyes evade expression.
Maybe his mind winds along a trail from another time.
No one can know.
No one can say what he would do
If that fence had never been built.

I cook breakfast on a faulty burner.
I have three others that work just fine,
But I think the bacon cooks better
Lunch can cook on a normal fast one.
Supper is stewing in the crock pot.
But my son and I are thankful for my faulty burner
And the delicious, "most important meals of the day" it cooks.

Is it bad that you judge me
When you don't know anything about me?
Is it worse that, after so long,
You don't know anything
About yourself?
Take a breath and return to your own heart.
See how it looks in there.
Then, see if you still have any words
To waste on me.

When the waves had churned me up
And away from the present company excluded,
When the big waves washed me up
On the shore with the other trash,
A lone beach comber came along
And saw something shiny,
Saw something worth collecting in me,
Brought me to a nice shelf in a nice home over the hearth.
The waves had polished me.


Saturday, July 29, 2017

The MorningStar makes me smile.
A mysterious guest in the morning sky.
It never looks like that's where it should be,
A wallflower watching
While the world begins its busy day.

But it knows it's own largeness.
Yet does not worry to scale.
She has her own dance partners
In a ballroom we can't see because of the clouds
And the atmosphere
Here in this incubator
We call earth.

She dances with worlds
That are on her level
And makes music with the other spheres,
And make no mistake,
Tho the Goddess seem disheveled to you
In the morning,
By evening, as her other name implies,
You will be able to tell that
She will forever be where she is supposed to be.

In fact, she is always dancing,
Night and day,
And she is named by many names.
And when dusk comes and you see
That one star shining in the sun set,
You perceive, awkwardly.
That will be her just the same,
The evening star,
The one all the children wish for
And on.

I feel about five,
Chasing a kitten,
Tears in my eyes,
Someone has said something mean.
Tell me, why did I come here, again?
If I don't seem to matter to them,
Am I making a difference?
They already have their lives.
They don't need a baby,
Or a three year old boy, or me,
A five year old little girl
To ignore,
Or to project their own insecurities toward.
They have each other for that.
And I have this wild, untamed baby cat
To chase.


Thursday, July 27, 2017

In a dead person's day,
Busily, they push up daisies.
They get a few breaks
Per the crew boss's hankerin'
Or the dead persons current union sanctions.
Everyone smokes,
Because what does it matter?
But there's not a lot of chatter
Because in the twinkling of an eye,
Everyone came to know everything.
So nothing is really up for discussion.

But when a dead person lies down to sleep,
And begins to dream,
This is where the seams between life and death get hazy.
This is where the hauntings take place,
For, it's then, the dead person can go,
And be in the land of the living.

And if a living person and a dead person dream  the same thing,
They can meet on a street of gold,
Or just an old street in someone's memory,
And if they find a mattress lying on a curb in town,
They can lie down on it together,
And sleep and dream a dream within a dream.
And if they never wake up they can dream forever,
In an endless looping equation that physicists call infinity.

And this is why you find so many of these mattresses
Lying around outside,
Some thrown out by the living,
Some thrown out by the dead,
And if you take a snapshot of these,
Sometimes you can see
The graphs of certain equations,
Parabolas and rays, extending out
In both directions, for all eternity.

And this is why I take pictures of mattresses.
(Well, it's as good a reason as any.)


You can see lots of squirrels in the neighborhood,
But you rarely see them breed.
They prefer the privacy of an out-of-the-way place
To spread the seed of their DNA
Into the next squirrel generation.
They prefer to die privately, too.
But sometimes some seemingly unavoidable event,
Whether it's fate, or an accident,
They pick a no-win battle with an automobile.
They lie there in their own form of state in the street.

Maybe they give themselves for us to see
A prophetic warning.
It's best to steer clear of humanity
And humanity's progress.
It's best to do all the things that really matter to us
And never even let the right-hand know what the left hand does.


Wednesday, July 26, 2017

I create a masterpiece each day
Using different shades of grey and pale blue,
Silver, woodland caribou, burnt sienna and dusk rosee.
And everyday, it fades, until
Not a smear is visible to the naked eye.
But this does not deter,
Nor would I ever shy away
From applying make up to my face.
Ephemeral pieces by the thousands
Vanish through sweat and tears, and love,
And various states of arousal.

- jenn

"Who would wear sun dials on their feet?
As telltale a sign as a cloven hoof!
That old devil reminding us
How short our own time is,
And every time we check our footing,
There the shadow would foretell
Some destiny, some strange heaven,
Or hell, awaiting!"

"No, Grand-ma-maa, you asked what kind of shoes those are,
And I told you, 'sandals.'"


Do I talk in my sleep anymore?
No one seems to know.
I sleep alone
Deep beneath the sands of time.
Do I moan and toss the night away?
No one can say,
For I lie deep, deep beneath the clay.

In my somber neglige,
The frilly stillness of my tomb,
I am finally alone in my room,
And someone else has fixed my hair.
I finally have something to wear,
But alas, nowhere to go.

But do I still talk in my sleep anymore?
No one can say.
No one can know.


Tuesday, July 25, 2017

Defy me, great odds!
You, who tell me how to ride my elevator up!
You, who tell me that when I arrive at the top,
It's not the door, but the floor that will open up
And drop me out to certain doom,
To begin again in my quest
From formula.
I have other elevators that you don't know about,
And all of them take me somewhere that I want to be.
So, whether it is the great spirit,
Or the great spirit of wisdom,
Or the great living god,
I also have odds,
Great odds in my favor,
Pulling for me.


Saturday, July 22, 2017

An older brother died today
Was it yours
Did you know him
Did you say
That he was in a better place
Was it yours?

How do you know anything about death

Oh I had a cat that got out once
I put him back in
And he often stared solemnly
Out the front door
But he never wanted out there anymore

So I'm not sure
What to think about that

Friday, July 21, 2017

Just when religion was starting to play out,
We got TV.
Now we can have the opiate of the people
On opiates.

Or we can show the world the beef stroganoff
We're having for supper on social media,
And be defriended because we eat meat,
Or because we made it with tofu.

We can write people off very easily these days.
One synapse doesn't agree,
One touch on a touchscreen,
And our lives are lauda-numbed again.

Go ahead, Fly.
Flirt with personal disaster.
Fly just outside the fringes of acceptability.
The air is cool between the inside of the refrigerator
And the open refrigerator door.
But open doors always shut on refrigerators.
They're designed that way.

You'll think you've died and gone to heaven
When you find yourself shut in--
A fox locked up with all the hens.
You, a kid, stuck in the candy store.
But the very thing you seek
Will be the unleavening of you,
When you find that you have died,
And, is there a heaven for a lowly fly?


Tuesday, July 18, 2017

One afternoon while playing doubles,
The moon came into my square,
And, naturally, out of pure reflex,
I batted it away.
But then I saw what I had done,
And wondered, as we continued to play,
What sort of catastrophe
My act had brought on,
And just what day the world would end?

Out of the corner of my eye
I watched the moon backspin off,
And with 80 percent of my attention
Still on the game at hand,
Suddenly I heard a distant 'pong,'
And looked and saw
The moon was coming back again.

And so for now, let's just say
I'm involved in a very long distance volley,
But meanwhile, here on earth,
It's advantage out.


Sunday, July 16, 2017

Jerry McGower could talk for an hour
And never take a breath.
He wrote what he called poetry
And bored us all to death with his wit,
Which was almost witty but not quite,
And his deep thoughts which he summed into slogans
Which were almost trite,
Yet not quite up to the level of trite,
If there's something just a little bit lower than that,
Then that's what Jerry McGower's poetry could be called.
The old hot air blower could go on and on.
And so if there's one thing that could be said
It's that he was continuous.
And that might be good if you were in bed or needed CPR,
But no one could bring themselves
To tell him that all the true poetry stars are dead,
And that "living poet" is a term
The literary world speaks of as oxymoron.
And maybe he wouldn't hear that first part,
And then he would know
What he truly was--
A northbound end of a southbound pushcart.

A fossil's sad beauty often belies
And disaffirms the calamity of a cataclysm.
The miracle and the upshot--
Preserving something that otherwise
Would not be around today,
A misadventure, a pure mischance,
A quick and thorough deluge,
And, by happenstance, some lowly
Organism, a stem, a bit of bone,
Was covered quickly, and unbeknownst to everyone
And everything, the inundation
And the flux reduced it all
Until the great production.
The curtains go up and there it is--
Petrified viability,
And yet more interesting to me
And more valuable
Than a diamond.

It made you happy that I left.
I don't like making you happy that way,
Because it means there's less of me.
It means I don't get to dance all the way 'til the stroke of midnight.
You think I should go home early
And be sad like you,
Be glum.
It makes you happy when I'm glum.
 You gloat.

But you don't know,
I'm not going home.
I'm going to a grove of trees deep in the woods,
A perfect clearing,
A round, ring ballroom.
I will shed all my clothes and petticoats and stockings
And hang them on limbs
All the way there,
And when I get to the vaulted ballroom
With stars shining directly over my head and into my eyes,
I will be naked and happy,
And I will dance all night
And right into tomorrow,
Right into the very sunrise itself!


Who will come and go with me?
Who will volunteer
To let me do the things I want to do?
Who will stop with me if I need to stop?
Who will go if I want to go?

Only my shadow.

I have always been the one
Who tagged along.
I helped others do the things they wanted to.
A few small things I did for me
In between
Things that seemed to mean a lot to them.

But now it's my turn to go,
To do, to be,
To show the world the me I know.
And now who will go
And be there for me?

Only my shadow,
And all my enemies,
Waiting for me to fall,
But I will show them all.

For it's my turn,
And I have earned the right
To do the things that I have in my heart,
Things that only I can know.
I'll share them with my shadow,
If no one else cares.



You don't want to know,
And if you do,
Then I don't want you to.
Because you might want to know just a little too much.
My loss may be your gain,
And if I have to explain it to you,
So that you can smirk inside,
Then I might have to slap you.
Because right now,
I don't feel like putting up with it.

Hey I am one of those cars
Some rich old guy bought 50 years ago,
Put it in one of his garages,
And forgot it ever existed--
A 57 Chevy,
Mint condition,
Cherry red with white interior.
There are only 11 original miles on the motor,
Four on the floor and three on the tree!
Well OK maybe not all that's true,
But,did I say mint?
I meant, meant.
Meant condition.
I'm going to make somebody's grandkid real happy someday,
(Probably my own)
If he or she can only learn to appreciate 260 air conditioning.
Roll down two windows and drive 60 mph.


Saturday, July 15, 2017

If raincrows had gills,
They would be the whippoorwills
Of the sea.
They'd fly on fins
To places where the deep ocean
Mingles with the air,
And clouds are born.
The raincrows would coo
And sing,
For that is the thing that raincrows
Were born to do.

But here on the plains
There are places the rains forgot,
And even we sprays
Of low flung daisies don't
Seem to be able to spark
A thought to remind the rains to come.

And so the raincrows abandon us, too.
They have to find some rich oilmen
Who can afford an irrigation ditch.
They wish us wild flowers well
And go and swell their throaty chirps
To foreign fuchsia, and dahlia lush
And men who have nothing better to do
Than stand in their porches and belch
And ignore their green golf lawns,
Their yawns and burps so loud the people
In Japan can hear them.

And maybe it is never rude to go
And be where you can sing your song.
Maybe the twitch and rhythmic clicks
Of the sprinkler system are just the thing
The bossa nova raincrows need
To keep regular this time of year,
And not get constipated and constrained
And confused by all the natural lack of rain
And all the pseudo rainbows.

And who am I in this living dream?
I am all.
The wild wall flowers that hide in the brush,
The foreign fuchsia, the dahlia lush,
I am the rich oil man, the throaty thrush,
The raincrow, the cloud, the ocean deep.
I am you,
And you keep me
From going extinct.

Crepe myrtle hues are never wrong.
You can tell a year
From any other
By the way a pale pink is sometimes not
And just how hot a hot pink bud might bloom.
But when the myrtles crimson tall
In June,
Grooms best look for a place to fall out
And flop in august and understand,
Brides will girdle and bridle
And band together
And molt,
And revolt is at hand.
They might decide to burn their bras again.
And yes,
It's going to be that kind of year.


Thursday, July 6, 2017

My bush has gone wild and untamed,
But its flowers by any other names
Are roses, and the scent of them
Is pure as heaven spun moss and bud,
For all they've ever tasted is sun
And rain from sheets that fall
Across the sheer blue sky.

And when the blooms get old,
They fold themselves into cocoons
And sleep and fall into a deeper gloom
Than you can fathom.
But imagine, if you will,
Their joy in waking, swaddled and new,
More pink baby buds, more blue skies,
In the arms of some young mother
Who's still in love with their father.


Wednesday, July 5, 2017

I stood in line at the health food grocer
Behind a man named J W B*****.
I knew his name because it was written
On the back of his old fatigues
In big black faded letters
A good deal above my eye level.

He was buying one ear of corn,
And believe you me,
No one asked him a damn thing about it.

He had always practiced basketball in the street as a kid growing up.
There was a slight curve in the road by his house
And an ever so shallow dip in slope
As he approached the goal.

And tonight, as he headed in for the game winning layup,
He could swear he felt all that, under his feet again,
The same curve of the road, the bend up the hill, the dip!
Two points! He was home alone! A kid again!
Playing like no one was watching!

And as the crowds roared and champagne poured,
He thought how ironic it was
That as a kid in the street
He'd always played as if a giant crowd were watching him,
And now that they were, he played as if they weren't.


Tuesday, July 4, 2017

We crashed the wedding for cake
And mockingly said "I do,"
At the proper times.
We toasted ourselves
With glasses held high,
Drank the punch
And whisked ourselves off for a heckuva honeymoon.
It wasn't our wedding,
But are we married now?

Eating can be such a hassle these days.
I'm going to start a page on Pinterest
To display my beautiful creations for
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
A tidy collection of drab food pellets,
Fractal and akimbo, gluten/soy/dairy/ nut free,
Lying in the palm of my hand.
Yum yummmmmm.
The future is flavorless.

Some people need a good religion,
One that will reward them for all their sacrifice,
If not some great seat in heaven,
At least now, the whispers of the ladies' auxiliary,
Saying, "See how she stands by him,"
"See how she cares."

Some others may not have a need for external rewards.
They may do what they feel is right, too,
For just the right reasons,
While the ladies' auxiliary whispers,
And vanishes, and she says,
"See how they run."


Sunday, July 2, 2017

He had that look on his face that said
He was embarrassed to be stuck with her
As they waddled out of the Cracker Barrel
Together, single file.

But truth be told,
We're all stuck with each other,
And the quicker we accept that,
The better off humanity will be.


Saturday, July 1, 2017

My ball of twine unravels each day,
And at different intervals,
The string produces different sounds
And different melodies.
And sometimes I want to do something else,
To sing an alternate harmony
From an alternate reality.
And sometimes I do, and sometimes it comes out all wrong.
But sometimes when the clouds
Hold their mouths just right,
I can be perfectly in tune,
And I can sing you a true love song
That has never been heard before.

Come my children and I will explain
How the millions of grains of sand
Came to be on the beach.
In the olden days of yore,
The olden giants ate more and more
Til they were giant-er,
And the other gods were startled at
How fat the giants had become,
And so, as the gods before them did,
They came up with a food pyramid
To instruct the giants in ways to lose their girth,
Recommended for all but those who were preggers,
Or at the moment giving birth.

Now the food pyramid in those days
Had a big layer on the bottom, of spinach dip,
With the next tier being nuts,
And no ifs or ands, but the next layer
Was a healthy portion of smoked meats,
With potatoes, tomatoes and eggplant next,
Followed by berries and cherries
And chocolate on top.

Now I could stop here, but let me state, that these foods, while slimming,
Are high in oxalates, and that, dear friends, was the problem,
Because giant is as giant does,
And the giants developed giant kidney stones,
And in a desperate attempt to solve them,
Or dissolve as the case may be,
They drank too much kombucha tea
And shattered into a zillion pieces
And washed up and down along all the beaches,
And that, my dear children, is where allllllll that sand came from.

- jenn

Thursday, June 22, 2017

We're already in love.
All we've got to do is fall.
I'm fallen and I can't get up.
Oops! I can't say that,
It's copyrighted.

Maybe I should say, "I'm white
And I can't get down."

No, that's all been said, too.

Maybe I could suggest,
"Let's do it,"
But that's suggestive
Unless I add,
"Let's fall in love,"
But like I said,
We're already in love,
So maybe I'll go back and quote myself,
"All we've got to do is fall."


Wednesday, June 21, 2017

If I don't pray in ways you think are right,
Yet I hold hopes of love and perfect light within my heart
For you and others that I love,
If I have eyes to see what lies above
And wish for that to be down here below,
Then how is it for you to know that I'm so wrong?
And what if something as simple
As dipping yourself into my song seven times would heal you?
Well, what if the spirit moves me to come and reveal to you
Some inner truth that might availeth much?
Then would you let me come and touch you?
Lay my hands upon your heart
And impart this great burden of life and love til you were sated
With health and wealth and wisdom?
Could you accept it from this soul
That you feel to be so contaminated?


Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Tonight the birds chirp adamantly,
But it doesn't bother me
Because I don't know what they're saying.
They may be telling all their woes,
The pain of death,
The throes of egg laying,
But I don't understand the language that they speak.

All I hear is their rhythm in the night,
A tonic overlay, that runs counter melody
To an easy track the crickets laid down.
A big bass drums along.
I'm not sure, but that might be
My own heart beating.

I can only see five stars tonight,
But I know there are seven sisters,
And the Pleiades wonder
Where the others have gone,
While the night birds chirp on and on
About nothing.


Monday, June 19, 2017

The coasts are cloudy.
Makes me pout.
Hisssss! boooooo!

They'll clear again.
They always do.


Sunday, June 18, 2017

I have my quaaludes and my drink,
Waiting for some poor sap
To think I'm here to listen to all his problems and dreams.
Slip him a mickey.
But then what will I do?
He'll be too big for me
To lug him through the lobby
Or up the stairs.
And, these days,there are too many cameras in elevators.
But even if I could get him up to my room,
What fun would it be
To take advantage of a sleeping pipi?

And this my friends is just one of the differences
That ensures a definite inequality
Of the sexes,
And a continuation of the violation
Of anyone who finds him or herself
In a vulnerable situation.


I carry a razor in my shoe.
It's not to cut you up.
But in case I find a patch of dark, unruly hair,
I can shave it there and then.
What is happening to my skin?

This is growing in a place where hair
Used to be pale and wan, and blonde,
And tamable.

And now I also have the urge
To drink my water from a ditch.

I don't eat,
Yet I'm solid and can swing
From limb to limb and tree to tree.

What will become of me
When it has taken hold,
And I can't fight the urges or the air
Or the hair any longer?


Something outside
Narrows its eyes
To peek through my blinds.
It's not quite a sneer,
But, from here, I would say
It's a frown.
Lightning flashes,
Eyebrows are knit,
And lashes are dark.
Disdain would take me
For a walk to the woodshed,
But it's about to rain.
There's not enough time
To explain myself tonight,
Not enough words or definitions,
And the man in the moon can't hear, anyway.
The only part the galaxy chose not to give him is ears,
But he sure has a pitiful, upside down mouth.

My eyes are pretty much ornamental,
But I have a heightened sense of hearing
And sense of smell,
And I can pretty much tell all about a person
By touching them.

Let me touch you.
Let me see
How much of you is full of you,
How much room for me
You have in your heart,
Your soul,
Your body.

I want to know,
Pretty much.


Saturday, June 17, 2017

I dreamed I ran on the beach again,
On wet sand and soft sea weeds,
Stretching it out on the balls of my feet,
Fast, as wind on air,
Like a steed that runs into war unafraid.

That's all I've ever wanted--
To run fast,
And, like Secretariat,
To have a place to show the world
That my heart is twice the size
A heart should be,

And that someone might come
And run with me,
And see, for all my whinnying,
The only thing I ever kick up
Is a deep love
For my brothers
And sisters.


I wouldn't have hat hair
If I didn't wear a hat,
And if I weren't bow-legged
My horses would all run free.
And if I hadn't tied a knot in the devil's tail,
Well, he'd slip right through his prison cell bars
And come after me,
Again and again and again.

But I'm a cowgirl, pardner,
And I know how to shut a gate
When I've gone through.
And I know how to open one, too,
And walk right in and be at home
On the range, or on the phone,
Or at the charity ball,
Because there's no one quite like me,
And not too many who've ever known
Quite what to do with the likes
Of this long, tall Texan.
Git along, little dogies!

I'd let you go ahead of me,
But I see you're already ahead of me.
Maybe you should let me
Go ahead of you?

I see you now in the Great Dance
In the parking lot.
The shopping cart wants to go one way and you the other.
I always let the shopping cart lead,
But that's just me.
I've just seen that eventually,
It wears me down,
And I realize it has a better handle
On the Tao,
As well as the Dow of life.


Friday, June 16, 2017

I can tell I've come to the end of the dream
By the way the cymbals crash
And the lights go down
And the corners of a big curtain somewhere start to squeak.
Or, at least, the pulleys
That have been groaning,
Holding up the gravid threads
Through all those acts
Begin to squeak and squeal in glee.
Five o'clock has come for them.
They can punch their clock, go home,
And let go of all that heavy material
That separates the dreams
From the realities,
That separates all the world
From the stage it plays out in.

But what time is it now for me ?
Is the dreamer of the dream
Now half asleep?
Or have I been half way awake for all this time?


I was in that fat you ate
Before there were any stips to late you,
Long before hate could amp your tastes
To cause you to eliminate parts of me
You might not like.
You'd already swallowed me.

Now, as you start to sorb your ab,
I can feel the mac er ate
Of all your gastric acid
Solving all the dis,
And soon all we'll remember is this:
It's too late to em you,
But not to embody,
To be a part,
Not second rate,


I waited in line for the women's restroom
And finally heard a flush.
A MAN came out looking sheepish
And in a bit of a rush.
And I walked in to see the commode
Slowly overflow.
Right behind me came the janitor,
Who glared a hole in my soul,
And I said,"There was a man in here
Before me, and he did this!"
I am a fair maiden
And my poo doesn't stink,
Much less stop up toilets.


Thursday, June 15, 2017

Art isn't beauty.
It's duress,
And what comes out
Sometimes it's an exhaled breath,
A drop of sweat,
A tear,
A splinter, that finally got squeezed
And tweeezed,
And made its way
Into the light of day.

Ancient beauty,
Were cheat notes
And hacks to pass
History exams and physics class.
And if you translate obelisks right,
Each cartouche that finds the light
Will explain
That wind or snow or rain
Won't fade the ancient truth.
But only life and love will make
This honest world go round.


I like a white shirt.
It goes with white teeth and tan skin,
With blonde hair that hangs down across blue eyes.
It's blue skies and white clouds.
It looks very French to me,
And I should know,
For I am French,
And you like me?


Tuesday, June 13, 2017

Skinny girls get chocolate
Which makes them fat.
Fat girls don't get any,
Which makes them skinny,
And the yin and yang
Goes round and round
Again and again.
Imagine that.


Monday, June 5, 2017

Anger is a beautiful angel in armor that shines and gleams.
She comes to do battle for us
And take our pains and all the stings
Of devaluing statements made to come our way.

But if we turn her away,
There is nothing she can do.
She must allow the venom of the hurt to go into me and into you.
Then our anger angel must come deep inside,
Where she will burn night and day
Until she has burned the poison from our clay.

But inside us, she appears to us to be as ugly as sin,
Until we acknowledge her,
And make her beautiful,
And powerful again.


The Sun is watching youtube videos
These days to learn to highlight
The girls hair better.
He's got to compete with snobby stylists everywhere,
Who say they know The Way.

And with so many afraid of Him,
For he's been labeled a carcinogen,
He shakes his mighty head until
Even his sunspots quake.
"Have they never read the ingredients
In those awful sunscreens they slather on their skin?"
He booms incredulously.

But how can He compete with tanning beds,
Manicured feet, and stylists,
The snobby ones, indeed,
Who take up a brush and smelly oils
And the most alchemical of chemicals
That change lead hair to gold?

But He sticks to His catechism,
His articles of faith of His religion require
That he give the people what they clamor for,
And there is no clause "as long as."
He will even give you Barabbas
If what you want is that much beneath
The Truth that you deserve.

For he's a live and let live kind of guy
And watches quietly from the sky
And sees all of the people everywhere
Doing just exactly what they want to do
As far as they know.


Sunday, June 4, 2017

Snakes are like bees,
In that, if we don't have them,
Life, as we know it on this planet
Will not be anymore.
First, a collective sigh from the colonies,
One of societies' top fears is extinct!
Then while we debate on how to end public speaking,
Mother earth will unlatch her high sandals,
Take off her girdle and walk barefoot through the garden again.

But eventually it will dawn upon her
That she has no more goosebumps
Because there are no more slithering things to terrify her,
Nor to tickle her places that no one else is willing to touch.
And in her sadness, the world will go gray.
Flowers will purse their primitive lips
In a great tsk tsk toward the other vegetation,
And then the bees will be the very next to go.

I come in and put the sacks down,
And he lies right down on the floor and cuddles up to the groceries.
He puts his face an inch away from a can
And stares longingly.

I grunt and roll my eyes
And mutter under my breath,
"I studied the Bolshevik Revolution for this?!"


Saturday, June 3, 2017

The equation for orbits is surprisingly the same
As those for objects going down a drain.
The great swirling majesty of the Milky Way
May be the galaxy's mode to throw its trash away.
It fascinates us from a distance
And confounds us while we're in it,
Much like the forest we can't see
For the trees.

But before you say, "Well, there's no hope,"
Take yourself a bar of organic soap and enjoy the bath.
Who's to say that the mysterious flow
Of the cryptic dark matter that makes us go around
May be as holy as the holiest universal solvent?
We can pray that it is a drain that takes us to the wetlands,
And that the sewer is a sanitary one.


Friday, June 2, 2017

Little orphan cats don't groom themselves
As well those who grow up with a mother.
They grow accustomed to matted fur,
And so, also, when they are grown,
They don't mind a ruffled look
Or being rubbed the wrong way.
They will take whatever petting they can get.

Little humans that aren't comforted when they cry
Produce a lot of cortisol
In an attempt to relieve themselves of stress.
This hardens the brain,
And other results aren't known.
But they may mind very much
Being rubbed the wrong way.


Thursday, June 1, 2017

He knew he was born to be an archaeologist,
For his face already looked like
It was carved from stone,
And judging by the weathering there,
A thousand years or more ago.

His best friends were pillars of salt,
And he knew he shared their fate,
For, just as Lot's nostalgic wife had done,
He also had a propensity to look back.

His greatest fear was that he might turn
Just after some amazing discovery
And he would stand, a smallish obelisk,
And silently be misread and misinterpreted
For another thousand years.


My dream is a house
That hovers mysteriously
And hums while a magic carpet flies by.
My door opens from the east
And I can stand and look outside
And watch the world,
So busy and creepy.
It hustles and bustles for this and that,
Runs to and fro and traverses land masses
For things that really don't matter that much.

And as the world hurries,
I stand in my dream,
Perfectly still and slowly blink
And breathe and am
And continue to hover
As a few monks are left
To conjure me.
They chant their song,
A beautiful ommmmmmmmm,
And my heart dances,
But never my feet.

Even the morning lasts without you.
Even the day, like a midnight sun,
Has stopped and paused
Like a picture taken,
Captured forever,
But you are gone.

But you're still here!
Aren't you? Smiling?
Standing on a cliff at the Grand Canyon's wall?
You're still here!
On my refrigerator!
I see you, posing, after dinner,
Ten feet tall.

Who will come and start the record
Over, who will put a quarter on the needle
So it won't skip, or get stuck in
An endless loop forever?
Who will jar me loose
From this nightmare?
Wake me, tell me, "It's alright,"
That you're not with me, anymore?


Tuesday, May 30, 2017

I had a bird for just a day.
It lighted upon my finger.
It flitted up and lit back down
And chirped and sang
And delighted me like a dream
That comes unbidden
And stays as long as it can
In the mystic light of deep sleep.
For one can never keep a bird,
And dreams will never tarry long,
Nor bring surprise or joy
If you try and capture them,
Or turn them in the ways
That you would have them go.

But bright the eye and true the smile
Of the gentle learners
Who allow the multicolored wings of truth
To come their way,
Who let the dreams unfold uninterrupted,
And laugh like unfettered children
At the free ideas that churn and drop
Into their minds
Like sweet confections that melt in the wet mouths of happy eaters.
These are the memories and loves and moments and precepts
One never forgets.


Monday, May 29, 2017

He wasn't a Hindu chef,
But he liked to curry favor
And subject himself to the scrutiny
Of those who really were beneath him.
I often watched him from my dream and shook my head
And ached for him to shed
His invisible caste.

What was the bitter, pungeant flavor
That made his native tongue seek out
Such auto-deprecating terms?
Some old world herb his mother overused, no doubt.


I read your horoscope today.
It says you like to meet new people.
I do, too, but I don't like to run off and screw every one of them that I meet.
So, I think you should go out and meet new people.
So, I think that I should, too.
My horoscope says I like to travel,
And I think I should,
And I think I will.

He always dreamed of a Cadillac.
That would show their asses.
He'd drive it real slow on his way out of town,
Like a long cool drink of water

After he'd gotten the kids through school,
He had a little extra jingle.
He saw an ad in the paper for a nice used one.
It was used, but not nice, at all.
So he passed, but always kept on looking, dreaming.

He's got plenty of money now.
Hell, he could really afford a new one.
But they don't make 'em the way they used to,
So he bought himself a nice Toyota Tundra, instead.


Sunday, May 28, 2017

I took up the white man's burden.
I didn't understand the creed.
I didn't know I wasn't white,
And, until I began to breastfeed,
I didn't realize I was not a man, either.

Giving birth had not convinced me
The way that nursing a baby did,
And slowly, slowly, scales fell off of me
And my eyes.

The history of our words themselves
Is the only history we can trust.
The grunts and onomatopoetics
That evolved into our verbs and nouns,
The deep meaning of nodding yes,
The religious vow of chewing together
And swallowing food that we have found
Together, and feeling the holiness
Of the words "milk," and  "mama," and "baby," and "dad."

And if we care to know the truth,
There are no white women
And no white men,
And there is no burden,
Except the weight of our own soul,
And sometimes that is heavier than others,
And sometimes we get just a glimpse that lightens it:
There is no religion more politically correct
Than breastfeeding.


Saturday, May 27, 2017

I look at the sky.
The forecast says rain.
Should I water my plants again?
I think I better,
For there is no predicting the weather,
And my plants look thirsty now.
If I have the ability and the wherewithal
To give them a drink,
Then they may thank me later,
And I, them.


Thursday, May 25, 2017

I will sing my love to you
In silent notes
Until you wake,
And then I will listen to you sing them back to me
The way you heard them in your dream.
For your voice is strong,
And you sing in key,
And, as for me, I'm a warbler.

But I think it's cute
How you take the flute and play
The song I've given you
As if you made it up.
Lucky you,
You have a muse that you don't know,
One who never shows jealousy
Or ownership,
One who's madly in love with you,
And can't help but sing
A song of joy over you,
And exult in unseen places
Just over your head.

If today I knew
That I was through,
That my work was done,
For you had seen how much you are loved
By the words of one of my poems,
Then I would put down my pen
And never write again.

But I know
How deep the hole in your heart goes.
And even though you may catch a glimpse,
And be convinced by the hints of love you see,
You will always be ready for
Just a little bit more.
So here it is,
You are dearly loved by me.
I love you.

No matter if you're rich or poor
Or better or worse,
Your teef are always in jeopardy
Of cavity-izing,
Or just plain fallin' out of your head.
In sickness and in health,
They don't care.
They never took a vow
To stay with you.
They never said " I do,"
And they never will, Honey,
Cause teef ain't natural,
And I know it's true,
Cause a football coach told me that
In health class way back
In 1981.


Tuesday, May 23, 2017

His daughter had sex with a black man,
And he got several dark-eyed grand babies out of it.
And when I say he got em,
I mean he got em,
Because the state was about to take em away.

It seems the daughter turned to drugs
When her hubby physically abused her,
Just as she had turned to sex as a teen
To soothe her emotionally neglected soul,
So as much as he hated to admit it,
He knew she'd found someone just like her daddy
To be her baby daddy.

But one of his friends at the coffee shop
Told him that by 2025,
There would be no such thing as "race,"
And that he should take comfort in that.


I'm a walmart-itarian.
I believe walmart exists.
I ask and it is given to me.
Well, it is, after I've paid.
I go to my sanctuary anytime.
I buy my big girl panties there
And put them on later
When and if I need to.
My congregation, much like me,
Follows the trends and fads
Prescribed by walmart kosherness, and availabity.
Everything is clean at walmart,
All the good and blessed food
Approved by the walmartical diet.
Nothing unclean except the gum
On the walmart floor,
And even that must actually be
Acceptable in the sight of the
Great General Manager,
For he sees all,
And it is still there,
Maybe for all eternity.


I don't like this song.
It's grumbly and low,
But maybe by being so it has the power
To reach down to me where I am today,
And say, "Hey!  Up here."
Maybe it can give me a hand,
Or maybe it will save its applause till the end.
Maybe by listening to some guy
Who committed suicide
I can hear more clearly.
He says, "Don't sell your songs.
Just carry on, my lovely, wayward daughter.
Wayward's where it's at."
And then he adds, "I'm sorry."


Monday, May 22, 2017

Oh-ld, aka, Agism

The etymology of the word old is this:
As people age they begin to groan when they stand
And when they sit,
Or, as for me, when I've fallen
And I can't get up.

But way back then, some of the juveniles began
To take notice of the sound
That the elders made.
"They're 'oh-ing' again," they'd say,
Or "growing oh," for those
Who spoke dylexically.

But "oh" wasn't much of a word
And wasn't often heard outside
And seemed to confuse
Glad tidings of some other "oh's"
That were in fashion,
Until this particular "oh" was labeled LD.
And that my children is how the word
"Old" came to be in the English language.

You are a fantastic compound
That ends in a-s-e,
An enigmatic enzyme
That catalyzes me.
And as you seep into my soul,
You condition my chagrin.
I feel victory rising
In my hope, my thoughts, my chin.

Bandage me in your silken weave,
A tapestry of delight.
Wrap me in the love you speak so well.
Like a mummy I will lay
And bask in the other silence
Until the time of resurrection comes.
Then I'll emerge from my cocoon
And everyone can see
The colors and the triumph of flight
That you have brushed on me.


Cat ladies come to be,
Not by genetic ancestry
Or any other inheritance,
But if, by chance,
When she is young,
She gets a cat hair on her tongue
And swallows it.

Cat hair is not digestible,
And so it follows
That this foreign bit
Will stay in her system
The rest of her days
And grow into being,
Like a pregnancy,
Until she becomes
Her own baby,
And is born again
As a cat lover
And as a true cat lady.

Now, please don't complain
That I didn't explain
And connect every dot
In the middle there.
Just please, be careful
What kind of hairs you swallow.


My toes curl out and in beneath the sheet.
My foot wiggles around my other foot,
And as my cat settles in beside my back,
I realize that this is how I purr,
How I hypnotize myself and sleep
Through all the racial slurs that we perpetuate,
When we could simply love one another
And keep one another safe and content.

What keeps you from going to
That thing you refuse to attend?
Was it the color of their skin
That put you off, or was it their religious thoughts so wrong?
You didn't like the song they played
Or the way they said it.

Love would make you a pioneer in the field
Of human progress.
Love would make you sing,
Make you a Martin Luther King,
Or a real boy,
Or a real girl.
Love would make your world go round,
If you'd let it.

As for me, I've loved all day
I've been polite, and more,
And I'll do this foot thing into the night
So I can sleep,
And dream of a place where lovers soar,
And where everyone is a lover.


Come take a seat beside me in the spray of the silvery moon.
I know there are things we like to eat,
And I'll make sure we get each one,
But come, before the sun does to delude.
The metallic moonlight reveals the tin
In our skin so nude, and we can see
That we are machines that will never die,
Just unwind in the moonlight.

The sunlight dissuades us of the truth. Each ray
Tells white lies so we will work all day.
Like rustic serfs, we seldom pause
To try to understand why we sharecrop
Someone else's land for free,
But we do.

But not the moon, it's gamma milk bath x-rays us,
Reveals the cogs and gears within.
We see the truth unzip like a strand of DNA.
A ligand gate opens, sure as day,
And our cows go out, and our muscles move,
And we must continue on or we will sputter to our graves,
And other slaves will come and take our place.

So you see, we need not, and should not stop,
Lest our gearwheels rust while unemployed,
But we might put our parts to better use.
Let the pistons find some hidden joy.
Trick them into staying new
By telling them that this is work,
And that we should never be derelict,
Or shirk these precious, obligatory duties.

Wink, wink.
Nudge, nudge.


Sunday, May 21, 2017

Things I've learned:

My hair looks better when I don't comb it.
One can take too many baths.
I smell.......( goooood.)
Cookies are good for me.
Riding bikes is fun.
Cartoons are educational.
It's ok to be myself.

I have been to lots of schools and classes,
But the most important things I've ever learned,
I learned from my children.

By loving them completely,
I've learned to love myself,
And I've learned to love you.


I leaked your fluid all night
And contained your iridescent seeds
Like a scientific beaker,
And, like the lab assistant who decides
Which of the samples should remain
And which should not,
My ancient womb tried its hand
At ejaculation,
Sputtered like an Edsel,
And coughed you out.

This earth feels like someone else's house to me,
Like living in a goddamn parsonage,
Or staying in friend's house, who's away,
To take care of her turtle and her cat.

I pray that nothing breaks while she is gone,
Like the flapper on the toilet,
Or that squeaky hinge the backdoor hangs on.

I tiptoe around while I am here,
And the earth talks back to me
In an irritated whisper,
"Don't waste any ice,
Or toilet paper."


Saturday, May 20, 2017

Look at all the weirdos here.
They all wear their sunglasses
And drive around like they know where they're going.
They stop at red lights
And go at green.

I've managed to make it to the bathroom
And giggle at the urge I have
To paw the toilet paper roll until
All the paper falls off onto the floor.
Then it hits me,
Maybe I'm the weirdo.


Wednesday, May 17, 2017

It's quite white--
The fences around the houses
In the town where I grew up.
Bricks are banned,
For they're too tan.
Churches made of wood
That's painted not stained,
Or stone that comes from a quarry
Where the dig pit shines, even at night
Because the rock is so white.

The school is one room,
One mind, one sight.
It serves as a church on Sunday night,
And so, it has a steeple that rises high,
And it's ever so quietly,
Self righteously,


Monday, May 15, 2017

To sparkle or not to sparkle,
That is the question.
For whether 'tis better
To hide your lamp
Under a shade or an old grey sweater,
Or by opposing, burn them until next winter,
And take up your bikini,
And put on your thong,
And carry on.

What would Lady Lovvvverleee do?
After all?


(But sometimes when I carry on
The buzzards think I'm carrion
I've experimented in a row
Of peanuts I was s'posed to hoe
Laid in the sand and played dead
But the only thing that came close to my head
Was a big Texas sized red ant
Guess I didn't smell bad enough yet
For the old sopilotes.)

Geometry was discerned
By a maid folding a round
Red and white checkered tablecloth.
She took it out of a warm dryer
And realized the tangential ways
That static electricity radiates
Along several diameters at once.
And as her hair stood on end,
And she saw Pi to a thousand places
In her mind's eye,
She suddenly learned
That all of her amorous tendencies
Were okay,
And never ending.


When the day lacks and wants more
And can't have it all,
It pouts in ways that are destructive.
The sky broods. It's brows knit
And thicken til the sun can't shine.
And then from somewhere unimaginable
To the heart of man,
Barely perceptible specks of dust,
Much like a grain of sand stuck
In an oysters craw,
Form giant pearls of hail,
And the maelstrom hits.

When the night lacks
And wants,
The stars stream hot tears
Down a dark face
That distill into chilled diamonds
Slung on the morning grass
Like dew.

I just eat cookies.


Friday, May 12, 2017

I can tell my DNA has been south
For a long time now.
I barely notice when someone I love
Says, "Masstoooooshetts," anymore.

But somewhere deeper than cognition
Is a me that craves lobster roll
And cracker dressing
And mincemeat pie.
Yes, my Massachusetts side is
Bigger than Dallas,
But my Texas side is bigger than Pakistan,  (Y'all)...

As I go, I am amazed,
And glad this car
Can drive itself.
I'm baffled by
The way it knows
To turn so gradually
And to accelerate
Up this ramp,
Then merge onto the turnpike.
I am vaguely aware of its prowess
As I enter a song that plays
On the car stereo,
Just as one would enter a ballroom
For the first time.
The lights, the glitter, the cologne,
Of all the men and women who came to dance before
Lingers in the heightened atmosphere.
I twirl in the strobing patterns on the floor
And wait for you.
You appear suddenly
And in a tux,
And we dance.

And now the song is over,
And I'm home,
And I don't remember ever touching the steering wheel.


Wednesday, May 10, 2017

I studied a perfect, ancient relief
From Sumeria,
Of the divine ones who from heaven came down.
One clasped an ankh before there was Egypt,
Another, a giant rod and staff.
A giant muscular demigod type
Offered a deer that he held out with his hands
To one even giant-er than he,
And it all looked mythical
And hard to believe
Until I noticed off to one side of the carving,
Sculpted in stone forever,
An angel type messenger regaled in wings
And picking his butt.


I was just one block away from the school.
I'd walked to the 7-Eleven.
I bought big gulps for some of the girls
And carried them back by myself.
It started to rain.
I knew that I shouldn't
Have ever gotten in
With the weirdos who stopped
To offer me a lift,
But I did, but I did, but I did.

They took me all the way to California
And forced me to be a star, a star.
They brought me all the way to California
And taught me how to play guitar.

People told me not to stoop and bow,
Not to try to win
A place in the hearts of all those cool kids,
But I did, but I did, but I did.
And if I hadn't have tried to buy
My way into their stone cold hearts,
I guess I wouldn't be where I am now
Ridin in this long shiny car.

But I did, but I did, but I did.

They took me all the way to California
And forced me to be a star, a star.
They brought me all the way to California
And taught me how to play guitar.


It is a double helix wrapped
Up tightly into a ball
That came from two strands,
One old, one new,
And some messenger RNA.
And I am climbing Jacob's ladder
Higher into the sky
To see where angels tread
And where they fear to,
On the brinks of Love,
And in the precipice of Death.
And somewhere in between
I stand,
I wonder,
And I stay,
Madly in love with you.

Hurry myLove,
Let's steal away into the day.
I'm crawling up your ivy twined wall
Into your attic now.
Come and find me there.
Come and comb my auburn hair
With your hand like paws,
And we can tumble around,
Bumbling up and down
Over that old chair,
The sofa bed, the ancient trunk,
The quaint chest of drawers
With old clothes hanging out,
Like two raccoons, buffoons who don't care,
Just playing all day
And chasing each other into night's lull.
Lucky for you,
My moon is always full.


Sunday, May 7, 2017

I just barely make it all the time.
Sometimes I think I'm not makin it at all.
And sometimes I want to come see you
And tell you it's all right.
I know what you're goin through.
You're barely makin it too.

But if I call you,
You'll tell me you're fine.
You just don't want me to see
Your cryin eyes,
Your dirty house,
Your houseplants dyin on the vine.

So I'll stay here in my
Own dirty house
And think of you
And just not call,
But if you call me
I'll tell you true
I'm barely makin it at all.

(I'm gonna go water my houseplants now.)


Come dream with me.
It's good to dream.
It's shows us the disparity
Between the way things are
And the way we want them to be.

Come dream with me.
The line between reality
And fantasy can blur,
And sometimes you're not even sure
Which world you are for,
Which case may be the better?
Which may be the worse?
Come dream with me.


Come dream with me.
It's good to dream.
It's shows us the disparity
Between the way things are
And the way we want them to be.

Come dream with me.
The line between reality
And fantasy can blur,
And sometimes you're not even sure
Which world you are for,
Which case may be the better?
Which may be the worse?
Come dream with me.