This was from last month. I forgot about it. It was scribbled on the back of a receipt. Gee…guess I should balance my checkbook more often…..


Movement

The skin of the torso is warm
when pressed against the cheek
flesh moving in time
up and down, with the breath,
rising and falling
gently bending the resting neck
drawing up the hands
with each inhalation to
the coarse springy hair
that curls like a sigh
around the fingertips
and lost whispers
of secret thoughts exhaled.

Wrote a few poems this week. Here is one from Wednesday that I think I am finished with. I am always open to comments or suggestions, especially as this one needs a title.


Words sometimes fail to appear
when they are most needed
and the voiced sound is choked
in a moment of disharmony.

The ears fail too
in their task to listen
to the rests between the noise
for the comfort that
is left to the imagination.

The skin neglects its task
to find the heat of another,
to seek out the embrace
of those hands, that press of flesh,
the one that says, Yes,
everything will be alright.

Spent a lovely day with some outrageously talented women scoping out a venue for a sort of performance and visual art open house. I snapped a few photographs, a few turned out rather cool. Here is a poem about a photo I took of my friend Lori.

A Photograph in January

There was enough light reaching through
like fingers, touching your face,
embracing the tendrils of scarlet hair
with the grace and familiarity of a lover.

A plume of lavender smoke
dancing in front of one eye
scented the air
with a clove perfume.

The wind tipped the black hat
just so.

I’ve been thinking a lot today about Frank Anthony, an important mentor in my life.  He was a very accomplished poet and writer, inventing the modern BRIK form of poetry.  For several years, we corresponded with each other, exchanging poems and ideas and also serving as editors and sounding boards for one another.  He had served our country in the military and was very proud of that fact, but he was also deeply troubled by the war in Iraq. 

In remembering him today, I wrote a poem about him, using the form he created.  The BRIK is a short 13 line poem where each line is 22 characters across.  When written in the courier font, it forms a perfect geometric rectangle. 

Today’s work is for my dear friend, Frank Anthony, 1922-2006.  Happy Veteran’s Day.

Frank, Builder of Words

What we had built alone
and then together was a
shelter of words placed
on the solid foundation
of ideas of convictions
coupling optimism along
with the tragedy of our
shared generation. Your
eyes were wise with age
Mine betrayed hope of a
misspent innocence that
you helped me hone into
a vision of my very own

Usually when I am performing in an opera, I don’t find much time, if any, to write. But the past few weeks I have come up with a few rough drafts that I am pleased with and I am looking forward to fleshing them out more when the show is over. I have noticed lots of musical metaphors working into my writing, no doubt because of the show. Here is another….

Finale

Your tune is hiding behind my lips
melodious and achingly sweet
like the tremulous voice of a cello
or the feel of your skin beneath my hands
velvet and warm

I part my lips and sing
what we have written for each other
into your open and waiting mouth.

This autumn in Pittsburgh
fell into a complicated melody
and the listening ear rests itself
against the warm breath of poetry

While walking near the rivers,
the water littered with misspent words
and the colored petals of flowers
that passed away into the night

Somehow all the brown zones
of the dying industrial age
became a love song
of empty lots with arms outstretched

The heart still beats
even as the machinery rusts
disintegrates from disuse.
Angels and crickets whisper

their voices lifting
and the thread is followed
into a spiral of color and sound
and I am still translating.

Jotted down over coffee. An okay beginning I think. May still play with this one a bit. Always love getting emails or messages with reader feedback….


Passacalgia

Four days
Begins the counting of time
The sweeping by of the hours

Four days
Since the cutting fields
Left marks in the places they were flung

Four days
Of knowing it doesn’t matter
Creeping closer towards the time of mourning

Four days
And I’ve been marking the minutes
Of all that can’t be taken back

Four days
Of asking impossible questions
Inside the bottom of my head.

Four days
Wasn’t the best of times for us
And another twenty-four hours

Doesn’t change anything.

Light

The slate sky has blanketed
his shoulders, sunk into the crags
until he rests his chin on my head,
allows arms to encircle my waist
and I gratefully accept this easy burden

My face tips back to nip his fruit
the lavender apple of early winter
beaming color into December
with a crease of lip and teeth.

Enjoying a major creative influx as of late. I love times like this….as a musician I can make it happen, as a writer I have to let it happen…anyway, enjoy!


MAKE ME

Feel sexy at the sound
Of fingers sliding over guitar strings
Plucking note after note
As the eye winks past
A bare and pretty shoulder

Give chase beneath the trees
And under the abandoned trellis
Mess up the Sunday best
As the errant hem is held down
To hide the thing I know he wants

Toss aside the impractical shoe
With the single flick of a painted toe
Skim down the creamy leg with stocking
Show that I am strange, seductive, mocking
With brutal kisses biting willing lips

A short bit of work from this morning. I have already revised it once already. Still tinkering with it. But I think an okay start….


Postlude

The scent of his body
Clings to the palm of my hand

His fragrance is of cornflowers
The clean air of a clear sky
The earthy perfume of red clay
The slight sting of sea salt
The musky green of woodlands
The fresh tang of a hot pepper

The scent of his body
Clings to the palm of my hand