if our love were a painting, it would have such happy trees

I trace the shadows

in the valleys 

of your hands,

breath breaking

over knuckles

like sunrise;

you are my hillside.

I kiss your fingertips,

tiny flowers

softly open

to dawning dew.

And I fall

into the rhythm

of the pulsing

of your wrist,

gentle rocking

of our blood flow:

a confluence--

to an estuary

leading us

out to sea.

***

If I could be

a river

winding down

a mountain

I would twist and curl

and turn and tumble

down to you. 

- Martha Scanlan

to be visible again, after a longish stint in the radio static

Raw energy is building
turning and churning

in the pit of my stomach,

familiar but almost

forgotten in the midst of

the repeated repeating

broadcasting sounds of

metal sounds of crunching

the screen door slamming

and the insidious silence

on the other end of the line.

I almost forgot this 

strange sensation,

almost drowned it out

in my increasingly 

deafening din, 

in my ineffectual effort to

forget where I was.

But the energy's buzzing, and burning, and beckoning, 

and suddenly there appears a blinking arrow,

a synchronized sign of fireflies

dancing in the evening air,

with the words in cursive

above my head

"Silly Girl 

Here"

l

l

V

(Oh, There I Am.)

Om Appliances

The refrigerator in my
cream colored kitchen
never stops humming;
always the slow and steady
thrumming,
a gentle reminder
of its constant conversion,
churning,
electric current coursing.

Sometimes the thrumming
becomes a gurgle,
                           drip
and I imagine my fridge
with a cheek full of mouthwash,
spitting sour milk
into the sink.
Then it clicks
and quiets--though never
to silence--

And the HVAC,
sensing an open space
to fill,
makes the whole apartment
vibrate
and the walls exhale
a dry heat
that sucks the saline
from my knuckles,
from my pores.

So I turn to my nurturing
moisture machine,
and its gentle whir
joins in the chorus
that builds to crescendo
in my seven hundred and
fourteen square feet,
and the ring of their singing
drowns out the TV.

My neighbors' laughter
fades into the mix,
and some days I feel
like a leaf, discolored
and crinkled, afloat,
whipping about
in the gusts of noise.

But some days,
like today,
I feel more like a sail,
the energy around me
a favorable wind.

And I feel myself
begin to
huuuuummmmmmmmm.

scratch that itch

the girl in the corner

with long dark hair

bats tired eyelashes,

flecks mascara
in her eye.

she turns to the window

and blinks -- long and slow

like she'll open her eyes

and be somewhere new.

but when she turns back, 
he's staring directly

at the spot on her chin
she had tried to forget.
just a wasp sting,

she says,

hunching her shoulders,

when the slow itch sets in

and she begins to twitch.
he leans, she twitches

he speaks, she itches

he touches her knee

and she can't help but scratch,

the bump on her chin

pinker and warmer

with every angry
demanding touch.

he grabs her hand and

holds it still,

and kisses her there

in front of god

and everybody.

and as soon as he's done

she pauses

and then
leans in,
rubs her chin

in the thick

of his beard.

***
Thanks for the inspiration, L.T.  Who knew your wasp sting would bring us so much insight? ;o)

sour fruit

I devoured you in my dream last night.

You were tough, and warm, and raw,
and soft.

I breathed you in and

and sucked your soul

out through your delicate

fingertips.

Then spit you out

like a cherry pit:

chewed up flesh,

hollow center

of a ripe and juicy

fruit.

Like bubble gum

on a sunsmacked sidewalk.

Like sidewalk chalk

after the rain.

When I woke

nectar was running

down my chin,

warm

and pink and

stickysweet.

I tasted your silence

on the roof of my mouth

and licked my lips

with an alkaline tongue.

**

I am pondering extending this poem to a three-parter...

I have been reading Sandra Cisneros'  Loose Woman.  Clearly it's bleeding through to my work... which I can't say I'm upset about.

the glory daze

3 hour drive and
we finally
made it
and
i'm swallowing
friday
beer
after beer after
beer
cans piling up
in the recycling
bin
and all these friends
i've missed
for years
around me
drinking
beer
after beer after
beer
out to the deck
for a quick dip
in warm liquid
bathing in bubbles
rising around and
the toxic
intoxicant
floats to my head
and
back in the cabin
we swarm
in the kitchen
baking
and sizzling
pulling beer
after beer after
beer
from the fridge and
then i hear
singing
we become
our own idols
off key but
in pitch(er) --hah!
and
by sunday


repentant


shifting gear
into gear
leaving gravel
for pavement
log cabin to
apartment


life
lying
in wait


**
I dedicate this one to my honors friends--thanks for the weekend.  


-Lindy

Glass Flower

Glass Flower

for Nancy S. Robinson (1950-2009)

“Be careful with me;

I am fragile.”

A friend of mine

was an artist.

My favorite piece

she constructed out of

the fresh wreckage

of automobiles,

not yet swept away

by the street cleaners.

She would go every day

with her tiny broom

and dust pan

and sweep up the pieces

of shattered glass

into a large, clear bowl.

It took weeks.

She probably had the remnants

of forty car wrecks

before she could begin.


She sifted through the gravel

to unearth the glass.

The darkest was brown,

from window tinting, or dirt,

sometimes from blood stains–-

she used this glass

for the soil.

From the greenish variety,

just barely tinged--

like someone had whispered

the idea of color

into its ear–-

she fashioned a stem.

And from busted break lights

the petals emerged.

The flower’s center

was the thing that made it:

broken bits and pieces

of shattered side

and rear-view mirrors,

where a hundred thousand lives

had been reflected

before.

Out of the grime

and rocks

and twisted metal

left on busy streets

rose a thing of beauty–-


so elegant

and so delicate–-

that when the sunlight hit it,

the colors exploded

like dry lightning,

like a firework

suspended against the night.


And it was almost blinding,

the beauty

it became.

**

I have done several versions of this poem since Nancy died, in a car wreck, on November 18, 2009.  I am not 100% sure I am finished with it, but it's as close as I'm going to get for quite some time.  The lotus tattoo I am getting next month is partially inspired by Nancy, partially by the sculpture mentioned in this poem (which a male friend of mine actually made), and partially by a few other things I won't get into at the moment. 


I still have not finished my May prompts (two more left!) but I will get to them soon.  However, I have been working on this one, and I wanted to share it.

april 28 . Another Friday Night at the Bar

The bar is packed
like sardines, salty and undesirable
or like luggage, necessary
and aesthetically pleasing
but heavy 
and cumbersome.


The regulars aren't all here;
perhaps they have received
a moment of enlightenment--
or there is a new bar
opening downtown.


The beer line is like the cast
from Welcome Back Kotter
though they like to think themselves
much more distinguished,
and modern
of course.


And here I am
at the back of the line,
looking down this row
of characters I can't help but love
and pity
wondering what makes me
need to be
one of them.

april 27 . untitled haiku

Fingers massage scalp
tighten, release, run through hair,
exasperated.


**
Well, April is over, which means I have some catching up to do--but not as much as I expected to have.  I soldiered through April pretty well until the end.  Oh, well.  Sometimes priorities shift, and that's that.  Here goes catching up . . .and yes, that means resorting to haiku.

april 26 . This is Letting Go

Fear.

Loneliness.

Pride.

     Let go, 

           Let go, 

                  Let go

        Ain't nothing gonna

        break my stride.

Let go, 

      Let go, 

             Let go

       The tug of your body

       standing behind me.
Let go, 
      Let go, 
             Let go
      The silence that's left
      in the wake of memory.
Let go, 

      Let go, 

             Let go

     The voiceless line.

     Those misplaced beliefs.

Let go, 
      Let go, 
             Let go
                    Guilt.
        Melancholy.
  Grief.
Let go, 
         Let go, 
                  Let go
***
The prompt today was so appropriate after the meditation I did this evening.  The prompt is "more than 5 times" -- take that how you want.

I want to include that meditation from tonight.  It is taken from Jack Kornfield's The Art of Forgiveness, Lovingkindess and Peace (which is definitely on my to-buy list).  I would also like to link to one of my favorite poems at the moment, Marge Piercy's "To Have Without Holding."  (And can everyone else giggle with me that this links to the polyamory society?  It's the little things in life, you know.)  And now, without further ado, part of Jack Kornfield's "A Meditation on Letting Go"...

Letting go is the path to freedom. It is only by letting go of the hopes, the fears, the pain, the past, the stories that have a hold on us that we can quiet our mind and open our heart.

We do not need to fear letting go. We can trust the courage and vulnerability of our heart to meet life as it is; we can rest kindly where we are. As we let go, the tender ground of honesty, healing, and love will carry us through the ever-changing world.

[...] To let go is to release the images and emotions, the grudges and fears, the clingings and disappointments of the past that bind our spirit. Like emptying a cup, letting go leaves us free to receive, refreshed, sensitive, and awake.

Letting go is not the same as aversion, struggling to get rid of something. We cannot genuinely let go of what we resist. What we resist and fear secretly follows us even as we push it away. To let go of fear or trauma, we need to acknowledge just how it is. We need to feel it fully and accept that it is so. It is as it is. Letting go begins with letting be.

[...] Let yourself sit comfortably and quietly. Bring a kindly attention to your body and breath.  Relax.  Let yourself be settled in the ground of the present.

Now bring into awareness the story, the situation, the feelings, the reactions that it is time to let go of.  Name them gently […] and allow them the space to be, to float without resistance, held in a heart of compassion.  […] Feel the benefit, the ease that will come from this letting go. Say to yourself, Let go, Let go, gently over and over.

[…] Sit quietly and notice if the feelings return. Each time they return, breathe softly as if to bow to them, and say kindly, I’ve let you go.

[…] Gradually the mind will come to trust the space of letting go.  Gradually the heart will be easy and you will be free.

april 25 . life is sweet

the strawberry juices

run down the chin

of a very particular

little girl.

they are sticky and

tart and

she wipes them away, disgusted

by the unpleasant byproduct,

indignant

that there should be

imperfection

in this.

her little sister smiles,

looking into the sun

as she licks the

bitter sweet

from her fingertips.

**
inspiration: 
Your daddy the war machine; your mama the long and suffering, prisoner of what she cannot see. They told you life is hard, it's misery from the start, it's dull, and slow, and painful.  But I tell you life is sweet, in spite of the misery. There's so much more. Be grateful.
-Natalie Merchant, "Life is Sweet" 

**
I have decided I do not like writing a poem a day; it is frustrating, and troublesome, and saps some of my creative juices.  So after April I may try twice-a-week poems.  This sounds much more appealing, and will still increase my output substantially.  

april 24 . when raindrops fall

saturday night, 
and the rain-soaked streets
reflect the lamplight,
bounce it into my living room
where it dips and collides
with the television flicker.
i stare out the blinds
listening to the end credits
of a romantic comedy
that is making me cry while
rachael yamagata           sings my heart.