Melt

Our first kiss:
my lips wrapped in tinfoil

paper ticker-tape candy fortune
trailing out in small blue lettering
foretelling the things I want to do to you;
the way I want your heat
to meet
my chocolate interior and melt through
until the sweetness is thick over your tongue
spazzing uvula can’t stay where it’s hung
if the warm rush comes
and you swallow the flood
of my tinseled gift confection;
in your palm,
I am ready to be unwrapped

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Published in: on January 24, 2019 at 7:53 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Roll my heart in glue and glitter

Tie my smile into balloon animals,
Roll my heart in glue and glitter,
Adorned with pompom balls and pipe cleaner
and give it to your mom for the fridge

I’ve got a kindergarten heart a-patter pitter
That dreams of you on nap mats
And wants the seat next to you at snack
I tease and tag so you’ll tag back

Let’s make believe we are big
The world is small
And we own it all
Bury our army men and plastic dolls

Share your pudding
For my chips,
Somersaults till sunset,
Duck duck goose and back flips

Innocent love,
Flashlights in forts,
Punch stained smiles
And hot lava tiled floors

We don’t know any better
With our child eyes
But better is hard to prove
When age and time edifies

Published in: on March 31, 2014 at 12:51 am  Leave a Comment  
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The longing

For what my heart longs for,
my legs can span the longest length.
Or I’ll fill those chasms with my tears
and sail across on my raft of strength.

I’ll get to where I’m going.
I am sure I will not fail.
Because I know nothing of distance
and I know I will not bail.

The other thing, the important thing,
is that where ever I may be,
I am the person who comes before
the place that I will reach.

And still “I” will be there when I get there,
the place where my hearts longs;
the me that “is” combined with the me that “was”
is the wisest me to bring along.

I have the heart, the strength,
legs, head, and hands
To traverse whatever must be crossed
to span the space of any land.

And I will express this if I can:
There is no destination.
All I need is in what I am.

Life’s not easy. But you can make it, and make it good. And so can I.

Published in: on April 20, 2013 at 8:00 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Time in a taffy pull

How I wish to linger longer
In your sweet and supple arms
Alas the cruelty is much wronger
When we must peel ourselves apart

With all the sugar in the seconds we share
I’d think you’d be able to stick around
But we heed clocks that do not care
And I wish we could stretch the hours out

With all the confection in our affection
Could we put time in a taffy pull?
Our days, eons then, long and thin
Sanctifitious saccharin sentiments
That never end

Like butterscotch discs dissolved slow under tongue
I wish the patience trumped the clock’s impending crunch
I would suck for centuries long
until you were the smallest speck

But obligational oligarchies bite hard
Cracking the savory snack into inedible shards
Minutes are fragments meant to be tragic
When time should be malleable candy elastic

Published in: on April 2, 2013 at 10:34 pm  Comments (3)  
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Our Lives are Unfolding

Our lives are unfolding
Like origami

Creases are undone
We are returning to
Simple paper
With marks that show
We were once beautiful cranes,
Fancy napkins,
Cootie catcher fortune tellers.

In the end, we are all the same.
Squares of paper, blank slates
Mere cloth on laps
Open maps

After one bad bend, turn and smooth
There is a groove that beckons all future moves
Actions that make wrinkles,
Our mistakes, lines in our palms
Spelling longevity or brevity.

Our lives are unfolding
Like picnic quilts

Snapped open
And drifted to ground like fall leaf parachutes
We find a simpler time
To be alive
gleaming and gnawing
On rinds and bones
In an open space far from home

In the end, we are all the same.
Patchwork patterns
Loose stitches
Laced by ancestry,
A beautiful barrier from feeling the earth
And a tool for getting fresh air

Our lives are unfolding
Like old love letters found in hope chests,
A careful dumping of heart-wrought ink
That eventually fills us with longing or grief
Such simple paper
That echoes in the halls of memory

In the end, it is all the same
We fold back up,
envelope ourselves in long cedar boxes,
Mere parchment etched with
Sequestered confessions
Our crow’s feet biographies and laugh lines
Denied light or wistful gaze
Forever tucked away.

Published in: on January 17, 2013 at 10:09 pm  Comments (3)  
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Puzzles, peckers, wolves and pigs

I may play hard to get
but you’re still getting hard
I’m a fool for a miraculous bard
That will have my heart in its tiny shards

Like pick up sticks for houses made by pigs
Weathering the blow of mighty winds
There are wolves at doors I won’t let in
Bolster me with a hearth and pen

I’m a pulsing puzzle of oozing, interlocking shapes
That when precariously placed
Makes an abode with a sturdy base
I can be had with nimble hands and a profound phrase.

It’s prose I praise.

The pursuit may seem difficult
To solve the heart of an adult,
A brain teaser with varying results
You’ve sniffed a trail that has gone cold

You’re a dog dodging doggerel
A hound hounding Houdini
A wolf in wolf’s clothing.
I can see your mouth is foaming

You might be cumming but I am going
Huff and puff but I’m not blowing
Down, and when your fangs are showing
Your frustration will be growing

By the hair of my chin you will find
Nothing there. I’ll slip out of your mind
And leave no notes behind
Just a clapboard shack for which you’ve pined.

I am not the pieces, I am the picture.
I am not the stick, you are not the fetcher
And I declare at this conjecture
I am so much more than my texture.

Published in: on January 4, 2013 at 9:31 pm  Comments (2)  
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Is love a shackle?

No one wants to be lonely

but they still wanna be free

So where does that leave a poor soul like me?

The longing, the yearn-

it scrapes and it grates

exploration, my whims, and men;

check the weight

on the scales

Could we manage

the balance?

Oh dear!

Could I live with the echoes

of hearts beating near to the

fractals and fragments

of possibility? And have another

hand on oars

when traversing the sea,

the vast sea,

the vacancy,

the open doors

held for me?

Can I follow my impulse

with a pulse close beside-

A like mind right in stride

and along for the ride?

Every urge, will it be fed

Can I trust they will be

happy, fulfilled and also feel free?

Could I find a parallel person

no follow, no lead?

And when, finally, I am idle,

will he lay still with me?

In this life we are all

just leaves in a stream

caught in our own currents

and sometimes out of sync

and at times we get stuck

behind the debris

as the other floats on

floats on

Published in: on November 27, 2012 at 12:48 am  Leave a Comment  
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Wanderlust

I wanna tightrope walk on contrails,

skinny dip in the zephyrous yonder

lost in wild blue wanderlust thoughts with you.

We can linger in the umbra

when the sun holds its nose and dunks under;

let our starry Van Gogh eyes

light up Cheshire bright

and wink

like Betelgeuse and Orion.

We can fit our feet with Autumn leaves,

surfing the dusky sky’s coffeebreath breeze

and jump into the raked piles

of our fall in love.

Published in: on November 6, 2012 at 2:29 am  Leave a Comment  
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Bad Investments

Your liabilities outweigh your assets
But I still invested
In us.
Your name in red parenthesis,
Inked with blood from my overdrawn heart
Our deficit, a grim report
Charts dipping into great depressions
Negativity on every telling page
Bouncing reality checks 
 
You spend everything on nothing to show
forgotten unclaimed bonds
now rendered unpayable
made some risky trades that did not pay off
and perhaps diversified a little too much
on shady start-ups
 
and now your crippling debt to love
has you pawning prized possessions
maybe you should have put everything in mutual funds
I hear they’re safe
and stashed away some love for those rainy days
and invested in real estate
(if you keep it for a long, long time, it appreciates)
 
but it’s too late now
and very sad your heart went bankrupt
 
Published in: on April 26, 2012 at 1:02 am  Leave a Comment  
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Abducted

The moon is for lovers and loners
to be washed in the blue-gray light
With shivering awe
of goosebumps, like craters,
Ruminations abound in
stone hearts’ illuminations
And in the darkness, the sky
is the visage of campfires
ablaze in a valley below
In red and blue twinkles
stars flicker and echo
light years of stories of folks
These distant lights impel
a soul hopeful
Consolation in constellations
flash glowing eons of wonders beheld
Inspiration and romance
creep softly into every
fold of feeling exposed
Published in: on January 12, 2012 at 12:50 am  Leave a Comment  
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The missing bulb

Of all the words in infinity

there is but one that’s just right

Like reaching into the darkened skies

to pluck a star so bright

I pull it down and plug it in

to complete the string

You are the exacting gem I want

amongst the everything

 

Published in: on November 30, 2011 at 11:20 pm  Comments (1)  
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Yellow glow

You look like winter’s cold, dark night,
manicured ice lawn,
round boxwoods,
shoveled walk
porch light off.
 
Yet I can see the warm yellow glow
on the windows
of your soul
  
I wipe the fogged windows to peek
at the cozy interior
your Id dining on roast chicken and wine,
alone.
And I want in.
   
Wringing my hands,
I pace,
pondering the most appropriate knock.
I could beat on the door.
Too abrupt?
I could ring the bell.
Too formal?
I could tap in the rhythm that lets you know it’s a friend.
Am I that close?
I spell my care with a pebble to the window.
 
And then at last I hear
an infinity of unlocking.
 
I don’t think you’ll let me in,
but I know you’re curious who came
even if you plan to send them away.
If you were so private,
your lights would be shut off,
shades drawn,
doorbell unwired
walk unshoveled.
 
But I see you now,
behind that screen.
If I tell you
how I’m shivering,
how I can’t feel my toes
how I’m gonna die out here,
maybe you’ll invite me in.
  
I want your fire.
Published in: on March 9, 2011 at 12:22 am  Comments (1)  
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Let it Go

My ribcage is merely

a pair of hands

holding it all in;

a protection of the heart

And the time has come

to pry those bony fingers loose

Let my heart

drift into the ethos

to free its restricted beat

and controlled perimeters

Yet I am terrified

My grip is detrimentally tight

It would take a crowbar and a boning knife

to release those paranoid claws

Scalpel, please.

Published in: on January 9, 2011 at 11:00 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Fairytale

I.

In a perfect world,

where knights march bravely

into the face of labor

and bring home the slayed wages

to the trinity:

his chambermaid, wet nurse and cook; (among other things)

his filthy spawn darting

through the halls

spilling the whole day behind them,

there is a pattern that emerges

between the straight lines in the lawn.

He strides through the door

with his battle helmet under his arm,

yet still impressed in his languished face,

to find a woman, worshiping his ability

to be present AND be grownup.

She tosses prayers at his magnificence

that read like front page news:

part catastrophe, part information.

Overwhelmed, his eyeballs fall back into his skull.

His mind darts,

his tongue shrivels.

In his own castle, he retreats,

knuckle smuggling firewater into his goblet.

This disorder desire,

the pattern, the dance

in their cryptic crypt

of stinging silence,

avoidance and inebriation.

His opinions drown in his belly.

She waves her hand in the air

owning the ox.

Her beast of burden is 2 days late

for putting the lines in the lawn.

She, the microhag, breathing shrapnel

grates his ass into supper’s enchiladas.

II.

One dawn,

while the castle was under siege,

he kneels beside her

kisses her still quiet lips

and carries her to the tower.

She is saved twice.

In the air, her bloomers,

a white flag,

a surrender of irritation,

signals to intruders

there is nothing left to be taken.

She gives up and gives in concurrently.

He crowns her

with salvific majesty

just in time for the evening news.

Their ritual, a drug,

has them begging

for constant truce.

III.

In their perfect world

where he marches home

embattled from the trials of labor

into the soft arms of his maiden

with rose stems in his teeth,

his offspring regarding his heroism,

the lines in the lawn are merely garnish.

She digests his daily brief,

his candor, enlightening.

He is the trifecta

of master, lover and compatriot.

She, the quasiprincess, breathing sonnets

polishes the throne

for his ultimate comfort

and spreads velvet on the moat.

The methodical magic,

the pattern, the dance

in their fervid fortress

of adoration and mutual imbibition

is the bliss where the credits roll.

Published in: on August 30, 2010 at 11:25 pm  Comments (4)  
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A Real Man

He smells like John Wayne:
grit,
campfires and stogies,
filthy heroic perspiration as pheromone lady bait
.
He feels like Death Valley:
hot,
his bristly skin like sandpaper to the touch,
his grainy landscape, molding and contouring to my succumbed body
.
He sounds like a pump action shotgun:
steel,
sliding into position, with a firm click
locked and loaded and ready to blast ammunition
.
He tastes like Apache smoked buffalo:
tough,
aged to perfection
sheets of shredded brawn to gnaw on
.
YET, he looks like a a tall glass of milk:
white,
wholesome, and lanky
eyeglasses, and a fluidity that makes me want to drink him up.
Published in: on May 9, 2010 at 1:55 am  Comments (2)  
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Your Valentine Confection

You melt my chocolate heart,

dip your fingers in the puddle

and touch them to my lips

painting each crease, and securing my silence

One by one, you wrap your tongue

around each dripping digit

slowly pulling each out,

savor slow my liquefied love.

I can see the tantalizing look in your eyes,

like a flood of water is filling canals, smashing against the walls

your blood gushing in all the nefarious regions inside.

After your mouth has finished its orgasmic fit

and while every nook of flesh is pulsating, darling,

do not forget the rest of me:

your eclair that still needs filling.

Published in: on February 19, 2010 at 10:10 am  Comments (2)  
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libation, vivation, celebration, consummation

 13 Years of Grand Bliss!

I guess we’re a little dab of quirky quaint as a couple.

Lucky 13 was a monumental day for us. I had lost the diamond from my ring earlier this year. Because we’re both sentimental softies, it was quite a blow. I went without my ring for several months waiting for the time, money and gumption to get it fixed. My grandma came through with the lonely diamond earring, saying I should have it since the other was lost. It was the exact right size. The setting belonged to my husband’s mother. Now that is has been set and repaired, I have a wonderful blended family heirloom to prove my fidelity. I did not tell him she had given me the diamond, or that I took it to get fixed. We went to about the swankiest restaurant in our area, ordered whatever we wanted, lobster, wine, dessert wine, you name it. We really maxed it out! I gave him the ring and had him put it back on for me. Finally, I feel complete again! We danced, laughed, played bocce… It was like falling in love again for the first time! I love that man, and if God has any mercy, he will allow us a lifetime together.

vivation

Published in: on August 23, 2009 at 12:43 pm  Comments (3)  
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Spectral Wisp

spectral wisp 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
If only
I could have
your breath
on my ear
panting hot
but it’s not.
How menthol wintry
shiver shimmery
you sigh
 
Shudder stroke
tickle-drip
vapor trickle
finger tip
encircling
spectral wisp
hulaing
my ivory hips
  
I feel you
brush my skin
surge through
my hair
I reach
into the space
around me
You are not there
 
Saddling the frigid
breeze you blow
gravitating
amidst
the ghastly glow
Ascendancy!
you came
for me
 
Hover always
flitter floating
telekinetic
anemic arctic
taunt me
want me
haunt me
ungraspable
sentimentality.
Published in: on June 10, 2009 at 1:14 am  Comments (4)  
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The wifely whiff

crimson blush’ed rose
with lips and folds
so sweetly nectarous 
scented center entered
stem and stamen placed
into the connubial vase.
couple rose
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Not fewer words, was it Roger? Julio’s was still better though.
Published in: on May 11, 2009 at 5:37 pm  Comments (3)  
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Table the conversation, bed the silence

Long after we have introduced ourselves
and cast every thought into the volatile waters
uttered every minute detail of every minute
divulged the diary of our doldrum day
sung every love ballad to the other…
our thoughts and speech will dwindle like a slow-dript faucet
 
in the silence,
our eyes will lock
and all that is left
is the movement of our hands
speaking the things words cannot express
our mouths on skin, forming
a language that is not fully translatable
the fine articulation of bodies
declaring a rare love
that is yet still oral
Published in: on April 17, 2009 at 10:46 pm  Comments (6)  
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