Voracious

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WomanCatMask

I scavenge the cupboards
chewing my lip
hang on the refrigerator door
too long staring

strain to hear my body’s need
brown bottles stand hopeful
dubiously I gulp water

pace my kitchen like a caged cat
scratch at my keyboard
with no relief
my usual distractions fall hollow
like a thimble brigade to a barn fire

defeated I put myself to bed
invite the covers to cool my heated flesh
open my mouth in a meditative plea
beg the night to fill me

Playing in the pub today; come join at dVerse.

Offering

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pretty,woman,fashion,girl,photography,submissive-c78616215922578aae2dd65d33d75207_h

one day left to preen
one day left to align my ducks
to be orderly and pretty
for you

I wish I could
but I have as many feet as a centipede
how does one pick one’s best
to put forward

and how do you like your feathers
fluffed like they have just been sexed
or smooth
and unruffled

I will give you my all
my mind and art
my body and the spirit that
drives it

crazy to think I could guess
what you want of me
but I am yours New Year
take me

Playing in the pub today, dVerse.

Hunger of Babes

a wise woman by artist frank howel

I join the festivities of life with an open heart
the wise one smiles from the corner
holds up a mug with a question in her eyes
yes I am thirsty
thirstier than the crone could know

a baby sweet crawls
pulling at my skirt
I coddle him melting
into his beautiful little face
he grabs at my bodice hungrily
no mother in sight
he bites the tender flesh of my arm
but I do not wince
remembering the eagerness of babies

the wise one comes offering me a cup
and strokes my cheek as she does so
with this all-knowing look
I shake the strange familiarity off
shake off the warmth of her smile
and I drink
the babe wanders away still thirsty
my eyes follow him knowingly
and I draw deep from this steamy mug
but within me comes a burn
mistaken, untasted, over-indulged
fear not headed, fear not stepped into
what is my folly

I look to the now raised teeth marks upon my arm
I prefer this pain to that
life and it’s questions
youth and its hunger
if I must feel
bite me again

Tightrope

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tight_rope_walker_530w

do you do like me, this
balancing
knowing the rule
thoughts become things
striving to keep positive

but there
playing in my peripheral
the what-ifs, naysayers, doomsday-ers

the possibility of fusion, fantastic, electric
intoxicating with its promise
the wire all but disappears beneath
as I step with feather feet towards this fantasy
filling in details as I go
conscious of the moment
heel toe, heel toe

but like a chill crawling over my skin
when encouragement lags
pessimism sneaks in
don’t get your hopes up
don’t be made the fool
go back down the ladder
dreams don’t come true

I teeter
as dark thoughts
knock me totter
far below a net of negativity
swings into view
pendulum legs
fight to right themselves
arms fly wide as if to motion
stop
eyes back to the platform

always my choice
forward or forlorn
walk into my visions
or fall to status quo
I find my smile and choose
heel
toe
heel
toe

 

Linking this up to dVerse for Open Link Night.  It’s where the good stuff is.

Savory Bits

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running down the path
they spill
unloved and loosed
from seams unseen

she quickly scoops them
shoving them
into invisible pockets
no time to rhyme or alliterate
life is calling
with its teasing hurried promise

they will wait
they have no choice
they just “are”
for she thought them
and they must
be written
if perhaps tearfully
at a later date

I’ve linked this up to OLN at dVerse.  Come play with us.

Unfamiliar Flesh

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I could with my pen paint
an indigo story across your
unfamiliar flesh
up and over those hip bones
lay out a story line
of lust
and tease
and need
all in ink, all so
esoteric
that none need blush

I could upon your earthy canvas
create a picture
where colors play
shallows and highlights swim and climb
adventuring along the way
to find the tickles and the groans
the way only the brush
of an artist’s tongue can

I could, and probably will
hide within my poetry
sketching your body in words most
abstractedly
and you won’t know, that it’s for you
in dusk’s sweet disguise
I lust and paint and writhe
that it is for you
stripped bare and wanting me
that I write

It’s Open Link Night at dVerse. Come play with us!

Well Dressed Fantasy

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I meander between our racks
sweeping my fingertips over hanger shoulders
plush faux fur, yielding silks, buttery jersey knits
when they shop they see robes, chemises, rompers
but not me

I see a cabin nested in a crib of snow
panes aglow with orange fire
open hearthed and hungry
smell the earthiness of burning moss
hear the hiss and pop of damp wood

I see leaded windows top-story in an old inn
I hear forgotten ice settling in a champagne bucket
Scrabble letters scattered like confetti over
a puddle of stockings and hooks and eyes
feel cold cotton against heated skin

I see the slow stroke of rattan paddles across the ceiling
smell coconut oil and sweat
hear gulls fighting over a deserted picnic
taste the bite of chilies and the musky juice of oysters on finger tips
feel the release as one by one bows are undone

today a chemise of stretchy lace
plunging and as red as Italian poppies
will find its place in my drawer of well dressed fantasy
waiting with the others
till he who shares my visions
finds me

I Wonder

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(I get a little fired up 🙂  You may want to turn your volume down.)

Is it easier on those
that don’t question
live simply because they are alive
chasing days and dollars
climbing ladders
backs stacked with
yesterday’s luggage
and in the end
with a lifetime of cases in tidy rows
offspring’s offspring
dangling from their own tree
houses in graduating sizes
and albums of pictures proving
that they lived

easier
to not spend hours staring
at ones own toes
wondering the necessity of physicality
with its biological intricacy
when I know the real deal is living
well beyond this earthbound body
and if I were to slap a label on it
I would call it soul

easier
to not waste days unravelling
the intricate weavings
of our various realities
years spent watching relationships
shuttle across the warp of others
watching them battened by time

easier
if you don’t get me started on God
thinking about Gaia and goddesses
deities, the Universe and the religious devices
that glue each to their own single-mindedly
each declaring theirs the only
leaving me wondering which or all
are mine

easier
to not give thought to time
it makes me dizzy when dimensions
sail past two to six
entering spaces my brain cannot place
yet knows exists
as it grapples with particles and strings
keys to things I wish I had an understanding
but feels a path on this expanding grid that belongs to me
even glimpses it in meditative times
just at the corner of my eye
but never long enough can I quiet my inquiry
and find my mind once again pondering
what the blissful people
just live

Linking this up with dVerse, where we bare our souls and applaud each other for it. Come join us.

Longing for Gray

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This is a re-post of a poem from a couple of months ago. I got up the courage and not only read but performed it live. I came home proud and jacked on endorphins so recorded it for my blog as well. It was better live and I didn’t screw up like I did here…No I’m not going to point out where. You’ll just have to take my word for it. 🙂

always in the end I ask
why not?
and you like the others wretch
at the idea of ‘friends’

how can what was once so tightly knit
now become a knotted mess tossed
no, burnt and fearfully stomped
how does “if I can’t fuck you then
I fuckin’ hate you” make sense

who erased the grey?

or is it an island like Lemuria
sunk into oblivion bay
off the coast of what once was
soon to be lost in the folklore of extremes
nothing between dragons and queens
no room for me

I, who closed my legs and decided not
to share my refrigerator
now a traitor?
haphazardly raft-strapped and water-logged
send me off to where the blues become gray
down with the Lemurians
where love lives outside the lines
and lovers are allowed to change their minds

because they’ve learned the ebb and flow of things
that growing is change, and change is expected
like the hermit crab who leaves her shell
her evolution accepted as she seeks out a better fit

no shell ever hated the exiting crab
and the hermit loved them all from smallest to big
loved them as if they all played parts in a prewritten story
scribed upon the sand by the sea herself

maybe if I grew a tail you would no longer focus
on what you can’t have but instead
on what I’ve become
and love me again
this time as the sister of your soul

if you could read hermit tracks you would see
it’s one great web connecting us for lifetimes
not always cast as lovers
but you can’t read them
and instead wish me washed
upon those grey grains
marooned
with only my high ideals
for friends

Metamorphosis

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poured from the same bottle
what magic swirls in that second glass
what is there that wasn’t before
who bewitched my goblet
who secretly added the wanton elixir
this concoction that turns rabbit to rapture
from soft curled and content to brave
fully festooned and unfurled

shy and satisfied this moment
then ripe and ravenous the next
how can these two both exist in me
the gentle spirit, the adventurous soul
am I a yellow downy chick ready
to peck free of her protective shell
or the peacock’s tail glinting with sensual promise
waiting for the fold and return to unremarkable

the girl who toasts your health
or the one who licks her lips
and orders two more
which is truly me
or is it indeed all black sorcery