Winter Sweater - draft 2 + 3

Lyrics for a song

Left with nothing to say,
I knit this winter sweater.
The thread of you already done
maxed out with blunt end at the
three month premium.
Yet looped into the previous,
already the next one begun;
The stitch of a day
A  meeting, perhaps kiss,
Neither bind nor cast - 
the constant clicking dance of the wrist.

The bits we shared the dares the songs
All now woolen loops 
Row upon row.
Put the emotions in a poem
Said an earlier one, the words stitched
In stripes of turquoise and indigo.

the three month stretch -
then a three month stretch -
see you again when the next three is done.
when you find she too isn't the one

But if in a still moment with needles down
I speak a truth, it's this:
what I loved was the me in you -
the joy and beauty I was, I still am
knitted into cloth of glacier blue,
knotted with some hope in your carmine hue 
though all along I knew you weren't the one.

I'll keep up with the thread, keep knitting my yarn
til one day they bury me in my sweater, still not done.
still warm with the love I have for each one
each stripe
each color
each dear storied man
who loved me for a season,
a three month yarn.

the three month stretch 

then a three month stretch

see you again when the next three is done.

when you decide she too was just for fun

and I in soft progress have looped a new one.

Winter sweater - draft 1 (initial word dump)

Lyrics for a song

You with nothing to say,
I knit this winter sweater
the thread of you already done
maxed out to a blunt end at the
three month premium.
Yet already the next one begun
looped into the previous;
the stitch of a day
a (birthday) meeting perhaps a kiss
neither bind nor cast, just click
continue a dance of the wrist

The bits we shared the dares the songs
all now loops in woolen memory
row upon row.
put the emotions in a poem
said an earlier one, the words stitched
in his stripe of turquoise and indigo

the three month stretch
then a three month stretch
see you again when the next three month is done.
when you find she too isn't the one

but if in a still moment with needles down
i speak a truth it's this:
what i loved was the me in you
the joy and beauty i was, i still am
knitted into cloth of glacier blue
knotted with some hope in your carmine hue
though all along i knew you weren't the one.

i'll keep up with the thread, keep knitting my yarn
til one day they bury me in my winter sweater, still not done.
still warm with the love i have for each one
each stripe
each color
each dear storied man
who loved me for a moment
a three month yarn.

the three month stretch 

then a three month stretch

see you again when the next three month is done.

when you find she too was just for fun

and I in soft progress have looped a new one

Mediated Cities I (draft 1)

Her gold scream cracked dawn on Reykjavik;

A fissure piercing frozen sleep, prodding nocturnal workers
and night-long drinkers in numb retreat, 

severing lovers' conjoined limbs with the fierce rebuke 

of restored sight.

In sharp key of hard light two hours high 

her scream refracts off Esja's back;

long geometries paint box houses -
moving swathes of evasive darkness hugging edges,
avoiding the lock 

The third hour. As though the city exists through writing

through blue ice my bold scream pries open its distant

my own exotic lies.

glaciers folding into dark

That penurious dawn in Reykjavik that cracked to a slivered fissure
now a warm hearted hum, death before bloom
Four hours 

dying in muted climax

Summer Baptism: Draft 2

I think I understand now why poetry wouldn't come in Costa Rica. Something in the way I experience joy... without words. With the full body, the full brain, fully sensory, but non-verbal. Here, this poem, is a first attempt to "document" such a moment -- still poetic fiction, but from a place of joy. 

And then we were there.
Perched on the cusp between air and
gravity,
curve of the handlebar pressing thighs as I
played girl and you,
boy.
Through laughing shrieks of darkness
I sank into your chest
to nest in your stern; children
returned to the world.

And we spin cradled in an inverted hull
Low hanging ribs clipping 
our skin; headlamp tickling the ground
where wheels crackle music to our whispered
trespass
tracing the chancel
of somebody else's club.
Distant lights of unmanned sentry
mark us,
tree veiled til we reach
the nave.

And there before, sliced imperfectly,
the just-waning moon;
the font. Following along in reflected play
carving reveals of light in
porphyry and time -
momentary footholds in the rockscape.
Then naked we entered the nave.
Rough necklaces of an invisible garden played with our legs.
And there,
submerged, you lifted gently from around my neck
the umbilical anchor that
tied me to the Beast.

And love gasped at last.

Redeemed in the Sea.
Between sips of unholy water
our lips met and in shared breath
we conspired to youth,
smashed the bottle
and named this Fate.

The season turned us in her warm rocky hold

And we rode back to the sanctuary
where to the back beat of ensemble birdsong
you disappeared into sleep with a reminder:
My soul is weary, I do not believe in love
and held me in your long sea tentacles.

Sleep weary soul, I say
I will hold you in my faith,
voluminous
Chora of your rebirth

Summer baptism: Draft 1

And then we were there.
Perched on the cusp between air and
gravity.
Curve of the handlebar pressing thighs as I
played girl and you,
boy.
Through shrieks of darkness
I sank into your chest
to nest in your stern; children
returned to the world.

And we spin cradled in an inverted hull
Low hanging ribs clipping 
our skin; headlamp tickling the ground
where wheels crackle music to our whispered
trespass through the chancel
of someone else's club.
Distant lights of unmanned sentry
tree veiled until we enter
the nave.

Before us, sliced imperfection
the just-waning moon:
the font. Following along in reflected play
carving reveals of light, carved
in porphyry and time -
footholds in the rockscape -
Til naked we entered the nave.

Rough necklaces of an invisible garden played on our legs.
And there,
submerged, you lifted gently from around my neck
the umbilical anchor that
tied me to the Beast.

And love gasped at last.

Redeemed  in the Sea.
Between sips of unholy water
our lips met and in shared breath
we conspired to youth,
smashed the bottle
and named this Fate.

The season turned us in her rocky hold

And we rode back to the sanctuary
where to the back beat of unsyncopated birdsong
you disappeared into sleep with a reminder
My soul is weary, I do not believe in love
and you held me in your long sea tentacles.

Sleep weary soul, I say
I will hold you in my belief,
voluminous
Chora of your slumber

Penelope's Loon - 3rd draft

Mist whispered across her back

circling shoulders and into her arms

The scent of lavender beat her tongue

feather-puncture approaching love's nerves

He left her at the port parking lot

motor still running

kissed the breeze with gaze distracted

signaling 

We'll be in touch soon.

She guessed this meant nothing

to do with touch.

Refusing to watch as he walked away,

she turned to the gulls positioned on stanchons

flipping him the bird

cawing after him in sarcastic shrieks

leave you bastard leave me

Only the scent of sails.

But Dunkin still on the corner,

kids with clipboards turning phrases for donations

Everything intact, minding it's place.

A plastic bag caught wind, gusting toward the ocean

with tight voiceless blows

Yup I'm fine. Fine. Yup I'm fine.

Alone on the clean cotton sheet

Touching her own shoulder lightly

She mimics his sanctity, mourns his mist

Weaves another memory to anchor.

So the storm grows face-first

still air sardonic on naked back.

Old, dank, her sailor's ocean shroud drapes her

And tonight, again, she drowns in his death.

Life Traces - final(ish)

I dragged your dead body from a dream today -

rather a figment, an unbidden image.

But there you were, head hovering at my feet 

perspective projecting your limbs  

away. 

Upon inspection

your insides were empty

The onion skin thin shellac brown

a cicada's husk,

filigree of meticulously traced membranes.

Inside, the wind.

A precise negative of where you once were 

You: your organs bones  arteries intestines muscles cartilage blood bile nerves veins.

But also your soul -

these remained behind in the dream.

Before me, fleetingly intact, lay your epidermal mask, shed

Translucent

Veined like a dried ginkgo leaf or

the pleasurable pulled-off layer of glue

a child has let dry on her hand.

Then in the vacancy formed by this cask

I recognized faces.

My father's ghost took residence;

once large, now scaled down to fit the space of you in comfort.

His eyes closed as in his coffin

His arms crossed in front

Dressed in one of his beautiful suits, prepared for eternity.

Dancing on him were the fragment images of every man between.

Merging together

Disappearing appearing 

As do projections on smoke.

Gathered, they darted through apertures formed
by fissures or stretched openings in the translucent shellac of your case.
I asked them: how long have you been there?
Since we parted, they answered as one.

And only your spirit stayed away.

But of course -

You aren't dead yet.

Lying before me, this mold for you was the cicada shell of my desire.

So I attempted to lay it to rest, as you've ordered I should.

Goodbye undead.

Goodbye Baba.

Goodbye undead.

Before me now, my warm, stuffed,

sleep-breathing son. Long live life...

Life Traces - second iteration (and some third...)

initial edits

I dragged your dead body from a dream today -

rather a picture, an unbidden image.

But there you were, head hovering near my feet 

perspective projecting the rest of you 

away. 

Upon inspection

your insides were empty

The onion skin thin shellac brown membrane

a cicada's husk,

each connecting line of you traced perfectly as filigree.

Inside, the wind.

The perfect negative of where you once were -

You: your organs bones intestines muscles cartilage blood bile nerves arteries veins.

But also your soul -

this too had stayed behind in my dream.

Before me, fleetingly intact, lay your epidermal mask

Translucent

Infinitely light.

Veined like a dried ginkgo leaf or

the pleasurable pulled-off layer of glue

a child has allowed to dry on her hand.

Infinitely thin.

But in the emptiness formed by this cask

I realized it wasn't just you - 

This trace of your skin held my father's ghost;

once large, now scaled down to fit in the space of you with comfort.

His eyes closed as in his casket

His arms crossed in front

Dressed in one of his beautiful suits, perfection in eternity.

Dancing on him were the fragment images of every man between.

Merging together

Appearing disappearing

As does a projection on smoke.

Gathered, they darted through apertures formed
by fissures or stretched openings in the translucent shellac of your case.

Only your spirit stayed away.

But of course -

You aren't dead yet.

Lying before me, this perfect replica of a mold for you was the cicada shell of my desire.

So I laid it to rest, as I knew I should.

Goodbye undead.

Goodbye Baba.

Goodbye undead.

Before me now, my warm, stuffed,

sleep-breathing son. Long live life...

Life traces - first word dump

Here's a start. This image had been playing in my head all yesterday afternoon. It grew more detailed as I interrogated it mentally. This 'poem' isn't yet about words - just a brain-dump collection i made last night, in bed, trying to describe the image, and capture a concept. The text below is completely unedited! 


I dragged your dead body from a dream today
More an image
A picture that comes unbidden.
There you were, your head hovering near my feet the rest of you projecting away with an exaggerated perspective
No feet - too far
upon inspection
Your insides were empty
The onion skin thin shellac brown cask
A cicadas husk transparent each line of you
Traced perfectly as filigree
Inside, the wind, the perfect negative of where you once were
You: your organs bones viscera intestines muscles cartilage blood bile nerves arteries veins.
But also your soul.
This too had stayed behind in my dream
Before me, intact, lay just your epidermal mask
Translucent
Infinitely light
Veined like a dried ginkgo leaf or
The pleasurable pulled off layer of glue
A child has allowed to dry on her hand
Infinitely thin
But in the emptiness formed by this cask
I realized it wasn't just you
This trace of your skin was holding my father's ghost
Larger than you, his ghost scaled down to fit in the space of you with comfort.
His eyes closed as in his casket
His arms crossed in front.
Dressed in one of his beautiful suits, perfection in eternity.

dancing on this were the projection memory images of every man between
Merging together
Appearing disappearing
As does a projection on smoke.
Only your spirit stayed away
But of course
You aren't dead yet
This perfect replica of a container for you
That lay before me
was the cicada husk of my desire

I laid it to rest, as i know i should.
Goodbye undead.
Goodbye Baba.
Goodbye undead.


Before me now, my pink, warm,
Sleep breathing son. Long live life

Tiny poems

During the past week or so, words have been clumping together in small quantities. Either I lack the energy or motivation to force them into more elaborate, longer strings, or the ideas themselves sit comfortably in small groupings. Actually, I think I haven't the energy to develop more complex ideas that require longer exploration.
Anyway, I've posted a couple of these moment-sized poems below. I suspect there will be more.