On a subtle day, snow dwindling, thinking of the first goodbye
the last hello
rain pounding, flooding, fists locked
on my window cage, tree outside
leading to heaven, sweet retreat from pain
more memories of watching it gather at the opening
it watered my insides, infused with sound, bleeds me on snow drifts
building castles, drawing me
the dolled doll
but in my eyes
I wet the memories of you, ensuring the cardinals
as they sit on the edge of the wooden steps to the front door
a red one asked me one day to be still for awhile
I’m reinventing the days
of childbirth, the small cry at night, the beauty of our child
smells of baking, my life in front of me
the hand-printed paint on a brick pathway
Unity in devotion
my reflection was yours
I read what you wanted, I spoke like you wanted
inwardly – I went, and lost
Eliza, oh Eliza what did you do
I tried to make me you, for the loving past showed me
this was and had to be the way
the love connection nothing but wrapping on a white gown
woven in mistaking me for love
remember the blues, and Frank Sinatra too
I loved the ideas, the airport drive, Kant, Sartre, Plato
mentor me into shapes of me
only the reflection of me in my eyes
I bolted, fell through airwaves to escape
my fusion with me, who is me and who is you
you loved for youth’s fragrance, pretty face, a country twang
little white blouse, painted hands
but I wanted more than me, believing it true, the doors open
I listened to the sweet caress of the loves we think make us young
in the musing of it
It was not me, me, not me, it hard-hearted me
looking in the mirror, who is she
marching one step to the me of me, you, desires
and still the lines of red drawn over my lips
have no effect on my inner worth
the woman – a cheater
she’s still-birth
But dancing in daylight, white nightdress
a field of yellow flowers leaving traces on her bare feet
she spots his horse
the stallion, the horse resisting the saddle
the rider resisting it equally, dancing in daylight
her hands out to catch the spectrum
of rainbows falling on her
He jumps off to catch her breath
before the breathing began, her deep shallow breath
the snake charmers coming
to peddle her false hope
he places it securely in a pocket
she dances in the daylight, takes out a whistle
blows it lightly enough for her ears
Deaf from any evil
dances more, smiling, holds her white nightdress
“my buttercup”, he whispered, “my buttercup dancing”
in the inked well, the sitting still
a lover’s watch
a time of relenting, forgetting, messages passing
through window panes
Dances in the buttercups
dances in the buttercups
Kisses me again, a red dress, sinuous
replaced with flowers flowing through skin, penetrating blindness, sight lost
fearful, reaching out to touch a hand, felt it at the tips of fingers
in the dark places, places with tunnels leading through mind trances
back head pain, pulling out a heart, handing it over
lover, dear lover, we sit
and it beats on a table in front of us, one beat, thumping
arteries, eyes locked, we share it
placing it, one half
and one half, we feel it now
Deep breath
to the next corner of a journey
beginning two years ago, and it was only ten times
the phone stopped ringing, finally at your door
no words taken, sharing of eyes, stories of history
one of pain, one of love, one of passion, one of lies
one of one, none of none
it was written by two, the us
if only it would end
with the meeting of the lovers, palpable
an old story
A woman left lonely, they sing
it was in my eyes, never leak like a bad spell
but they have, the taste of dew on your mind, rhythm, and time
experience living, live
don’t die
But taken for pennies
the flour from pies fall from a woman too old to tell stories
about lovers stealing pennies from a purse, wearing old shoes
staring at photos of youth, an old woman
aged with the angers of rigid rules of a virgin bride
a virgin bride to be honored for the books to call it
sanctioned in the eyes of tradition
But the old woman whose husband sailed off to fight wars
communist, any war the army wanted, slept in tightly with legs wrapped and secured
around sailors, she and only the townspeople knowing
a shotgun would have met her skull
the pearls around her neck reminding her
of the last vow of stopping for her father’s father, the family name
They buried her, cried for her, whispering remained even in the funeral home
of women wearing black, and her daughter’s daughter, forty
pulled out the lace handkerchief she made for her
Reincarnated from this, my funeral
my lessons, my mistakes
my wrong turn, a dreamer’s dreams come true
as it grabbed her throat and strangled her too
But, I don’t know how to love they say, you don’t know love
doesn’t a woman who lives love
So, how does a woman love a man, how does she love a man
it doesn’t mean he’s going to stay, lie with you, lay with you
be the long road down to meet the angels who walk around you
how does a woman love a man, bend in closer lady
the wise one said, you can’t love a man, he must love you, jumping back
the patch over his one eye
siting there on his rock, some rock, never love a man
instead lend one pearl cut from your throat
one pearl, broken from a string he will buy you
Swallow them all
hold one in your mouth, don’t let it go
keep it there, kiss him with it, love him with it
a man will love the pearls, offer the pearl on lips of silken satin
then a man will love the pearl he feels, not the sights he may see
for he can never resist
dimes and dollars
dead end flowers in pink, left on a seat
water jugs holding ice
wine bottles and spice, all those things, men think make a woman nice
Liquid words
pour equally well on another, all the beautiful smoke rings of
desire, left in night and lasts only
in the morning, dimes, dollars
and dead end flowers
Poems came back tight
through the day’s and night’s pen
ink, no words spoiled by insult, and
the winter threw out a blue bird placed in the heart
but held an ice nest
But she lied
spent more time covering it than telling it, spoke in whispers, downstairs
a hell with pillows, you upstairs, alone, alone the way you loved it
and I gave, gave you it
the lonely hours I dwelled in the bricks surrounding our life, “trash”
I am, I know, born and grown in it, garbage dump shopper
mother – where, you knew, dissect me
I will draw you
paint you
I didn’t mean to
The woman’s deception of perfect, I am rebellious, I am
sensual love trained to be a dead flower, I broke out
until they put me down too
one touch and me and you, would have lasted too
who’s to blame – me, I lived
The world will stone me if they could
burn me too, lust and love and hate, despair, how did I dare
twenty years
I was brave they told me, sisters wanting to be like me
I laugh inwardly, me, I am a lie sipping tea
power on a tight rope
you hate me, I hate me
stick the knife in please
I didn’t love you, I tried to
I love now, three times
the sun of the south met me, it was three times
but a visionary he came over to my fence
looked over at me, and you soon knew
what the reasons were
One money, and one whore, music, love, me and he
the love’s not real
then how about I just sit here then and put the lipstick on
I judged in my youth, the cheaters
the vagrant lovers of wines and blueberries melting in my eyes, the oceans
I was one of those maidens they spoke about in whispers
who let the love in the front door, before closing the other
one letting it out
“YOU PIECE OF TRASH”
I heard the shout, the long drawn out moan inside me
I don’t want to touch me
you make me sick inside
I was the best thing that ever happen to you
I gifted you
closing myself in from the world, I replaced my self-care with self-loathing
planned the carbon death of my duplicate being, Plath and Sexton like
Changing all my clothes to modest, heels put away
not defining me any longer as a whore, Whore
Whore, Whore, Whore
and whore
Tumbling at being the perfect lady, crossed knees and soft speech
lady
“once, twice, three times a lady”
but I’d have to stop writing, prove you my fiction didn’t matter
I stood at every launch alone, why not stand with me too
but here I go again looking for excuses to write in my long drawn out story
of, I cannot find the right shade of pink to match my lips
Reds bleed them terribly, peeling out like a raspberry determined
to ruin a white lace held in my hope chest, I never wanted one
Lady, Lady, Lady
I slept well every night until I spoke the truth, pressing the red roses
in between the pages of my published books
smearing reds, pinks, through them
I wondered if the imagination was merely the incarnation of lusts
lingering in my sleep
a woman married to a semi-detached life, pictured in the sunlight
a veranda, oneness
a new living version of the pulsing for life in her cascading
away from city lights
more living she could not afford, the price was heavily weighed with losing already
But the un-lady, Un-lady
Un-lady, Whore, Whore
for life yearned for more
blaming it on the past was simple Aromatic
almost cinematic
cartoonish
Life was the one suppliant, ripping wrinkles from the lace of her skin
wandering barefoot through art
red dress again, blue roses pinned tight to his chest
cries, lives, lies, tangled webs, one, many, none
rusted cans, looking
for water in the stains of yellowed and worn out wedding dresses
moths, clothes, and linings in drawers
sewing machines, the brokenness, the bleakness
Tap, tap on her paper, write, write
it’s poetry night
music on
lights prostituting to the creating, words, guitar in corner strings
broken, lyrics don’t work, she needs a line to make
the next poem explode out metaphor, you tell me is a poem a poem
if it doesn’t have image, is it bad lyrics
pen broken
stands up, walks up
bends down, looking for the right pronoun
noun, verb
verbs they say
use verbs
bodhran on wall, the trunk for travel, it calls
the opening
straw basket falls
Oh no she’s rhyming, stop the rhyming
before the surrealism becomes a lost art for only
blown up Dali dolls
the poet must live, experience then she waited by the riverbank
by the landing on her stairs, she waited in her room under starlight fears
By the water’s edge, she peeled, and fell, by the long daytime hours she fell and still
she waited and he never came, no honey in the money game, don’t talk and don’t speak
she’ll wait, in the dawn he’ll arrive, through quiet oceans spells
a Celtic wanton, languished painting calling back the tale
Sit quietly now as the play unfolds, she speaks whispers, and long tall glasses fall
in the showering rain, he met her still, still against a backdrop of hills, and
tumbled over her in a white shirt soaked into puddles
of empty nights with ladies and candy lollipop drops on, and he still called out to
the city down the way, with Central Park, and nighttime greyed
she met him in the visions between here and there
she knew him more, and the questions asked he might hear
while tripping over her crystal stare, of greened eyes
A kiln and kilt, a fired stove and a history told, a southern talk, a small hand in hand
a ring and stove, molded from ancient’s gold
and three hundred years he knew her more, and less than that she discerned he wore
he claimed to know the chime of her
but it was the slanting, he never knew her stillness
At last it is all love’s illusionary misanthropic condition
ported at the time of twenty years, affairs and lies
lies and affairs
and the philanthropic giving becomes a misaligning of my senses
Making business
blowing dimes for sensing, a misanthropic condition
I love you, do, do, do I love you too
oh baby, you know it’s you
baby, baby I love your hair, mid-life strife
no wife, no centre nerve, beating of the last life
Can I touch you now, make it two
love’s illusionary poverty, desperate for a room
it’s never about the you
And now …..
For the man I love
you create moons into halves, then sow it back to full
you sign it, pluck my heart from blues music time, Sinatra came back too
you affirm nothing in me, as there is nothing to be gained in the doing of it
You love but love’s not real, right
you make me feel in time or space
I know the rhyme, and I know your face
I don’t hold a camera, I don’t hold a phone
I can hear you through my eyes, and seek you in my soul
you pretend to move, you have this style, an inner groove
You seek to seek, you want to run, you want to speak
you make me feel in ways the world could never know
you make my imperfects perfect, in a garden of burnt flowers
you push me hard, you don’t hear no, even when my silences grow
you know and I know you know
You don’t love and love you do, you make me aspire for more
I see your hands, I want your heart
you make it start
I tried to find another man, the making sense of this
I tried, I don’t think I can, why with a Y you ask, and I don’t know
ask the spinning glass, spinning on my floor, pointing nowhere, facing my door
you’d make my legs weak, my crushed spirit sing
crushed in the smiles
the pretending
But you knew, and you know
and all of this makes me
afraid to tell it all
of it just being a thing, something, and yet in the storms life’s and natures too
I see you, feel you and know you too
Photo Credits
Photo provided by Melinda Cochrane – all rights reserved
First published by Melinda Cochrane International
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