There's a Lion in my Heart

He has ripped a few holes
with his claws
(not on purpose)

but the other side of his paws
have the softest fur,
and as much as I love
beasts, especially the cat,

he is stretching into my arteries
each limb, his strong neck
curving, his back arched.

I have been hoping that I'll be
able to lead him quietly out,
using raw meat or a nice
ball of rope.

But I may need a noose at this point
before he tears me open,
and leaves a gaping hole

so big it'll be hard to repair
and I'll need
closed-heart surgery.

you HAVE to check out this blog

This is a friend of mine that goes to my church. She is 9 years old, and has the COOLEST blog ever! Check it out!!! It's in my list of Neato Blogs and Stuff, and it's called, "If You Give a Kid a Bookie"

if I could only

get the kind of roadside assistance
that SHE is getting-

she is the one who can run in heels
ride side-saddle with a skirt on

laugh at his not-even-funny jokes
and simply
sit,

and others will be in awe of
her beauty

stumble to catch her
twist an ankle on the way

and keep going
light her cigarette

while I am lugging the fucking tire
across the road

with grease smeared across my face
and my flats are hurting my feet

over-dramatized? maybe
but I have to do something

I mean, no matter how hard I try,
lipstick just will not stay
on my lips

another Easystreet prompt...danke!

I have to be empty

before I can be full.

Some things aren't worth cramming
in my top;
they'll just spill over anyway.

I am a trash can, Ziplock bag, mouth, stomach,
file folder, bowl of cereal,
and pot of dirt with too many seeds.

Whitman knew better

In this day and age, we have too much to hide behind: the dollhouse, the picture tube, the air-conditioned cabins, the plastic, but too much will become not enough way before we’ve finished. The barren, carpeted, astro-turfed, laser-lighted sun-stricken earth is showing signs of wear and tear. Turning to live with animals will not be an option. Whitman knew even then, we were not so “placid and self-contain’d” as beasts...The nuclear blast may not be a bomb, but a slow, rotting in water, drowning, death.


side note:
This was originally written for 6 Sentences, but I submitted another one to them, so I thought I'd make this one my prose poem. They say it has to be sentences, but that doesn't mean it's not a poem...damn them...it's a prose poem! Form shmorm...If I wanna use form I will, and if I wanna change that form into my own thing, I will. If I wanna call it a poem, I will...be it a marred sonnet, or a smeared rondeau, or a bullet-holed haiku...
For all you poetry Nazis out there...aaarggh! (just had to let that one out...hehe!)

I can't sleep

You know how sometimes you want to go back? You remember how beautiful that place was, and you want to go there so badly you seep the dirt from that place out of all your pores. You remember the smells of the slow-cooked soup you made for him. You remember the taste of his hands. You remember being held so you thought you were inside a cocoon, and it felt perfect, like you never wanted to leave, to grow wings. Like you wanted to be that worm in that shell forever. You remember his laugh, and you remember when that laugh changed. You remember when he stopped. And you know you can't go back but you want to anyway, shit, you can't fucking help it you just do. And he comes back for a while, and he gets right under your feet, like a cat, when you are trying to walk, and tells you how great you are, and you listen, and you hear, and you taste his hands again. But then he stops, and there you are, having forgotten your own flowers all over again. And then comes the familiar ache in your
left
index
finger.

and the latest news...

"Bush Oks Execution..."
I wonder if he gave a thumbs up when he did...

Headlines (for Linus)

Some wars are unseen
until it is too late.

A 50-something man yelled hateful words
in the sanctuary,
pulled a shotgun out of a guitar case.

Youth were performing a play behind the altar:
“Gunman Opens Fire in Tennessee Church, 2 killed”

Some wars give us the world.

In Iraq, a soldier lost his sight,
shrapnel in his eyes.
“Soldier of the Year, 2007”

As a teacher to boys going overseas
(to war)
his sight is more intact than ever.

Some wars are seen every day, until we
hardly
pay
attention:
“4 female bombers strike in Iraq, killing 57”

We’ve heard all of these stories before, laid them
to rest under the tree of “that’s life,”
but only because
we
weren’t
there.


another Pen Me a Poem prompt...

and God said,

you should have followed
the dusty sunlight
through the stained glass

looked for dangling legs
followed the razor-winged
angels

whose legs floated far above
your own

you could have caught
them with your tongue

but you chose to rest
when the color of the sky
could have been orange

you were too busy hiding in the clouds
so you couldn't see it

you would have been a good person
if not for the furnace
(something you thought was love)
that burned your face

(then I realized
I was the ventriloquist)


from a couple of old easystreet prompts...

I am

the girl most likely to drink
the pot-liquor from the boiling meat,

or sop it from the plate
with soft bread.

I am the girl most likely to dig
in dirt with my fingernails

rather than use a shovel.

I am the girl most likely to
fall in the hole I just dug.

I am the girl most likely to
spill the pot-liquor on
my boobs.


from an easystreet prompt...gotta love em!

for Buckminster Fuller

Geodesic man, you must have been inspired
by a voluptuous sanctuary,

those domes known
as the Black Mountains.

You created geometric genius
triangles touching triangles

compressed strength
made of fragile pieces
like plastic straws and scotch tape.

The larger the geodesic structure,
the stronger it becomes.

You are an exquisite jungle gym,
an upside down net to
catch the ground.

With numb lips

I lie under a tree
counting its knots
wanting to climb it

but knowing if I do
gravity
will win.

I had a double chocolate stout
float with vanilla ice cream
(a beer float is not such a great idea)
two glasses of red wine
and a vodka cranberry.




side note: I had "lay" in the first line...as I don't do well with the lay/lie thing, and drunken poetry lends itself to bad spelling and grammar. (no excuses, just an excuse, eh?) I still have to look it up sometimes when editing students' papers. Oh, jolly...it's part of being human I guess! hehe! and I didn't even realize until 2 days later...jolly jolly good stuff...I do love mistakes...they are so...um...enchanting!

You told me

what you wanted to say to your mom
(10 years later, and
you still haven't spoken to her):
"Take your juju guilt trip
and stick that voodoo pen up your ass."

God, that made me laugh.

And that is important, laughing

because the lines on your face
lead to little known facts
about you.

You said you tell me things you don't tell
any
one
else.
I know this is true.

Like that your mom told you
she prayed to God to get pregnant,
and she didn't,
so she prayed to Satan, and you
are what came out.

The laughing
most definitely
comes from the breaking.

movie night (after "My Fair Lady")

Dancing and singing
(like that is normal)
on a whim
to keep the plot moving-

She was the hellcat
left in the cold,

and he waved his wand
putting spells on her

as though the snow
would melt at his touch.

I wanted her to sing alone.
I mean, she could have danced
all night without him.

I always wanted to be

Lydia, the tattoo lady,
but my hips don't hold that kind of
his-story (like those ships).

I have been penned and needled
so I am no longer "natural,"

but ink is my lover,
and that pain is familiar,
true to me

in ways he never was.

Love is inked on my right arm,
and at least it
won't
go
away.

This is my her-story
and the ships on my hips
are emblazoned with
bright
red
nipples.

How's that for a sideshow?


another inspiration of easystreet prompts...danke!

our neighborhood was still being constructed

we built one of the first houses on our street

and
looked at stars,

skipped stones on the lake,

ate banana and peanut butter sandwiches,

rode bikes around the neighborhood
and over the "dirt hills,"

had boxing matches with pillows on the bed,

played in the flooded ditches
in front of the house using
makeshift boats with Barbies in them

sledded down the "big hill" on
the other side of the neighborhood
and found snow day friends
(the ones that went to private schools)

ran the hose over the swingset to
wash our hair outside

took the dinghy to the baseball field
when it flooded
"Look! A floating base!"

played house in the empty frames
still
being
constructed

lost the house to bankruptcy
screamed at each other
and heard later there are houses built
all around ours
even where we once camped in the thick woods

I haven't played house in years

Wow, I think my umbilical cord

is still attached.
It's not about me

and my inability
to keep my idealistic
(still pretty much in the womb,
why aren't you happy)
ideas

to myself.

I scrape the crud from the bottom
of the coffee cup (as though
I could reuse the placenta)

and I want to help you to be
reborn
(God is certainly laughing)

when I cannot even
keep up with
my (wipe my own butt)
self.


This is written from a prompt on Pen Me a Poem...link on this page...thanks Edward!

my mom gave me:

a vintage photo of Mae West (in a vintage frame)
a whole box of vintage children's books for the class I'm gonna be teaching-
Judy Blume, Richard Scarry, etc!

Sloss Furnace, Birmingham, Alabama

produced iron for 90 years

with over-whel-ming ge-o-met-ry
and color:

circles inside squares
circles inside circles
pipes big enough to walk through
rust: purples reds oranges
gears, handles, valves
cables
wires
pulleys

the sound of a blue train
engine whistle.

In unbearable heat,
soot-faced
workers cast iron
from rivers of molten

blast

furnaces blew steam,
ran gargantuan machines.

The men who died there
were slag to the wayside.

sometimes

i don't feel big enough
to help

but when it's time to ride into the dark
with someone looking over my shoulder

it just feels wrong

i would rather help fill the ocean
help man find peace
child find color
woman find rhythm
dog find water
and moon find light

but those are things
that don't need my help

he ain't heavy

he's my brother

and the family plays games
on the living room carpet

laughing at each other

little light in the
big world

we hold time here

grape, peach, strawberry

Today is a day when even jars
of jelly don't seem happy.

it is not indigenous

This is a reaction to "the Man with the Beautiful Eyes," by Bukowski, a part of a
Poetry Challenge on the blog Be Not Inhospitable to Strangers.

My friend Ace told me he was afraid
for the first time in his life.

I said, "Welcome to the world."

There we were, me with my heart
(every day severed)
a fear
of losing wild, overgrown beauty.

And him, wanting to tame the bamboo,
thinking it would make him brave.


Bamboo grows everywhere,
especially in areas its not supposed to grow.
It is not indigenous around here.

But that doesn't stop it from being beautiful.
And I told him that maybe being afraid

is okay.

But he said he wanted to burn
the bamboo forest.

I am a cornucopia.

You are calorically challenged, and if you think your tiny legs that you can fold ten times around your body make you some kind of goddess...think again. You use your sanctimonious "thin" talk as though I never thought of walking. And then you think I'm pregnant and say so...oh the gall. I have hips that sway into the night moon and push you out of my way. I am bountiful, rich, and have enough to give away. I have breasts that move into your space, and now it is mine because I will it so, and the goddess wears curves.



Honestly, this poem is a paradox, as I realize how easily my ego is bruised these days. There's a topic to write about...
Also, this is another poem from the easystreet prompts...good stuff those prompts!

You'll recognize me

I'm the angel

with fire coming out of my hands.

my ears are ringing

I don't know whether to bang
on the pots and pans

or wear them on my head...
(that's what happens when I feel like a child again)

saying I am an ocean
probably sounds ridiculous to you

but you won't think so when the tide
comes in and drowns you

because when you pull
me under, and the pressure
becomes too much

I have to de-com-press

and that requires being naked
letting pieces fall off

letting my ears and eyes
and lungs
come back to a normal
space
and a normal pace



inspired by another easystreet prompt (see widget)

for Becca

An owl is perched
outside your window

and it is the same one that
sat outside of mine when I lived
in the mountains, and was
grieving a loss

and now that you have lost
something big

we bring violets
the owl and I bring them

from under the bushes
from the darkest dirt
from the wet soil

and place them
gently
in your hands

our talons let go of the purples
and yellows and blues

so that you can grow them
in your own living heart


"we bring violets" is a quote from the H.D. poem, "Sea Gods"

women's work

mending quilted pieces tattered
edges hammering metal
parts

sweat in the lines of her neck
hair pulled back
eyes watering

pushing more pricks
her finger bends
at the waist

lover, mother, muscle she keeps
sewing, bending, biting

and she need not lie to herself
because pain is the easy, easy,
freedom

inspired by the easystreet prompts (now a link on my site)

Ophelia poems

This form comes from the mind of Cynthia, on Epiphany.

This form made me very happy, for many reasons, one being that my dog's name is Ophelia...hehe.

I have been trying little bits and pieces. The form is 7-14 words, 2 lines, the first line shorter. The theme is romance, erotic, love, melancholia, a slightly dark edge....mine are all on the subject of temptation, which I thought was appropriate with the theme...

Whisper to her,
for she has a devilish light.

You are on the cusp
of thigh and abyss; she melts you.

Curl of root,
she breaks you with her arms.

Moss and blood
are in her mouth today.

She bends his breath
with her forked tongue.

Dirty and wet,
she plays in the shadow.

back porch, 1am

a beetle bugs me
in his place on the deck

and it is his place
though I sit bothered by his presence

and maybe he by mine

raw honey

in folds of my skin

my fingers explore
the soft innards of the comb

i taste you

i walk through a hall
made of beeswax, a smell
that will last for decades

now i hurt all the way to my
finger
tips


the color of the pollen
in a white room
bright piles of
sunflower, dandelion, milkweed,

your face in my mind

and the st-ick sti-ck s-t-i-cky
stays
until hot water rinses it away

or it turns (in the cold) to a

heavy sugar


inspired by a Wolfgang Laib art exhibit

the skin

I live with my skin turned
inside out,
burning and chafing on life,

my ink, decoration
for my insides
living on the outside.

Our pores hold water,
and bear light of sun,
vitamins of life, but

people don't admit their own
nudity
(as if their clothes are hiding
their faces).

Our skin breathes,
and sometimes we
let it breathe
someone else's breath...aaaarrrgh!
and we are smothered

the salve:

breathe
God


ps...This is a mix of words from old journals, and new thoughts/words...pieced together. I'm working on a series of body part poems, so this will go with them.

looked through old journals...

words I found in my old journals...just recently looked through them again:

9-1-02
We like the idea of white, like
death,
white room neverending.
We are in contrast.
We are alone.
We hear nothing.

We sing songs of the ocean,
songs from the plucked strings
of a violin.

The kite took off,
and we like to control the flight
of its fragile cord, but it
will not be tamed, and large blue
birds will fly alongside
their long beaks pecking
for a bite.

Consumed in our own
veins, the day is through with us.

The noses of black-eyed susans shoot
to the sky sniffing the air--
and they can see
we are all infinite,

like light, that journeys
from here and never stops
(as far as we know)

It began when we were children.



9-7-02
Air is the cut
the clean
the filthy
the Christmas smell

don't make me take your tongue
and wrap it around your throat
for I have words that I've
built like towers

my fingers are fat like
big
crayons

my fountainhead spurts arches
and I live within the vocabulary
of my heart

this is my Scream



More to come, as I discover random words of the past...

the river, the rock, the light

cut into me,
the light (sun and beams)
is here, and the pain,
coming in clumps like dirt

will be soothed with the foam
of the river,
the froth of my rapids

Zennias are growing in
many lands; petals and colors
round upon round

they wait for me on some shore
and I
can no longer see the rock
though it presses into me

whitewater covers my sins
dirt soothes my wounds,
and under my fingernails
I see shiny pieces of sand
reflected

got back my computer!

I was without for a week, going to the library when I could, but now I have it back...made me realize how addicted I am.
This poem is from the other day...untitled...

I saw a silvery
balloon this morning
in the sky.

It was floating,
following the breeze,
aimless, light,
lofty, calm.

I wanted to be that balloon.

trying to write a poem a day...

This is a new endeavor for me, as I don't usually "invent" on the computer...only in my journal...but I've been trying something new. It's strange to put "unedited" stuff online, but also quite interesting, really. Let me know what you think, fellow bloggers...

pardon any strange words

i'm not really a poet,
but I am

yesterday's words are useless

so to write a poem
every day
means nothing

except knuckles
fingers
black keys

and the twine that ties
us together

in this moment

kiss/bliss

love will kiss
the weary, a storm
at night on a tin roof
over the face, hands
toes

rain will kiss
the dry,
water seeping through the
sand into the heart, where

lips will be kissed

and mercy, in the corners
of the roundest places

like angels will kiss
away
ignorance
which is never bliss;
"only bliss is bliss"
(my friend John always says)

where I've been, where I'm going

I have written a lot about where I have been, and unfortunately focused on the past more than I'd like to have...I want to tell you where I'm going...

I have been to bloated
sad, but comfortable
places

where I sleep all day
and my heart aches
all the way into my
left index finger for
someone I've lost.

I am going to blessed
places of light
and learning

because I see new strings,
my balloons are floating
and I am following those strings
into the sky.

I may not be able to see
the sun because,
it is so bright
but I can let the warm
permeate

radiate into me.

I will be healed.