Thursday, November 17, 2016

Epicedium epi-ce-di-um 

You are everything this isn't 

     Praising the dead 

     Porcelain paths recede and fall beneath 
     Beard falls under the precipice of his neck 
     Flows Drifts down And Praises 
     What has moved on 
     Deeper into the abysimal sunrise
    Twine and Knot grip 
    Tangle precious 
    Grip Unstoppable Determined 
    Over thin peaks of ice and roots 
    As fallen and bound 
    Tangled knotty fiber
    Tinged with compacted earth 
    It doesn't matter now
    It will grow without relent 
    It will fill the unknown 
    It will fulfill the unknown 

Mourning the Loss 

   This isn't 
   Forge, burn, pucker, melt 
   Smell of burning hair permeates 
   Through tire irons of resilience 
  This is all 
  No response 
  Bleak black Rays penetrating my closed lids 
  Burning them to open 
  Accept, accept 
  Reject, reject
  It matters 
  If it matters 

Comfort the bereaved 

You're the prayer I speak everyday 
Cotton candy feelings, just a tickle 
Avoid damage 
Where I had been, will be, was 
Doesn't matter now 
It is ok 
Ok to feel 
Ok to be afraid. 
Like molten rock 
Emerging from the forge 
Warm solidity expands 
And scatters heat around in embrace 
Who I am 
Who we are 
This is. 
Cooling down into amalgam.

This moment 
Pressed to bosom 
Hip to hip 
Thigh to thigh 
Chin to shoulder 
Nose to neck 
Skin to Skin 
Move, meld, tangle
Unsuspecting soft calf 
My foot grazes strong sturdy warmth
I thought you 
Love thought you 
Words in my head 
Like confetti for a celebration 
Destination not far 
Or beyond 
I am here 

My earth my home my sunlight 

My core 
My Pinnacle.

Thursday, June 30, 2016

Restarting my blog with a recent poem: Liminal.

As of now, I am attempting to create myself as a brand, as a writer. I do know that marketing is crucial in this business, so I will attempt to jump start my old blog and maybe both maintain my old followers and attract some new ones. In the past this has been my home ground. Recently, ?I have started to branch out into new forms, creating a kind of tree or network to get the word out. My most recent poem is a good way in to this I think. It is called Liminal. But first I would love to define "liminal" for those who are not that familiar with the word:


1. of or relating to a transitional or initial stage of a process.
2. occupying a position at, or on both sides of, a boundary or threshold.

It is one of my most cherished words after all.


There is a way in. If on course, a way out.

The film stops at a frame but gets itself stuck inside.  We perform our roles endlessly, to enable our chosen ceremony. Eyes blackened and opaque, we see not the end. Why would we? The show goes on and we take our places. We march held in place to the drumbeat given. Never understanding or acknowledging that, yes, we are allowed to stop. All the while in expectation of exiting stage left.

But the playwright didn’t write that in there, now did he?

So we dance.

And the revelers look on.

In with the new we say. We feed our rebellious instincts.  Out with the old, feeling out lives into a large filter. We pick and discard. Pick and discard. The contents: what must go, stay, or be released

To the wind.

Top down economics. A surprise in store. But we gush outward and flow like a broken valve. Letting time and our expectations out to sea for a little while

Falling only to rise again in a rushing torrent. Our humanity heals

Disorientation and vertigo. We falter and fall.  On our feet once again and different. We coast in a field of uncertainty. Unfiltered field of vision. Vast white across. Bright ecstasy erases the black. It disperses into sea foam and dreams. Rushing and erasing, moving down.

It changes and we change in accordance with it.

Polished, clear, malleable. Like water.

Our agency found. Like the surf

We stop fighting. 

And flow. Just to balance

Our own

two feet.

Friday, February 5, 2016

Cafe Carlo

Windy today, although the sun stands still, burning its intensity through the treetops. His long legs carry him far, quickly. He remains within his inner world, barely noticing what is happening around him.  It is a good thing that nothing much is happening around him. He never sees the rickety swings blowing and stretching against their chains. He never quite realizes how stupid this is: walking through town at 6:30 am. He knows it, yet still does it. Just another miserable day that is just the same as the last one.  He looks down at the ground and contemplates.
It was rather funny to observe him: Carlo freshly showered, shaven, primped, in his crisp suit and shoes contrasted against the dingy stale streets, like a street performer travelling through town with the circus: he, the mime, playing for his bread.  His pants a little bit too short, his waist a little too high, his suit rather strange.  Jacket was shorter than it should be, almost bolero style, tie black and razor thin, sharp against the stark white of his shirt. The fog was even resting against the surface of the street, and as he walked through, it seemed to part, as if he was a god coming out from the strange world beyond.
Carlo arrived into town a lot earlier than most would even think of rising from their beds. He was leaving on a train for Nice.  Plaster walls all around falling apart, bright orange terracotta roofs contrasted against the weary state of the dwellings. Clothes still hung out on lines from the day before. Dogs wandered, looking for scraps of the food that they weren’t getting from home, or wherever they came from. It is approaching 7 am as Carlo comes upon the village square. He passes one house and hears a male voice yelling over Italian opera blaring away, both loud enough to be heard on the street outside. Carlo smells the bread from the bakery and coffee from the cafe across the street. There is a sullenness to the scene, and Carlo feels right at home. Although one would not guess it from his outer appearance.  Only his inner state matches the outside world.
The train ride will be long and his addiction is strong, so he decides to have a smoke before entering the cafe. He leans against the wall as a scooter whizzes by. The mud on his boots is irritating him, so he kicks them against the wall. The mud was making him want to smoke even more. Mud from his aunt’s back garden. He had to trudge through it this morning because the front entrance has been blocked. The fog seems to be rolling around him as he stands there. He sees a woman crossing the street from the bakery. As she walks past him, he says, “Ciao,” in a rather deep voice. It would have been strange not to say anything at all given the desolation around them. He blows out smoke just as she looks and responds back.  It’s as if the smoke and fog have overtaken him. He is suddenly slightly embarrassed and shifts his feet around. He smiles at her, thinking to himself, “Strange little town”. She smiles back politely. Almost seems too terrible and mysterious a place for a woman like that. His first thoughts anyway.  He wonders where she lives and what her story is. She must live out beyond the hills of olives and vast farms, away from this place.  
He stomps out his cigarette and enters the cafe after her. Not immediately though. He waits a couple of minutes. He encounters several rooms inside.  Some dark and closed off, the back ones stuffed and overcrowded.  The front room is scattered with horse hair chairs and an old brass bar, gleaming and smelling strongly of brass polish. The owner stands waiting,  
The bell on the door rings and yet another man walks in. His heavy black boots sound across the floor as he enters.  The man sits down next to the woman Carlo had met outside. Carlo’s own boots announce his presence as he takes his rightful place on the other side of the woman at the bar.

“Caffe,” he mutters under his breath to the owner.

He puts his foot up on the bar rail and stands in place, facing her. His eyes fix on her. To Clarissa, his eyes look a little high and distant, icy blue. She is halfway through her own coffee and feeling ashamed.  She wishes she had put more thought into her dress today:Grey t-shirt and yoga pants just aren’t cutting it. She glances over at the guy again. He looks like he is dressed for a party or something. She worries her American-ness is showing through her carefully laid facade.  She had meant to just stop at the post office and go home.

“Ciao, bella.”
“Ciao. Come sta?”
“Ah you are american. I am quite fine now in this dull Italian town” His intensity now fills with interest and a sense of enthusiasm, as he steps closer to her, then sits down on the chair next to her.
“Yes, I am American. You are quite right. Good ear.” She rotates her stool towards him so as not to be rude, hitting his leg in the process.
She apologizes. He smiles and adjusts himself, getting comfortable.  They introduce themselves.  Clarissa notices his smile most of all. Kind of sly, a bit mischievous, but his stare is intense and makes her slightly intimidated.  He orders another two espresso for them both, with a finger high in the air to the owner, that Clarissa is surprised at his self assurance.  It shows in her demeanor. She slouches rather painfully so on the bar stool that suddenly feels less than comfortable.

She feels like a child next to this apparently young, rather eccentric guy.

They both receive their next coffees and toast to good health.  Carlo then says,
“You are a welcome change to this dreary town, Clarissa. A beautiful vision. My own attitude towards this place is not good.” He appears pensive. Distraught.
“Why is that?” She wonders. “I mean, I’ve lived here for twelve years so maybe I am missing something? It’s a comfortable place to me.’

He pauses a few moments before answering. And then he begins:
“I recently arrived here from Nice. I had a small bit of trouble there that I needed to remove myself from.  My aunt graciously took me in in order that I have a roof over my head as I try to recover in many ways. My aunt though…...Not a good thing for me. She disrespects me..”

“Oh that is too bad. I understand… so though? Is it that bad? Do you not have a good relationship with her?”
“It is not bad….but not good either. My self esteem has gone……” He turns his thumb down and mumbles something in italian. “As you can see I am not your average Italian man. She puts me down at every turn. Tries to get me to become like one of her burly sons. She wants me to help with the farming. That sort of thing. To me, that’s depressing. All this earth. I want to rise above it all and become different. Take a different direction entirely.”
‘In so many ways, she puts me down. Not directly. It is insidious and vague, so that I cannot defend myself but…” he sighs faintly, ”…...enough! That is enough about me. I would rather hear about you.” She notices he looks even more drained and his anger is starting to rise.
‘Nothing much to tell, Carlo.”
“Oh I am sure there is plenty to tell.’ He smiles brightly at her, making her feel wanted, surprisingly given what he was just speaking about. He has recovered with that phrase.
“I am an old married woman living in a villa up on the hill. I guess there isn’t much to say?” She laughs.
“Yes, BUT. Who IS Clarissa? Who is she deep down? What is your essence? What do you live for?”
She is silent now. After that. Because she doesn’t quite know the answer to that question.
How does one respond with something as mundane as “I am an artist’s wife.” or “I am the caretaker of an alcoholic.” Better to say nothing or something distracting:

So she says, “I am Clarissa.” The silence is more telling than any of the words previously uttered.

Eventually, Carlo says, upon reflection, “Well. Clarissa must be a profoundly deep, radiantly inaccessible entity who I would love to mine for both your benefit and for mine. It has been a great pleasure to meet you today, Clarissa. I happened upon some luck today I think  Maybe there was something in that mud I stepped in this morning after all.”