AS SIMPLE AS THAT

 

AS SIMPLE AS THAT

my man is away
i am quiet
left behind
with coffee and the cats

i remember back
when i was young
left behind
with drama twisted sheets
an empty bed

like jane
the girl with one eye
and lopsided perspective
she is young
swimming in the pool
of sex
thinking
analyzing
determining
figuring
strategizing
preaching change
blaming
left behind
with the why of it all

she doesn’t know
what being young
is for, to dive
into drama
and love it

to feel the water
thick with scum
coat your skin
to digest
each swallow
each blow
each thrust
each wave
with conviction

i watch jane
kick flail
cry against the current

– move with it –
i say
-before him
i moved with it, let
it snap me about –
she isn’t listening

i don’t tell her
that i let the rock
smoke sex whatever
pull and push me
whenever
wherever

my man
he didn’t come
to me
the current
delivered me
right up
to the empty
barstool
to his right

i looked over
saw his hazel eyes
shaded
with thick black lash

i spoke
he answered
it was as simple as that

**This is a poem from my book, as simple as that

 

LIP GLOSS

 

LIPGLOSS

My new year’s resolution this year is LIP GLOSS.

More shine
More sparkle
More glitter
More smooth
More softness
More satin and silk and suede
I love me some suede
More leather like butter
What the hell
More butter
Sweet creamy or salted
More open
More writing
More reading
More books
More of my words read by more and more and more people
More of my poems published
More of me published
More of my pieces published
More of my books sold
Even more love and joy and passion and happiness
Even More sex
More sex
What the hell
More sex
–You know it is the cure for the common everything
More grace
More gratitude
More appreciation
–Given and taken

 over exposed

So far, so good
We are three weeks
into 2014 and I leave the house
Lips Berry Beaming and Glossed
I’m Ginger Sensed and smiling Origins

My new years resolution this year is LIP GLOSS

What’s yours?

Dancin’ in the Dark

 

It was a September dance partylove shack - Version 2

In our vibrating Love Shack

last night

Queen, Bowie, Bee Gees,  Blondie

Kiss,

She Drives Me Crazy hair flying

arms embrace twirl push pull hips circle grind

knees bend and it’s loco-motion

as his hands Bust a Move

up and down my body

I Want You to Want Me eyes smiling wild

Footloose

and boogie down, bump d’ bump

seventh grade shuffle in our Brick House

we twisted and swirled and kicked and hustled

With New Attitude

Nasty Girl 

on an autumn night

Can’t Fake that Feeling

just Listen to the Music

and our spirits Super Freak

wanting to spread the love

we Beat It

Walking on Sunshine

down the street

What a Feeling

Stayin’ Alive laughing

hearts Play that Funky Music

mirrored disco blue

All Night Long

That’s the Way I Like it

and after these 10 fine years

let’s go ahead

and buy

that mirrored disco ball

 

 

 

I Am 50

 

I woke up and the clock struck 50 today.

birthday roses

The Clock Struck….

The pink roses my neighbor brought over yesterday are opening.  I feel like one of those pink roses.

I am open.

Till, dig, cultivate the earth, offer worms, cut spent blossoms, thin out dead, diseased and damaged stems, pull weeds, fertilize and deep water.  I have done this. On my knees, hot sun beating down, sweat pooling, dripping, fingers earth-digging, clearing.

I planted seeds.

 

New friends.
New opportunities.
New ideas.

I am giftwrapped.
I root myself
Spread far
Vines spiral, reach, circle, stretch

I grow long
tall
thick branches
strong trunk
I am lush green
I blossom  pink, red, blue, purple and white
I burst
sprit lifts
I bend back
arch my back to the sky
I am a bough heavy with ruby fruit

I am 50

Summer Solstice

IMG_0094

Summer is glimmering
at my front door
singing and
twirling about
purple, white, yellow, blue, orange, green
swirls of light
bare footed
callused heels
white skirts flouncing
her jet black hair
tangled with color
her skin
brown as a berry

she enters my bones                BarefootSummer
I feel them
shift
settle
sink into the sand
that spray I feel
is Ocean Salt
and still
all these years later
the scent of coconut
and Bain de Soleil
is it in my pores
the orange goop
that I spread
let glisten
on my skin
nothing
smells quite like it

she reaches her hand
open palm
her eyes are soft
blue, green, brown
seductive
her smile
pulls
and I place my hand
in hers

Hot Mess

 

“You’re a hot mess!” Rebekah said.

I was still catching my breath.  My skin was hot and sticky.  I was on my knees pushing into the pole, my arms stretched,  tugging at my shoulders, gripping the metal above my head.  It felt cool on my belly. My hair was wild, covering my face, a strand caught in my mouth.  Rebekah was smiling; standing with her right knee bent, right foot resting on her left, leaning against the stereo console.  She held my gold Nano, like a gift in her hand.

I could still feel the swell of my song, the sax, the drum brush, the heat of my music, strong and powerful, wrapping itself inside of me, moving down massaging my spine, circling its way around my hips, through my belly, inside my thighs and diffusing itself in my legs and out my red tipped toes.

swirlsofcolorI had just let go.  I let my body take over. My head would fall to the right, stretch out and around to the left and pull back and down, my body side-stretching vertebra by vertebra snaking itself, following my head. I had to grab onto a wall, crawl on the floor or lean into one of the white overstuffed chairs for support as I danced. I let my body find her  way as she slipped underneath the song and twisted through to her own pulse.  She curved up and down and around poles, landing, back arched, chest forward onto the floor, on her back, writhing onto her belly and pausing, leg lifting into the air, bending back and pulling herself around to her back again. She melted into an oozing rainbow of red, ruffles, black patent leather, lace and skin.  She painted me with splashes onto the wall, with swirls that dripped down the poles, with splatters that marked the chairs.

Now I’m part of a living memory, a history that’s grooved itself into the wood floor, part of the tradition of stripping down and diving into spirit.

I’ll come back in the New Year and sink into soft purple. When I reach my fingers in front of me, arms stretched, legs splayed open, pulling myself into the room, I’ll feel the pulse of my history as I trace my fingertips along the raised surface of tongue and groove boards.  I’ll absorb the celebration of the women who’ve danced before and cheer for those that’ll come after.  I’ll feel the pieces of broken shell and watch soft yolk ooze golden yellow.  That glowing knowledge and love, freedom and truth decorate this room.

I broke free of my shell this year.  I tossed it away piece by piece.  I watched it burn as I flung it into my fire. I watched old memories, old ways and old cares spark orange and light the winter night sky.bruning fire

I like that.  I like that I’m a dancing, happy, free, inspired, chest open, heart forward, arms raised, gorgeous, strong, grateful, smiling, stripping down, layer-by-layer, hot mess.  I like that I’m peeling into myself.  I like that the deeper I go the messier and happier I get.  Yeah.  Rebekah’s right.  I am a fucking HOT MESS.

I smiled.  “That’s my new year’s resolution.” I said.

 

 

The song I danced to on December 31, 2012 was Christina Aguilera’s Nasty Naughty Boy.  Happy New Year!

winter dreams

 

Sometimes I like starting over.  Getting a do over! Like when we were kids.  That didn’t count, do OVER!   I mean I start over ever day, don’t I? Isn’t that what life is about? I wake up, open my eyes, look at the light and start over.  I begin again. A new day has dawned and I start.  Even if I’m continuing I’m starting.

It reminds me of a song. Something I can’t quite place, but I hear the melody, the base, in the distant parts of my brain.  It’s back there, deep in the dark corners.  Maybe it’s under a box with yellowed folded love letters and old Polaroid’s.  I know it’s there because I can feel the song, seeping into my body, my limbs, but I can’t remember the song.  You know what I mean? I can feel it, just can’t quite remember it.  It’s like a memory, a flash of light, a sliver of color, a wedge of a dance, or a hint of a kiss.

 

like the moon that night
hanging low
shining  full
blue silver
the snow turning to ice
reflecting alice blue
under his steel blue gaze
he smiles with his round eyes
that mona lisa smile
i am nine
maybe ten
standing in fresh flurry

it’s new year’s eve
my parents are out
at a party
in the city
with their friends
kissing
my father’s arms pulling
my mother into him
celebrating thirteen years
and magic

josie, keeps us warm and happy at home

she lived down a long gravel road
in a red ranch house
my mother would drive
we’d sit in the back
waiting for josie to come out of her red house
so she could come to our house
to cook us rice  pudding
and read tom kitten’s mittens
she stuttered a little
when she said kitten and mitten
we all laughed
and ate our warm pudding

at midnight josie opens the front door
of our house
and we spill into the glimmering
into the night
this is our secret
she says

my footprints are first
my sister’s follow
we make our mark
then run to the neighbors
jumping diving leaving trails
on their pristine winter white lawns
“i’m the first one to step here!”
i sing into the sky
“i’m the first one to jump here!”
my sister laughs
“i’m the first one…”
we are two
glowing snow suited phantoms

our friends parents are strict
guarding their doors
at home
they are not at a party
in the city
kissing

we crunch back to our front lawn
fall back
kick our feet out
flap our arms up and down
careful to get up
without marring our perfect
powder blue angels

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happiness

 

I love new journals. When I start a new journal those first few pages are perfect. That perfection, well, it doesn’t last more than about seven pages. My handwriting gets messy and I cross out words, lines, and sentences. I put big “X”s through whole paragraphs and even might write the word SHIT in big capital letters under the X. I wish I were neater.

Some people are neat, really well put together. They’re ironed and buttoned up, pressed and lip-sticked. I want to be one of those girls, the ones that never leave the house without their lip-gloss. I bring it with me but then I forget to put it on.

Like this girl I bumped into from high school at LAX. She looked as if she were off to brunch with girlfriends in her ironed white champagne flute and perfect hair and makeup. I think her $500 designer jeans were even pressed. When we were kids we’d dress up to fly, because back then flying was fancy with winding first class staircases and piano bars in coach, but not now. I had to run into her? Now? When I had no make up on, not even my lip-gloss. My hair was greasy and it was caught between my shoulder and the strap of my travel bag, pulling my head to the right. I hadn’t washed it since my haircut and color two days earlier. I spotted her as I was pulling my hair free.

I thought she looked familiar, but everyone in LA looks familiar. I assume they’re an actor. At some point isn’t everyone in LA an actor? She wasn’t an actor. She was Trista. Popular Trista. Pretty, thin, long legged, perfect Trista. She hadn’t changed. Except maybe her chest, it was fuller, plumper. It could have been a Victoria Secret Wonder treasure.

“Carolyn, how are you?” she asked. “Come sit here.” She patted the empty seat next to her. I plopped my bag on the floor and sat down. She rambled, talking on about herself and her life. She said she was still living in Beverly Hills, that she was on her way up to San Francisco to visit family, that she was a writer.

“Wow” I asked, “what do you write?” I had been taking my Method Writing class for a couple of years but I still was shy about calling myself a writer. When I met anyone who was a writer I wanted to know everything about what they wrote and if they were they published and did they love writing as much as I did?

“I write screenplays and I’m a copywriter and …and” her eyes widened, she looked surprised, as if she had seen someone from high school that she didn’t want to see. She was glaring at my left hand. “…uh…you’re MARRied?”

“Yes.” I said, “We got married in ‘03”. It’s as if a cool breeze had blown through the terminal. Her dark brown almond eyes narrowed, they got darker. They seemed almost black. The hairs on the back of my neck prickled to attention. I could see her cheeks blush. She looked away toward the gate and her hair flew behind her. She turned back, flipped her hair over her left shoulder. Cher used to do that with her hair on the Sonny and Cher show.

“Who are you in touch with from high school?” She asked. I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke to anyone from high school.

“No one.” I said.

“Really? Aren’t you close with anyone?” She asked. “Those were the greatest years! I had so much fun. I loved high school.” She had friends, she was gorgeous, she was on the volleyball team, went to dances, had dates; of course she fucking loved high school.

“Trista,” I said, “those really weren’t my favorite years.”

“Wow, that’s too bad.” She said. “I just had dinner with Veronica Frank. You two were friends back then, weren’t you? And Jeannie, you remember her don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Veronica and I were close, Jeannie, not so much.” Veronica and I had a falling out after college, she wasn’t thrilled with my choices and made it clear: ‘You’re wasting your life away in Santa Barbara slinging hash, that’s so beneath you.’ Jeannie and I were never friends.

“Oh! You know who looks aMAZing?” Trista reached out and touched my arm. “L.S.” She said.

L.S. was my big crush, from that first day in 7th grade homeroom when I sat in front of him. He’d pull at my hair; tap my shoulder, lean forward in his chair and whisper in my ear. Our teacher, Mr. Markovich would scold him. “Mr. S.,” his voice reverberated, it felt as if the windows might shatter, “How is it that life hands out bowls of cherries and with you, I’ve received a bowl of the pits?” I fell hard for L.S. Trista knew it. Hell, everyone knew it. In eighth grade L kissed me behind the double doors of the multi-purpose room. I was in love. High school was going to be great. We’d have so much fun at dances, ooooh and he’d take me to the prom and we’d be high school sweethearts. That didn’t happen. In fact, he didn’t talk to me for four years. None of my friends from grammar school did. I don’t know what happened exactly. At first, I was devastated, and then I moved on. I made new friends that I don’t keep in touch with, like Veronica.

My wedding ring must be Trista’s kryptonite, because when she looked at it, she morphed from a grown up person bumping into a high school acquaintance to a cattish high school prom queen threatened that someone might steel her bedazzled crown.

I should show her a picture of Bill and me just to fuck with her. That’s not nice. Here’s the thing L.S. isn’t my kryptonite. He hasn’t been for a long fucking time. After graduation I turned and walked down the front lawn of Beverly Hills High School and didn’t look back. That was that. High school was done and my yellow brick road adventure started. Hey, I’m glad for Lee, good for him, that he looks amazing. And Trista, well, I wish her happiness. I wish Lee happiness too. I mean, don’t we all deserve happiness?

“That’s great.” I said to Trista. I smiled.   

 

Grateful

 

The musty smell of old books
Thinned sepia pages fragile between my fingers
Dust particles and life dance in the sun’s rays
And the clicking of my fingers on the keys of my board
is music
And the words
The words
The words
Flowing onto the white page
And time
To watch it all
Swirl around me

Isn’t it funny
how right before a cry
tears sting a little
at least they sting my eyes
before they cleanse
right before my cry
like some of the lyrics an old friend sang
right before I was caught
by ambush
my tears taste like salt
sometimes I let them run down my cheek
and I catch them in the corner of my mouth
or stick my tongue to one side and taste my brine
and I’ll pick up my journal
and write all about it
each and every surge

and how a sneeze tickles
before it brings so much relief
a big sigh
that says that felt good

dark chocolate moments, maybe a 72%
linger
sometimes                                                  
I’ll even go for the milk or
God forbid the white
even though once the full woman at the counter
of Sees Candies scolded, “That’s not even real chocolate”
It’s still sweet and creamy

and the sun warm on my skin
and the smell of a used bookstore

and growing up
the leaves
piles and piles and piles of
raked leaves
and the damp smell of a real autumn
and the crisp burning logs in the air
and the tingling of my dry skin
tight cracked smiling lips
after being out playing for hours
and tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich
for lunch

and the waves                                          
and the sand
and the dolphins
always the dolphins
don’t they just
the dolphins
in the calm oceans, rough oceans, surfing the waves,
blue ocean
grey ocean
green ocean
dolphins’ ocean

and the sky is my canvas
to paint my colors and mood and images
and through it all
what amazes me so
is that there is always something
more

The Making Of A History

 

Vacation Culebra

I can remember a warm hand
pressing on my belly
fingers like predictions
reaching
winding their way
forming into my future

I was still un-written
a white page
waiting for its epic poem
to adorn
with rainbow watercolor skies
swelling blue oil seas
fertile green forests
plump with fruit
pixie dust and dreams
of lips being kissed ruby red
sealed with white satin promises

Different authors penned my narrative
each hand bore its distinctive cursive blue and black liquid letters
an inked history
filled my book
some pages tore
shred
I let them fly into the wind

Others I folded
tucked away
an account
a tapestry of tangled kisses
broken hearts
miscarriages of desire
lost souls
ripening on the vine
falling to the earth
passion love hate anger joy sadness loss
chapters in my book

My life
reveals itself
in the warm curve
of my hip
the soft give of my tummy
the arch of my lower back
against my lover’s hand
as he presses into
my core

Our Vacation in Culebra