Moments

 

I saw the color of the earth reflecting off treeshugemoon

and sky and night.

The moon called out to me.

Sun was gone.

Day slept.

I sat wide-eyed.

My heart stopped singing.

Life is still.

It fills itself like a lung or balloon

with air or grief or joy or emptiness.

My self knew this

until the silence rose

like mist

from my chest.

I knew then

each moment mattered

until now.

 

 

 From my upcoming book, to be published soon.

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

 

 

Beginnings

The submission guidelines for the online journal explained that they like poems.  Poems that are different, dark, light, tight, poems that might make them laugh, cry, scream, feel, think.  Poems that do not start with you drinking coffee, but you can prove us wrong. 

I’d like to prove them wrong. I’d like to write a poem about me sipping my coffee maybe on a cool morning that will make them laugh, cry, scream, feel, think, or just crave a cup of coffee.  I could write about my coffee, how rich it is and how good it tastes because I’m overlooking the Caribbean on a rainy day. I could write about my coffee, how black it is and how hot and how it burnt my tongue and how I should have waited before drinking it and how I remember so many other times I have been burnt.

Instead I thought about beginnings.

 

The weather

It’s hot
It’s cold
It’s foggy
It’s raining … again

 

 

ING’s

I’m drinking coffee
I’m eating
I’m breathing
I’m sipping
I’m kissing
I’m fucking
I’m walking
Talking
Chewing gum
I’m drinking coffee
I’m drinking booze
I’m drinking coffee…black or with cream and sugar

It’s what we do

Writers
Poets
People
Artists
Directors
Photographers
Students
Business people
Homemakers
Moms
Dads
Its what we do
Its how we start

We Begin

Maybe they want

William Carlos Williams
Simple
Color
Clear
Language
Plums not coffee
White ceramic bowl
Not cup
Ice box
Not fridge

 

Lord Byron

 

They might want

Shall I compare thee to a summer day? 

Let us go you and I.

 

Or maybe

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked.

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,

What about

I have gone out, possessed witch,

He came home. Said nothing.

 

Ahhh but these beginnings have already been written…

 

 

August Morning

I love hot August mornings. Early. Before 7am when it’s quiet and still.  Before the heat rises and swells.

I listen to the occasional car on another street,
a lawnmower,
mumbling voices
my neighbors walking dogs
that bark at birds, squirrels, or the sky,
the hum of a humid summer morning.
Still, hot, thick, breezeless, stirrings.
our late season tomatoes ripen on the vine,
the strawberries in my back yard waiting to be picked from the ground
planted on my tongue
their sweet red flesh
seeding my day

I sip my coffee.
a branch
in the tree in our front yard
stretches, arches up
to meet the blue expanding sky
I swell with memory

Somewhere in my Mom’s condo in Marina Del Rey, there is a box, containing snippets from my Dad’s life.

In black faux leather-bound Week-at-a-Glance notebooks,
pages filled with movies, scripts written in blue, red, purple, orange, pink, yellow and shades of green flair pen block print.
Pages read like scenes,
stolen moments from decades, years like 1972, or 1975.
a dinner party hosted,
a movie wrapped,
a birthday celebrated,
a friend mourned.

My Father’s voice calling to me from the page.

I have sheets filled with sepia tone memories
Beginnings seed, flowers bloom,
vines grow leafy,
they wrap and wind,
draping reality,
cloaking truth.
Memory yarns and stories are told.

Jeffrey Scott, the boy with two first names, a laughing ghost shimmering in my backyard, hovering over the ripples in the kidney shaped pool. He’s wearing a football jersey, I can see the black block numbers, but can’t make them out. A leaf floating through the autumn skies of my freshman year, swept up, blown elsewhere by spring.

No questions asked and none answered.

I’ve been the phantom. I’ve vanished. I’ve pushed beyond circles in which I once sat, cross-legged and eager, seeds planted, never thinking I’d need more room. That my roots would drive through the soil, exhausting the land we had cultivated together.  I extended beyond the iridescent round of abalone shells that adorned its border.  I moved to a dark, rich, new territory, fertile, soil untouched by deduction.  I stepped off the well-worn path littered with twigs, leaves and broken branches.

No questions asked and none answered.

What about So and So? Bill might ask, Why don’t you hear from her anymore?

I don’t know, I might answer.

I don’t know. It could be something I said, or did, or a birthday I forgot, or it could be that I got as busy as she was. Now there was no one left.   I don’t know. We didn’t call to find out.

No questions asked and none answered.

What can I do? Open.  Time embraces me; warm arms rock me, pull me close into a heartbeat, a soul, a moment, memory. Open.  Open to the promise of an August morning.

 

 August 7, 2012