Till Winter Solstice 2011

Thank you for following this blog. I appreciate your support. This blog will resume Winter Solstice 2011…consider the time between as poetry’s space on the page since:

…it is silence that exposes our fiery hearts to serpentine tongues,

silence that would strip our marrow if not for the pulsing muteness

of flesh kneading flesh, of snakes and stars and moon-shackled seas.

(excerpt from “If Not for Silence” )

The painting is part of a larger watercolor that I’ll post in the future.

Zoe, the main character of my novel-in-progress, continues to photoblog at bonegirlpix.wordpress.com

haiku meets ink

Just used ink for the first time and I’ve fallen for its fluidity, speed and versatility. I chose the haiku form since I used a Chinese brush and bamboo stick to draw this.

(gravity/in palms’ wings, spring-breath, spirals,/heart-bind me and you)

Pentimento

Pentimento

How his crew cut head froze, poised above the place I could not see between my thighs,his short rodent hair arcing from my hairless mound, my mind providing the anesthesia of amnesia as if a spinal block flowed through a slender needle, numbing my body clean. And now that you’ve cut your long wheat field hair, he is the one I see near my belly, holding a switchblade against the rivulets of warmth that run from your tongue through my lips, radiating out hips thighs breasts arching back outstretched fingers. Remembering till now only my hatred of him, but as your fingers touch my inner thigh, images slice through muscle of his hand on my throat, palm in my stomach, head pressed into the opening I could not see, and I want to run from your arms which have held me warm against your chinchilla skin. As your pomegranate taste hits the back of my throat, his rancid stench catches, numbs my body clean.

Thank you to the editor of Rising to the Dawn for publishing this poem.

Attending

Attending

I saw this car’s hand lettered sign

in its back window yesterday:

ATTENDING CHURCH.

Funny, it appeared to be parked.

And I’m surprised this car attends church at all

unless it’s saying that

under this starlit sky

whatever/wherever we are,

we are sacred and always

attending church.

Thank you to the editor of Marin Poetry Center Anthology VI for first publishing this poem.

Making Soup

Making Soup

Begin with oil of olives

glistening in the well of silver

pot licked by yellow flames.

After slicing smooth tan skin

from a thumb of ginger root,

sliver the rhizome, then crush

with the knife’s handle:

pungent juice crackles in oil.

Bulbous garlic cloves, pressed,

come next with white-stemmed leeks or

yellow onions that blur the edges of the room.

Soften these invitations to the tongue

then add earthen vegetables–carrots,

burdock, potatoes, beets–thinly sliced

to lend warm tones as they sauté ten minutes,

then another five with chopped cabbage

and slant-cut yellow wax, Chinese long,

or Blue Lake beans. Raise the flame to blue.

Add water till these swim

beneath the surface,

then hijiki from the East,

fresh basil from the West,

and for sweetness shared,

several capfuls of molasses

poured into the swirling center.

Bring this medley to a boil,

turn the flame low,

simmer ten more.

While this cooks, stir half a teaspoon

of yellow, red, or mellow white miso

in a little broth till smooth,

invisible enzymes released in a porcelain bowl.

To this add a teaspoon of tahini, lemon to taste,

three ladles of soup, then bless

the miracle of hands and mouth.

Thank you to the editors of Marin Poetry Center Anthology, volume six for first publishing this poem.

MPC

If Not for Silence

If Not for Silence

In their mad Sufi dance words whirl off tongues

loose as hot snakes as we struggle to speak with rudiments—

mostly we quarrel, walk away, but sometimes manage

to weave them like a lovers’ embrace beneath that open-voweled moon,

which vacillates between  the startled suck of air through pursed lips

and a night so long that, shy, she slips beyond the sun’s unerring watch.

Words electrify nerves till air feels like a panther lapping our luminous skin,

but it is silence that exposes our fiery hearts to serpentine tongues,

silence that would strip our marrow if not for the pulsing muteness

of flesh kneading flesh, of snakes and stars and moon-shackled seas.

Thank you to the editors of HOT FLASHES 2 for first publishing this poem.

Hot Flashes

Touch

Touch

flicker-soft hand flashes

daylight  starlight

hand to cheek

skin palmed

my ring that non-transgressable line

but this

snow-blind animal need

shared by grooming apes

and dogs sleeping entwined

the feel of sun of flesh on skin

has never been about sex but that

animal need to know we are not islands

or stones tossed out to sea, as we

breathe the same air, molecules shared,

pulse to pulse

in this brief habitation of skin

Thank you to the editors of 5AM for first publishing this poem.

5AM