And how
does the world bludgeon me daily.
Sanctuary with my door locked
and my heater blaring.
The smell of burnt dust clings
to my jackets on the coat rack.
I hear my exteriority shatter
with the tumble of the deadbolt.
Ignoring the intrusion of phone bill, electric bill,
auto insurance bill, CD club bill —
Williams I’d rather not be acquainted with.
The ceiling fan is strobing for my tired eyes
Into a mechanical African daisy.
Archive for November, 1994
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I miss you snuggling up to my back,
both arms around me,
your breasts against me;
we share the initial chill of the sheets
by huddling together and
squirming frequently,
trying to get comfortable
in that perfect place,
but it is the friction of our bodies —
between us and the bed
— just being close
that makes us warm.
I’m going to sleep now,
wishing you were here.
This futon is vast and unfillable
without your volume.
Stuffed animals are strangely solemn
as opposed to their usual quiet merriment.
We all miss you Dawn.
A Christmas Vision
Posted: November 10, 1994 in PoetryTags: Children, Hearth, Light, Moon, Santa Claus, Snow, Tree, Window
Quietly now, the children are sleeping
While we two are creeping
to bite cookies and leave them.
Practical worries about the yearly tour of duty:
Every floorboard creaks, every giggle recognizeable;
Make sure the flat of the hearth is newly sooty,
Make sure the stockings are equally full.
Finally finished, our excitement diminished
By the prospect of the warm bundle wake-up call;
The warning comes as bare soles in the hall —
my arm ‘round your waist,
we can admire the tree
and break our own rule
of conserving electricity:
Plug the lights in and hear the hush
Of the new snowfall, the moonlight’s touch
Twinkles the icicles on the eaves
Outside the window past the wreath-leaves.
Now that Santa’s come and gone,
I’m sure he would have left
the Christmas lights on.
For Your Majesty
Posted: November 10, 1994 in PoetryTags: Add new tag, Butterfly, Clouds, Dawn, Eye, Faerie, Forest, Grass, Grey, Man, Night, Pan, Rain, Rock, Sky, Sleep, Time, Trees
I
I can imagine a perfect spot
to have a picnic with you today;
the sky is a wee bit grey
at the edges —
I caught as many clouds as I could
with my butterfly net
(I came in wet
early this morning from the rain-dew
on the unmown grass stems).
II
I’ve found a circle of trees
by the brook in the forest
where it takes a toddler’s tumble
over a jumble of rocks;
the moss grows shaggy like old men’s beards
wisping from the branches;
faerie streamers from last night’s revelry —
perhaps Pan was here just a little while ago
rearranging or arranging this spot and my walk.
III
It’s only raining a little bit now
not like how it was this morning —
you were sleeping, darling —
I was watching the whole time;
the same clouds that dampened my socks
were protectively wrapped across your eyes;
It was no surprise that I found it so easy
to slip outside to explore, to find
a real secret garden for your majesty.
[for Dawn]
The Blessed Heart Sacred Moon Wanderlust Spelunking Club
Posted: November 7, 1994 in PoetryTags: Beauty, Cat, Dark, Dawn, Dreams, Drums, Fire, Fog, Heart, Night, Shoes, Sky, Smoke, Spirit, Water
I am the sole member
of the The Blessed Heart Sacred Moon Wanderlust Spelunking Club
and I lead myself through the Scottish bogs
under a sky liberally sprinkled
with the Milky Way galaxy.
Wet shoes and grey spirits,
feather boa fog tendrils bathing my sock-tops,
no compass points me to my Holy Grail.
Two kittens accompany me
getting in my way and making me laugh aloud:
an unheard of sound in these waterlogged fens.
Hiding in the ferns, one black/white, one silver-grey,
amber eyes watching my pen dance in this damp campsite,
a smoky fire beating quiet drums
to wrestle back the velvet curtains of darkness.
I’m waking all night to watch over the dreams of Dawn;
her restfulness insures the beauty of the coming day.
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