Dress Me in Apple

I want to dress in apple today.
Be fresh and ready to bite.
What does one choose,
when selecting
the tastes that run to Autumn?
Such a woody month for dreaming.

Would one first choose the
Mcintosh, with his clever red
and deep sweet twinkle
or would one be better suited to something
somewhat Fuji and flirty
(though patience is required)
always a winning combination.

Golden Delicious, so fine
and so fleeting
so easily bruised
in passing.
His dynamic flair dies if left in the dark
too long without an audience
his colors are made for seductive evenings.

Don’t forget Fall Pippin
that culinary creation
with the added splash of
something medicinal
“An apple a day my dear”
ringing in your chef-like hearing,
as you attire yourself in something tasteful.

Don the leaf, pass the twig
twirl into cinnamon accessories.
Enfold yourself in apple spice
such slenderizing flavor.
The newest clothing option

Don’t Mess with MAMA

What’s it to you if I love you?
Did I ask you to reciprocate?
Ask for declarations of undying fealty?

My love is my own business and I own it true
I will never lie to my heart,
though, I may lie to you.

You do not need do anything,
except leave me be.
With my sighs and my thoughts,
my unending contemplations,
about what makes this quirk heart work.

Love is not for expectation.
It does not need response.
It exists for itself.
It is something truer,
than your sides I do not love as keenly.

This too shall pass…and if it does not
that’s none of your beeswax either!
you dig?

Confidencial

(Confidential Confidence)

For the benefit of Misses Kite,
Who asked me to sing a song tonight.
I must confess, I will be late
though I did not intend to complicate.
It seems the world is slightly crazy
Both mind and heart are feeling hazy.

You see, there lives inside this skin
a song that doesn’t know where to begin.
The pulse is there, the lyrics wait
but compliments fail to penetrate.
So many hurts have come before
I do not hear trust, anymore.

Though, Misses Kite, she draws me fine
I do not see the face as mine.
And my song, though it may sound thready
is almost, sort of, not quite, ready.
With time and slow going
confidence  in my heart is growing.

For the benefit of Misses Kite,
I will sing my song tonight
with jugglers, mystics, and music fair
I will be late, but I will be there.
If she will pardon my uncertain way
she will hear me sing today.

(Obviously, this is a Beatles Tribute poem)

Video Vidi Visum

You are a curled label of wisdom,
my liniment,
sitting in my memory
reminding me
with a scratchy laugh
and sculptors guidance
to look deeply, see more,
grow deep roots that remember.

I am the fruits of your labor
your sweating brow
brought to life and growth
from the smallest of seedling
because “if we use this stuff
there won’t be a scar”.
Place that bottle over my heart
to remind me of what loves is.

I see you there,
with your hands wrapped
lovingly in her hair
as she preserves and places
each Mason jar gently
to hold warm whispers of summer.
I hold fast to what has taken root inside me.

As memory places
its finger on my forehead
I cling to your touch like ivy
so I will not once be letting go
of this moment that lingers
and teaches me, in one swift marbled glance,
the true meaning of a family.

Stink Eye

Do not let words spoken
divert you from deep dreaming.
Be a fighter bee
and sting each backside
that presents an angry ass.

Do not let thoughts unkind
lead your path to now unwind.
Be the thread that sews a life.
Do not give in to strife!

Fight each mocking brow that tilts.
Just offer up a smile (and a sip or two of tea)
and whistle, like your kettle,
as you set your eye and chin.

Do not let belief be measured
by the yardstick of another.
Be the ruler of your kingdom
and the stick by which others measure.

What’s wrong with being different?

What’s wrong with being different?
With having things leap out of you
and nudge others, gently,
into looking at something in a new manner.

What’s wrong with being different?
With having minds forced open
discussion shouted into
bridges forged by fire.

What’s wrong with being different?
With sparking off and changing
subtle, rearranging
until life is sudden living.

What’s wrong with being different?
What change has ever once been wrought
with old ways of thinking
set ways of dreaming.

Dream on new spirits!
Dream bigger than the ocean!
The new  horizon is opening
and I am just getting started!

Restore Point

We giggled.
How we giggled.
Our stomachs overflowed.
As we lay close together,
breathing in the wonder,
of small things understood
with not one word spoken.

Ahhh roo roo roo..that sound.
Like a dead cat.
a broken harp.
a much suffering violin.
Made sweeter with our laughter.
Made memorable by your smile.

(a restore point, on a computer, is the point saved in memory for you to go back to, where things were safe and sound)

Rusty Key

He stands like a crooked smile
wondering if they know
that it is not really a smile.

Feet that often feel
too big for walking.
Tripping up his progressive motion.

His head bobs along in time.
To music that scores his soundtrack
doesn’t everyone have one
to keep time with life’s rhythm?

Old shoes with older memory
reminders of faded footprints
faded wounds and renewed joy.
Your sole is showing.

Timeless, his hands.
As he once again rumbles his hair
standing outside his standing
looking for sunlight patches.

He stands like a broken arrow
uncertain of his aim
somehow praying for a target
to bow his smile into being.

Your Slip is showing

Despite honeyed drip
and soft petal whispers,
pretty wrapper or gilded lily,
the essence of you is spoken.
Conveyed or betrayed,
confirmed or confessed.

Oh, how much more honest
is a passionate shout!
That cannot be less than it is.
Though, roughly entered,
somewhat noble in its sharing.

I prefer that simple voice.
That uncluttered heart of speaking.
That knows what is it saying
for it says it plain enough,
no mistaking.

The eye looks deeper
and sees farther
than the moments first blush
Past the hours first waking.
Oh, how disconcerting!
One who watches only wording.

Shakespeare and Poe
Melville and Hawthorne
ministers of the shape.
Worshipers of the spaces
between lines and beneath them.

Crafting and compelling
confession in a blushing starkness
that is a black type cast
upon the white innocence of paper.
Oh, how your words reveal you.

 

Abridged version:

Oh, how much more honest
is a passionate shout!
That cannot be less than it is.
Though, roughly entered,
somewhat noble in its sharing.

I prefer that simple voice.
That uncluttered heart of speaking.
That knows what is it saying
for it says it plain enough,
no mistaking.

Embrace

My smile is there,
wrapped gently in his hair,
among the whirls of curls
and the bald spot he obsesses.

My smile is there,
within the blue blaze of his stare,
with each crinkled eyelid
and the history he confesses.

My smile is there,
within the confines of his chair,
as he constructs revelations
and fanciful prose.

My smile is there,
learning the softness of his laughter
the endearing of his murmur
and the depths of his contemplations.

My smile is there,
with each moment that sweetly graces
each footfall and length he paces
my smile is there, twinkling.

Samson

 

(In Memoriam) 12/13/2010

He watches her with a chuckling sigh
always aware of his companion
and her cheerful ways
making his life much sweeter.
How he loves his hummingbird.

He rests his head on his paws
and contemplates the yogurts
yet to come, should he be so lucky
when tea comes full stop.
His nose twitches with memories.

He really ought to wear a monocle
denoting his importance.
The wisdom of age-dome.
He considers himself well seasoned
and somewhat a connoisseur in treats.

His fur has gotten older,
but no less refined,
in its white glory,
with coffee colored spots
to make him ruggedly handsome.

Life has been somewhat lovely
here in the garden cottage,
with Anne for company.
How could any dog ask for better
than the love and comfort god provided.

Sometimes I..

Sometimes I..

think I see the flames in your eyes
that admit there is more burning
than anyone ever witnessed
in the skepticism of their papers.

Sometimes I..

think I know what questions ghost
fluttering in and out of your skin
with cold and hot worries
about being left in mourning.

Sometimes I..

think I understand your wisdom
silence is somewhat strength
when no one understands your needing
there is something bold, repeating.

Sometimes I..

in the looking at you deeply
understand your soul completely
living causes whispers
and dreaming causes hope.

(To K. Reeves)

Bounce

Pardon me, while I bounce,
like a rubber ball in place.
Happy just to be a rubber ball,
bouncing.

I know I appear quite silly,
with my hair left behind me.
My head down, then up
losing its place..in space.

I make eyes quite dizzy
as they follow my path
my step is light,
my heart weightless.

I am a rubber ball
and I know no barrier
for restrictions do not block
I just bounce higher.

Stopping is for tired ones
who have no dreams left
forgotten,
come, let me teach you how to bounce.

(This poem was written when I was in High School. 10th grade. 1990)

Faithful

Whisper softly
when you speak his name.
This heart is the church of his spirit.
Devotional prayer is held
every other heartbeat,
should you be inclined to attend.

Portrait

Brightly she attempts to shine
in her colorful frame
so proud of her colors,
so sincere in her pride.

Though her glass is tarnished, slightly,
along one side,
she figures if she stands still
they will perhaps miss it,
in the shadow of the corner.

She remembers still
the creators  joy
as he contemplated her birthing,
signed his ownership with a flourish,
across her bottom right.

Except, no one seems to stop
as much,
these days.
Since they replaced her
in the hall,
with some forgery
with a hefty price-tag
where her dignity should have been.

What do they know about beauty?
Some cubist interpretation
of what a real woman looks like.
She decides she has a finer nose
and a much longer memory.