Tea Lights and Flowers

Them

2012-01-23T14:50:00.000-08:00

The woman's instinct
springs from the claws of a cat.
an old Slavic saying.

Soft tip of tail
long curve of lash,
they tease, entice and steal
the suitor's breath,
the candle flame's
attention as they pass.

The stillness of wood
copper or glass
flares with their reflection,
an agile quickness
springing from temper
or grace.

Private, sly
they stretch and conceal
the truth like a shadow.
Yet, with no veil
they turn a veiled face

to the onlooker
the open door.
The wind knows their scent,
their secrets best ---
sleek woman, cat
and house of amour.
_________________________________________

Note-- The very sensual image called, "Voila La Femme" of "Here Is The Woman" is by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her lovely work can be seen here --- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Coming From e.e.

2012-01-11T09:40:00.000-08:00

Stop wondering what it is all 'about'—like many strange and familiar things. Life included. Don't try to understand it. Let it try to understand you!

Edward Estlin Cummings

Asleep, this phrase teased his tongue --- timber tumble.
He awoke joyous, thinking some cedar-haired muse
riding all in green --- spotted him along the hunt.
And uttered this cry.

There were even hounds crouching low
in the garden. The moon's horn
dangled from the skyline's belt. What did it mean?
He shrugged, an echo, a whimsical sound.
Like the bell ,I thought, of an old
apothecary shop
selling bird feathers and slippery elm

This morning when he left for his writing class,
I read the paper. Strong winds had toppled trees
and power lines. Shutters were blown off hinges,
doors off frames, and stumps ached
like phantom limbs with the dank smell
of leaves. Timber tumble.

Shelter was left exposed
and the absence waiting
for someone to enter. Stranger who doesn't ask
but hands over his or her stone
and steps into the drama
of what is there --
listening, just listening.
_______________________________________

The painting above is called "The Opera of Winds" by Margaret Macdonald."

The Dispossessed

2012-01-04T12:53:00.000-08:00

(For the 17th Century to the modern anyone, anywhere woman)

Homeless, she haunts one place
than the next -- dwelling in someone's cellar
or shed. Her clothes borrowed,
her skin pale as the winding sheet
that warms their dead.
She cleans the rib bones of a squirrel
for a comb detangling
her Titian hair; and strews heather
inbetween her bodice strings
to protect herself
from any curse or stare.
A candle defines her shadow
more often
than the flame of the sun.
Look, she has mastered darkness
learning why
the spider's veil is corner-spun.
_________________________________________
The haunting portrait is by Hungarian arist, Casaba Markus.

Winter Psalm

2011-12-23T09:18:00.000-08:00

(Written, December 2001, First Christmas after 911.)

Shy-blue on wings
shaking out
silence housed in granite stone,

pigeons erupt
from the church

and wind swirls in the street --
a gypsy wearing
wide skirts of snow.

Her hand
reaches for the sun
wanting to clap
its gold tambourine

and yield hope
in flashes of light.

From the sea
she drifted in
as dawn anchored waves
with stillness paled

and dreams
of burning towers cooled
on the tilt of bells

soon to ring,
and orbit the city’s grief
in morning prayer.

Advent

2011-12-14T11:17:00.001-08:00

Curtains are drawn, the casements splintered.
What breathes and hangs beyond each window
is all shadow and dust. The house has been homeless
for years; but when the late glow of sun dissolves
into dusk, there is sensation. Observe
the brass plate on the door. Like a mirror
reflecting figures who rise within, it reveals
a woman holding an infant. Her hair braided,
shining gold as her Tudor sleeves -- while she guards
the ancestry of family and faith. Each Yuletide
there was always a mother and child,
table with bread and wine, ivy and flame,
grey dove and voices that sang --
Come under my roof and belong, rest on my hearth,
Kind Love, and keep warm.
__________________________________________________________
Note -- The seasonal inspiration for this poem was the beautiful picture featured at the top. It is a design by French artist, Marie-France Riviere, and isentitled, "Joyeux Noel". More of her lovely work can be seen
at her online gallery - www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Cloistered

2011-12-08T11:50:00.000-08:00

When you hear wind shuffle through leaves
you think of the old gardener, summoned
to latch the gate, the landscape within
a portico of trees, leafless
through which sunlight passes
in her white habit of fog.
The steel lock becomes that bell
which never tolls or warns the fair-haired
postulant she has died, suffering
from too much cold and watching for
a young man who never came. His lamp-flicker
a flash of wings in the distance.
___________________________________________________

Note -- The painting is by 19th C. illustrator, Emma Florence Harrison.

Niche

2011-12-02T15:29:00.001-08:00

(At The Villa Barchessa, Florence)

Consider the place
where he first saw her standing
in the hotel foyer. Framed
by a vaulted window
her hair billowed in the light. Auburn
warmed the gothic white
of skin and blouse, while her hand grasped
an Anjou pear, the shade of cherry wood
that comprised the wardrobe
in her room and bed posters spiraling
upward with exalted shine.
The fruit was ripe, its succulent peal
calling the beholder in
to imagine her winged
with peignoir sleeves, diffusing
any thought of sin, the gold clamp
of his ring.
_________________________________________
Note- The Renaissance type painting is by Hungarian artist, Casaba Markus.

Landscaping Survival

2011-12-02T13:58:00.000-08:00

Early morning, the owl cries
three notes of song
as coyotes fight, feast
on a rabbit. The hind legs
most tender.

Nearly freezing, the owl cries
three notes of song
as I haggle
with an ancient woman

over a shrub, the right to squeeze
blood from its sanguine fruit,
my wineskin collapsed.

Barely dark, the owl cries
three notes of song.
He knows

who last licked the bone
who lights the flame at dawn
who holds enough life
to bleed still
if pricked by thorn or quill.

Blue down and Juniper
falling in my hair ---
the owl cries
three notes of song.
_______________________________________

Note- The haunting painting is called, "Minerva" by artist, Lynette Shelley, featured at The Art Rising Gallery.

Targeting The Pillbox

2011-11-30T13:09:00.000-08:00

Her mother calls her Jacqueline, Her husband, Jackie
and she terms herself resolved
to stand upright, to secure her marriage
with the same finesse
she applies to fastening her hat. No veil for cover.

Pale fingers split another hair pin
creating an angular pause
like that of time captured
between hands on the mantle clock.

Ten mintues after the hour
and ten years of marriage,
she scans that chapter
through scenes: kids playing, white house
and rose garden, other women calling
his private line ---

a candlelit mass for the stillborn.

Her thumb grows tense
as she aims to slide this second pin
through its loop, hoping to kill
any chance of wind disrupting
her composure.

Trousseau Of A Salem Bride

2011-11-18T14:01:00.001-08:00

She frames her nature unto his howsoever Her pride is but to be cleanly,
and her thrift not to be prodigal.
Thomas Overbury (1614)

Another morning, the mirror catches her face
undressed, no solemn grace but the need
to be recognized as she wipes the glass
and smooths her white skin.
A candle flame slants toward the window.
The sky pale, the air seemingly stiff
like the collar and cuffs
of her dress, the cap that always
confines her long hair.
The garments lie folded on the bed;
strings waiting to be laced, a hemline
to be mended. Its fringe reminiscent
of pine needles that withstand the weight
of a crow. His wings outspread
like the robes of a Reverend
flung in prayer. Yet, the evergreen
does not sag. Its wild scent
grows stronger in the wind.
Carefully, She turns on bare feet
and looks at the cloth, concluding
that frayed edge should not be stitched.
It keeps her unkempt, lets her in some
little way stand out.
________________________________________________
Beautiful artwork is by Itallian artist, Manrico Orlandi.

Portrait Of The Elusive

2011-11-18T12:40:00.001-08:00

Rumors persist and birch leaves
linger on the branch, pale as the hair
of the woman watching a deer
run, startled by an awareness
of its own shadow.

She swirls her martini glass
with a long-gloved hand, wondering
if the olive is pitted or hollow,

if a darker self
stares at her from behind
the moon's half-mask.
_______________________________________

The beautiful painting is called, "La Biche, Le Loup et Le Chevalier" or "The Doe, The Wolf and The Knight" by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her lovely work can be seen here at her on-line gallery --- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Elisabeth Outlined In Woodsmoke and Dusk

2011-11-09T10:21:00.001-08:00

Riding side saddle on a hill, plumed
with her wide skirts of shadow
falling gray, Autumn becomes
the empress in retreat

away from wrinkled leaves, mushrooms
swollen on the trunk
like varicose veins

and frosted water.
Her mirror distorted, so coldly
glared or too kind to show
how the face of a season
has saddened, aged.

Passenger

2011-11-07T12:08:00.000-08:00

At 200 miles an hour, we rush
through wine country. A cluster of scenes
becomes a green cooler of trees
and hills, other landmarks stirred in the blend.

Someone pokes my arm, the pale
woman next to me (who has been sleeping).
She asks if I can hold her purse
while she wraps a shawl around her shoulders.
Her hair seems strangely wet, her thin shape
shivering, mostly cold but also in pain.

She explains the hillside mist
dampened her scalp, and while flying
too close to the bell tower roof,
its metal grazed her rib. Yet, she swears
that watching her shadow glide
over lakes where other fowl nested
and along rows of vine leaves
unraveling in the sun, was glorious.

I smile and resume reading my book.
She notices the picture of Chef
Alain Ducasse on the cover,
and asks -- What is he known for?.

Without much thought, I say my favortie dish,
foie gras served with wild mushrooms
and white asparagus. She coughs
holding her supple throat,
and looks toward the window, a low whisper --

those birds must be spared,
I shared the sky with them this morning
__________________________________________Note -- Foie gras or goose liver is a controversial dish and condemned by animal activists who abhor the cruetly of how they are bred and raised for market. Usually, they are housed in crowded conditions and overfed to expand their livers to swollen
proportions. This is accomplished by force-feeding grain down their throats through metal tubes, all for the sake of profit and exotic cuisine.

Song Arising From The Iron And The Scent Of Rain

2011-10-31T12:55:00.000-07:00

I press your cotton shirt
and settle like steam
into the fabric.

Tomorrow, you will inhabit
the soul of my labor, the subtle perfume
left to say
a woman has entered here --

while you stand there, slowly
slipping her on, wearing her close, white mist
on the coastal shoulders
of Monterey

where her presence clings to stone
or the stone clings to her
attempting to shroud the burden
of a sea, another day.
_____________________________________
The painting is by American artist, Steve Hanks.

Conjuring Gumbo

2011-10-31T12:04:00.000-07:00

(To Lestat on his latest demoiselle)

She boils your name
with peeled shrimp, parsnips
pearl onions and rice.
Cajun spices kill
its long whisper dragging
like Spanish moss on the wind,
so often luring her
to the balcony when light
pales with the distance.

Distracted by a sudden
spillover, the nervous flame,
she forgets the mushrooms
and the wild effect
of your musk, winged prince
still lingering
in the blue melody
of her veins.
___________________________________________
This haunting painting is created by fantasy artist, Linda Bergvist.

Autumn In Cannes

2011-10-24T12:14:00.000-07:00

Beyond a boulevard of banks and metro clocks,
that sidewalk of shops and filigreed lamps,
time dissolves in an ocean view.
A broom of mimosa leaves.
sweeps the salt and heat.

A bird stands on the balcony,
his left foot testing the air, his right
touching iron. I smile
and look at my own feet.
Red toe nails match the sun
and hibiscus perspiring a sweet odor
in the courtyard garden.

A young woman
has left her sandal near the ferns.
Its thin strap torn, breaking ties
with the foot that wore it, with footsteps
going back or heading toward
some new ambition. A film star
or fashion model, perhaps.

Years ago
I was asked to design clothing
for The House of Dior, umbrella my art
with His name. But like the seagull
I balanced myself on the edge.
One leg guarded, the other prone to lift
on the loose winds defying
that glamorous pull of the moon, daring
to strike my heel against the sun.
_______________________________________
The lovely pastel scene is a design of French artist, Marie-France Riviere, entitled, "Palmes d'Octobre à Cannes", or " The October Palms in Cannes". More of her beautiful work can be found here at her online gallery -- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Out Of The Forest Primeval

2011-10-17T11:55:00.001-07:00

Despite the morning's point of view,
casting shadows on high rise and road, fog
drifts along the water, steam
incurred by an Iroquois woman
boiling her broth of birch leaves
and bones, ribs she borrowed
from something that almost leapt
into the hillside bushes.

Earlier, a car swerved
before the mist had risen. Its driver
startled by swift legs, a tail
of white fur. And beyond that --
humming, this feminine voice
high-pitched and shattering the sun,
daylight, daybreak, a day
long-be-gone.
__________________________________________
Photograph of birch trees by New Paltz artist, G. Steve Jordon.

This poem evolved after two nights back in The Hudson Valley. Though humid, there was still the Autumn mist rising slowly over the river in the morning. And despite the modern buildings, highways and other signs of industrialized cullture, the ancient spirit of the season and its native inhabitants, of long ago, prevailed. Iroquois tribes were part of the valley's history and still have a spiritual presence there. There is something intangibly haunting about the Hudson river in Autumn with the turning leaves and the fog steaming along its banks. Newburgh is very urban but on the outskirts, there are the hills and the deer and this intertwining of both ages. As Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said in the opening lines of his famous Saga , Evangeline, "This is the Forest Primeval, and still, the woodlands of that area are "A Forest Primeval" where the path and souce of that other life never really died but emerges ,now and then, to slow down humanity, to trepass on the present, to collide with the future.

Sampling The Evening's Highlights

2011-09-28T14:03:00.001-07:00

(For James)

Through the window,
I watch a handsome man
smoke his cigarette. Its flared tip
matches the eye
of a moon focused on the cat
who also stares at him, tempted
to snatch the mouse
lurking near his leather boot.
Unaware of this potential prey,
my husband probably thinks
the Siamese
is trying to be social, an ease
in her step, a flirtation
in her tail.
And unware of my face
in the shadowed glass, he wouldn't guess
I am looking through it now
discrete but famished.

Zeus In Contention

2011-09-14T15:11:00.000-07:00

Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop..
William Butler Yeats

( A match somewhere in the Scottish countryside.)

At first, he appears as a cloud
looming over the course
with the full plumage
of a swan, his classic disguise.

Then he spies her
on a hillside slant.
One ankle in shallow water
the other rising slender
above a white shoe.

About to swing her club,
she turns her head, startled
by some movement in the trees.
A sound similar
to breaking twigs or flapping wings.

It stops. Cold stillness
and while trying to refocus,
she finds her ball
missing. A large hawk
stands in that spot
staring at her form.

She stoops to meet
the bird eye-level.
He doesn't blink
as she looks
into the topaz light

and sees a handsome man
juggling golf balls.
Nothing of her own image.

A god mirrored
in the eyes of a bird,
he alters myth, forcing
the athlete upon herself.

Transfixed, she is not Leda
in the poem by Yeats
or martyred painting by Moreau.

She is Leda, possessed
by her compulsion
to win, enough to unbind
her bra and hair, enlist magic
while leaving her slim
indentation

on a mattress of wild grass.
His scent more prevalent
than late afternoon shadows,
a sea of heather.

Spirit

2011-09-12T11:31:00.000-07:00

(Written Sunday, September 11, 2011)

A decade passed, and I drift in
with the river's light, this sun
a static flame
on water inviting
everything and everyone
to step near. A heron
stretches her white neck, her beak
towing a green leaf
toward the stone wharf. She is all
you will sense, perceive of me,
a returned flight
that listens and latches on
to a floating remnant
of Summer, an emblematic patch
from your city's lower
east side tree.

The Drama Of Blue

2011-09-06T16:00:00.000-07:00

I upholstered the sofa in blue silk,
the shade of farmhouse shutters
that once guarded the window
where Seurat watched his mistress
cloister a moth in her hand.
And later when evening burnished
the hour to a mellowed hue of fire,
he painted them on sailcloth.
No lines, no silhouette
just grains of light and matter
vibrating with a wistful poise.

And though content
with my choice of shade and fabric,
I wonder if the color
somehow chose me, draped
over the store's mannequin
as I entered, this mood
of concentrated blue:
grapes, water, a bird
plume floating near shore. All points
of memory that comprised my stance
and attraction to a tone
that could accentuate loss, the last
place I dined with him.
___________________________________________________
The beautiful painting , called "Rhapsody in Blue", is by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her lovely work can be found at her on-line gallery -- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Air

2011-09-06T11:03:00.001-07:00

Come, you are the soft wind
of September, hanging your hair
over the vineyard
while church bells echo
in the arch of your back.
Grapes glisten at your feet
and soon their blood skin
will be crushed into wine.
Your late lover rests
in the gatehouse
waiting for your hand
to press breath from his lungs,
memory from his sleep.
He lies naked, washed-over
by light and billowing drapes.
Your scent moistens the windowsill
while a small bird takes wing.
Leaves rustle, her shadow bridging
the wall’s cracked stone.

Nearing Landfall

2011-08-31T14:26:00.000-07:00

A door crack of silver

on the horizon, dawn slides

under this hour haunting

the cat poised high

on a window sill, the housewife

dusting oil lamps.

Tea roses have opened,

fully bloomed to the floral

madness of van Gogh.

Some petals drop on the rug,

thumbprints of fragrance

left before the storm.

Both feline and female

confront the waiting.

A stoic perch

casts her-r-r shadow

into the mouth of the sea, one

of nine lives she can spare. Small

sacrafice to the elements.

A hypnotic rub

of handcloth polishing

pewter and glass summons

her bridal vow to prevail,

shatterproof despite

the breakable tints

of more light, lowering sky, lady

fearing the confinement. Its lack of time.

Vestiges

2011-08-26T11:28:00.000-07:00

Cast-off sandals
become grave markers
stamping the last place
her feet touched earth.

A seagull glides
past an eye carved
out of the glare, an evening sun
that has seen her slip
through tongs of light --

sea-splashed and arching
her female shape
against an ether
of smooth marble. The sky

absorbs her life, leaving
a book on the sand
to tell his name , The Body Thief,
and a leather bag shining

black as midnight
in a courtyard where
he was once a god

fanned by poplar trees,
and prayed to by a girl
whose virgin hair rippled
the darkness with firelight.

Wild Pears

2011-08-24T15:45:00.000-07:00

She appears when the sky's glass
is half-filled with twilight and swallows stir
its fermenting gray. Long neck and hair slid
behind alert ears, lend her the grace
of a blond deer listening for intruders
and smelling the scent of hidden fruit.

It's too early for insects pirouetting fire
between pine branches or poets
who relinquish the porch steps for a lamp lit chair.
The day pauses, darkness set on a distant table,
while silence reveals sweet oddities

like pears blooming on a tangled hillside
and this woman who comes to collect
their ripe bodies. She will take them home,
place them in a china bowl and wait.
Either the artist will paint jade torsos
sun-bathing in white porcelain or
the housewife will peel off their skin,
add sugar and boil them down
for jelly. There are enough glass jars
and sealer wax in the closet. Her brushes
,however, are worn, their bristles bent
and lacking the soft agility
she remembers, once possessed.

Catalyst

2011-08-18T12:12:00.000-07:00

On a day when you 're driving toward
another reason to curse the planet,
your mind an artillery sphere
aimed at black holes and burnt-out stars,
this scene takes hold of you, its litter
palpitating softly
within fibrous stems of sage.
Whether blown there by wind
or cast aside by hand,
the plastic bag
slants forward in lithe folds
of white, a veiled shadow
appearing before road and field.
Belladonna of the desert
that draws your glance
from a wide turn left, calms this heat
and realigns the nerves
like stone beads on a wire
galvanized for prayer.
______________________________________

Note -- The haunting painting is by artist, Jeanie Tomanek,
more of her unique work can be found here, http://www.jeanietomanek.com.

Making An Appearance

2011-08-16T11:24:00.000-07:00

The other females wear fascinators,
their hats tentacled with wire
and gauze. Some piled high
with cabbage leaves of fabric.

She enters the garden
with aquatic poise, wide-brimmed
and floral scarf rippling in the heat
like an underwater strand of coral.

Her hair is short, moussed back
under black straw. Most of it
she cut while visiting a temple
in Mumbai. Her yardage of brunette silk
spilled into a basket on the steps.
Some wind rose off the river
blending in a cool psalm of bells,
a bronzed blessing near twilight.

Around her now, rich women chime-in
about Monaco, the runaway bride
who went off to Paris for shoes,
whose delicate hands
may have laced and unlaced,
strapped and unstrapped
a hundred pairs before sighting
the flawless couple.

Yet, Solange thinks of the girl
with brittle nails but tender fingertips
who twists and untwists
those donated strands, a dose
of similar color, feminine splendor.
Nothing synthetic
like the drug that causes
her scalp to shed, its drip
of rain killing dark blossoms
her body cannot abide.
_______________________________________
Note -- The lovely art deco painting by French artist, Marie-France Riviere, is entitled, "Femme-Fleur". More of her evocative work can be seen at her on-line gallery --- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

White Vinegar

2011-08-04T11:56:00.000-07:00

Your handsome brain
believes her power
is hand-fasted to myth.

But I have seen
her clear spirit
slip through an urn
and spill into a flask

cleaning oil
and soiled grains
of coffee,

lending incentive
to the slow pulse,
the stale scent.

I have let her preserve
the taste of herring
sealed with sliced onion
and apple in a salad jar,

maybe even heard
the gold finch
and oriole sing
high soprano

because some god
distilled her essence
through the air --

like two thousand
years before
when Pompeians
painted those birds
on their villa wall.

And now as you sleep
in a southern hotel,
I sip vodka
lemonade on ice, mingled
with sprigs of mint.

The martini glass
leaves a water stain
on our table --

I will need
her persistence
to reclaim its wood

and rub off the loneliness
until you return.
The front gate is unlatched.

Liberty

2011-08-03T10:39:00.000-07:00

She has risen among us in blunt reproach..
Rita Dove

The Lady steps
out of her graceful armor
and down from that pyramid
overlooking the sea.

Her crown, torch and book
shadow the harbor
with the sovereignty of a dream

while her flame rambles, gypsy sun
scalding lips of The Potomac,

staring hard at marble heads
in The Hall.

She almost turns those stone nobles
into gargoyles -- cursing members

who use The Linen Scroll
as a rag to shine their tea
service and taste.
_____________________________

Note -- The compelling image of "Liberty" is by artist, Rita Tortorelli.

Roland Petit Stages A Farewell Scene

2011-07-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

Hands, knees and foreheads pressed

firmly together, two bodies combine

in dance, silhouette of an orchid

posed to catch light falling through

the metro's glass arbor, hot house

of steam and stories perpetuated

by people slipping into thought

or trains near dusk. What stands out

is this sudden flush of sky, deep pitch

of emotion as lovers turn inward

before the last departure

for the coast. The moon setting

her silver on the sea.
________________________________
Note -- The balletic painting is by French artist, Marie-France Riviere, in her tribute to the late, famous choreographer, Roland Petit. He was known for his innovative and sensuous approach to dance....www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Glimpsing The Immediate Moment

2011-07-18T09:36:00.000-07:00

Do not look at me that way, you, my dearest thought:
Charles Baudelaire

Right now, silvered pigeons
watch a roof window looking
into a loft where a candle's wick
is pinched by her hand, girl wearing
a corset and garters
that have relinquieshed their grip
on silk hose, love's sheer approach
to satisfaction.

Right now, she waits bare-limbed
for Baudelaire to return. The room
is signed with a scribble of smoke, more
graceful than the poet's script
on paper. His tongue has whispered
through soft flame and swabbed her body
thoroughly, giving way to words
that shape his genuis.

He always looks at her -- as a closed window,
inventing what drama shadows her soul.
Even the flowers he bought
are staged, sharing a courtship
with the room, his writing and barely her -- a vague
perfume mingling with the hours, some dust.

Right now, she wants to scream, pressing
his long fingers against her throat
so he can feel the tension. Overhead,
the birds disband, loosening more
slate tiles on the roof. She hears this;
it could leak rain or a strong chill
drifting in from the sea.

And right now, a key sails through the hole
of a brass lock, about to turn, the male
figure not suspecting how
twilight has fallen through, stripped down
to this ache, this singed chord
of her solicitude.
_________________________________________
The beautiful image showing a woman from the 18th century is by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her wonderful work can be seen at her onl-ine gallery located here -- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Lines Of Communication

2011-07-14T09:24:00.001-07:00

Mid-sky, an obi pleated with wires,
bird-speckled, droops over the road --- extending
into the trees. Untied, it shuns the customary knot.
There is only the sash, this distance between left and right,
ocean and stream. Your hand grips the wind
while mine fears losing the ancient poise
of a plectrum, collarbone of the goddess
Benzaiten. She moves among the bamboo leaves, restless
as my shadow in the urban twilight.
___________________________________________

Note -- Benzaiten is the Japanese goddess of music. She is an ancient deity in Asian culture and noted ,in particular, to exist in a thicket of bamboo playing a three-stringed lute.

Riding Into The Fourth

2011-07-01T09:16:00.001-07:00

Jalopy
poem By James E. Magyary
----------------

Fourth of July unfolds,

run up a pole,

freed in a flap.

The sun promenades

along its dazzling archway.

This dirt backroad scrawls

through a torn nowhere.

Flair!

cracks the air,

salutations gunned

from a reddened engine,

white smoke shot

towards royal-blue sky.

Backseat bouncing and side

to side rocking

chatters me like a china

cup in the jitterbugged

hand. I'm

bone dice in her shaker;

she's Destiny with a lead foot.

Barreling around curves and bends,

changes and then straight-aways,

I plead "driver, driver-lady,

please keep your foot away from that brake."

_______________________________________________

Above is one of my favorite all-time poems about a hair-raising ride on The Fourth of July. This is a mix of comedic delight, outstanding sonics and imaginative flair. Written by a very clever guy , whom I adore and admire so dearly, this graces my blogsite with style and poetry at its very best.

Pillow of Wood

2011-06-30T15:31:00.000-07:00

The distance between dawn
and sunrise is short, enough for the sheer light
to deceive. Shapes appear
on the beach, construed
from what is there
and what her mind perceives.

Stone cliffs
become the buttressed walls
of an abbey. The girl imagining this
is smooth-shouldered, showing off
the bronzed hair and skin
of a Ralph Lauren look. Her forehead
sports a fillet strung with beads
of sea glass, jewelry
left by Venus in the blue
saltwater tides two or three
civilizations ago. The influence
of love has been -- as these goddess stones
polished, smoothly deceptive.

She lingers in a lush affair, lost
retreating to the shoreline and memory
for relics. As a child, she grew
in the shadow of nuns gliding
along olive trees, stained glass
and plates gleaming white
on an oak surface. At supper,
they whispered how St. Teresa
ate stale bread soaked
in sour milk and slept on a pillow
wrought of timber
like the long table before them.
Silence ensued, the scent of lamp oil
and ocean musk prevailed,
mingling in the twilight.

Ahead, her eyes spot old planking
discarded from the fallen pier.
Splintered and strewn with a chaplet
of seaweed, she thinks
some of it might suffice
for a cushion, a hatch door
to shut out dreams of him -- winged
with schooner sails, unbuttoned
shirt sleeves and the updraft
of a saviour's smile.---saturated
with sun, salt and wine.
___________________________________________

Note -- This beautiful painting called, " Un regard suffit " or " A Glance Is Enough" is a creaton of French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her evocative work can be seen here at her online gallery, www.griviere.com/expo2000.

His Mistress, Mid-October

2011-06-20T09:57:00.001-07:00

I

Probably
the last thing he saw
was the oil lamp,
its flame steady, his wife’s locket
gleaming in the glass....
From the surgeon’s journal, 1857

II

Even the shade is warm
as leaves catch some sun
feeling that breath
of Summer return.

Some call it the ghost
of India drifting
in loose skirts
strewn with Rosebay and palm.

Especially, the woman who sits
on a bungalow porch.

III

Sliding her half-caste hair
from one side of her neck
to the other, (as if realigning fate)

Trishna remembers
this phase of Eden.
Days spent in a kingdom
gripped by Colonial arms.

She carried the smooth heat
of morning and slid her hands
inside the scarlet coat
of a soldier. Fingers touched
rungs of bone and the coolness
of a gold ring concealed

from light showering
the garden, a monsoon of glare.
Flowers, bark and sandstone
isolated time from routine,
lovers from race.

Having felt the strength
of his rib, breath quickening,
she longed to leave her shadow
on his lungs, later
projected in words.

A prayer he might say
in the gray haze
when nightfall offered
a screen for confession

and he couldn’t express
any regret
for loving another woman.

Only a wish
to return mortal
from the dust and ashes --
Siege of The North.
______________________________

Note -- The provocative image is called, "Fire", a painting by Indian artist, Geeta Vadhera. http://geetavadhera.tripod.com/index.html

Taking In The View

2011-06-14T14:38:00.000-07:00

Tissot painted a young lady
leaning forward in a boat, her chin
balanced on the left palm, formal
pose of contentment,
while oar and cattails kept
stillness in line. Nothing moved
beyond that point, his framed perspective.

Vuitton promotes you
lazing back on a skiff, dark
scalp of rushes
as your hair sways long
and leeward. The rest of you pale
complexion and light
canvas clothing –- natural
drift into dreaming

of life beyond
the press and cinema.
Your shoulder sports a sling
purse filled with fruit
and paring knife. Wholesome girl
getting in touch with her core values.

No one would guess -- how much
you love cutlery, slitting smooth
palm, heel or wrist
to feel alive, red leaking
through the splintered flesh

the same way sunrise
seeps through the sedge grass
or those cracks between the curved
planks of your boat. True self
a strange lapidarist.

And no one would guess
that jeune femme in her white gown
and graceful hat –- wanted to form
a fist, cursing the painter,
sinking her nails
into a stronghold of rage.

Forbidden Topics

2011-06-13T09:23:00.001-07:00

They dwell in shallow silence
dragging beneath
our safe house of words, dark

strands of seaweed
the heron shuns
in tall reeds waiting
for a fish
to leap or shimmer.

Inside, we keep our collection
of priorities in sight, lined-up
on the mantle like white
earthenware vessels
lacking paint or shadow.

Each item is crafted
out of mutrual need;
but at times, you will attempt
to mention the floating matter
beyond our door.

The water is low
yet I fear wading
in its cold truth, of you
watching me drift -- naked
in thoughts I have
but have never owned.

The wetness wll turn
my shape from full woman
to half serpernt, Mélusine
as I slithter away
blue-lipped, my scales stunning --
a mesh of more lies.
___________________________________________________

Mélusine is a water sprite or magical being in European folklore described as being half woman and half serpent .. According to legend, she married a noble prince who was unaware of her inhuman qualities. She made him promise that he would never watch her bathe. Water revealed her true form and character.

Portraiture, Venus and The Fly

2011-06-08T13:52:00.000-07:00

What portions of me be
Assignable – and then ...
Emily Dickinson

I slapped a fly
with my sling back.

Chic girl living
in that kind of shoe,
his wingspan
diaphanous, small
angiogram
of my veins infused

with cocktail gossip
glitter and glue
to paste on a smile,
an impression.

Whatever makes
your confidence stick,
steal a scene
and everyone's attention.

I caught the insect
by surprise. Silenced
his buzz.

I was beginning
to believe that rumor --
how I loved
only for looks

both him,
my Total Gym husband,
and myself.

But what if it's real,
this premise, an "if girl"
living in a flimsy shoe?

Then I will search barefoot
for somthing rare-
a praying mantis

revealed on leaves
shadowed by the sun.
________________________________

This poem is both whimsy and reflection. It is based on those "it girls", ones that make all the headlines, become objects of social envy, gossip and praise. Yet, it leaves us, normal bystanders, to wonder. How does such attention and glamor affect their self-image and worth? Do they really begin to take themselves that seriously on such a surface-based level? And how does it affect their ability to love and judge someone, based on what? The fly , an annoying creature, can also be a pertinent messenger, a catalyst.

On A Slab Of Stone

2011-06-02T13:40:00.000-07:00

(Simply her name and lifespan)

Rain soaked the grass
days before the day
of grave decoration.

Sunk deep in the damp soil
her bones like a laundry rack
held garments of lace
and broadcloth

that never really dried
but absorbed the moist smells
of life sprawling underground.

Few people knew
of her short service
or female shape
masquerading as a male
soldier. She died

a boy, musket ball
festering in the left arm.
When they laid her out
for inspection, they found
her untied hair
cut shoulder length
and breasts wrapped tight
with strips of linen.

Leafless vines
shadowed the wall
with the intricate lacing
of a corset, a sign
they should bury her
in proper dress -- or

of what she rebelled
against the most --
constraining
a woman's skill. Her Fingers

were meant for more
than weaving wool or winding
flower stems around wire
for the wreathless dead.

Veronica's Veil

2011-06-01T09:23:00.000-07:00

(Somewhere in Joplin, Missouri.)

Leaves gone, lassoed
off the trees last night
by a rope of wind.

No birds. Only
bridges of debris
as she climbs barefoot
out of the basement,

her hair falling
dark, filmy
as twilight mist
that might be twisted
into a rag
of agony as she finds
the storm's breath
gusting once again,

and nothing
familiar but a glass
shaker gleaming in dirt.

Spilled of salt,
the clear bottle
catches lght
cringing between clouds

and she thinks
of the lost mineral
that might cure

any strength left --
raw, strung-up
to rot in the moist air.

Beautiful Cousins To The Scarecrow

2011-05-16T09:52:00.001-07:00

(The Sirens Confess)

During a windless calm
we mount ourselves high
on the island rocks, our wings hang
wide and wistful in air
to catch the ocean’s light.

As hands ripple
through harp strings of kelp,
our voices glide
mapping miles of water

We sing to soothe the sailor,
lull him asleep but dissuade
any fierce ambition
that fastens sword to belt,
breath to epic deed.

Our songs stop
oars from rowing
and let gills of wood
soak in salt –while men lie beached
on our shore sagging
in sallow skin, rags left

to stuff the mouth of crow,
hawk, quail or seagull
driven from planted fields

by men looming tall,
tailored rustic
with straw and cloth
or paint and clay.

Eager to feast, birds flock here
and find meadows of fruit
spoiled by lack and love
of nothing – and most fatal

mermaid larks
who must sing and seduce
to spare their species
from slow extinction.

Circling Lake Elizabeth At Noon

2011-05-09T12:27:00.000-07:00

We climb over bleached wood
following the lake, slip on sand
and watch ducks effortlessly
sail toward shore.

On a whim, they can lift their wings
and fly to the other side
where our car is parked.
After three miles of a rugged hike,
I want that privilege.

Girls in my family
descend from women
who understood the art
of shape-shifting.

Rest the body, spill the spirit
into another form --
plant or animal
scent or shadow,
a blessed act of survival.

More scratches on the leg, thistle pods
rattling in the wind, and I attempt
to practice my ancestor's skill.

You laugh at this, your wife
a sudden, self-confirmed witch.

Nothing happens,
so we move on
shedding stamina
along a trail that seems endless
and lets its landscape murmur in haze.

A few lizards
scatter in the weeds
disturbed by our footsteps,
leaving stones to simmer
in the sun.

Your hand tightens
around my own. A short cut
comes into view. We approach
zigzagging between patches
of dry clay and wet clumps of grass.

In my other hand,
the Dasani bottle glistens,
a blue dazzle of light.

I feel weightless, hard to catch
as a dragonfly passes
over marsh leaves and water.

No aim
just a trance in flight.

Perceiving The Clue

2011-04-21T13:45:00.000-07:00

And if you should return my son
full of breath and braver heart
for having slain the beast,
than hoist white sails
to confirm my joy, my gratitude....
The King of Athens

Scribe and seeress thought
sighting those black sails
summoned Aegeus to his death,
long leap into waters
where seaweed chained
the echo of his name.

But it was more about
the ball of twine, thread
of ruby fleece the lady
inside the cavern spun
to lend as a clue
for navigating the maze
and save her bridegroom, his son.

Days before, the king
had dreamt of his child slaying
the minotaur, the moaning beast
fell to its knees and the necklaced
maiden from Minos would become
his daughter, bearer of fruit
ripening into children
grace-filled or greed-driven
for power, slaves and jewels.

Descendents who might favor
his enemy, her father ---
sovereign of Crete.

He feared the second guess and saw
Ariadne’s small world of string
unraveling into a bloodline
rather than a real measure
of salvation. Toward the sky

hands stretched wide and his voice
scraped the wind with prayer.
He begged the gods for help
and offered himself
as a royal sacrifice
diving then dissolving
with his shadow into the sea.

Later that Summer, the bride
billowed like a white sail
as she hung in her hand-sewn gown
from a cypress tree

where Grecian god or man
had no joy of her
only the feel
of splitting rope, her breath
the dead calm heat.
___________________________________

King Aegeus loved his heroic son Theseus with great hope and adoration. His kingdom, the ancient city of Athens, was obligated to send seven young boys and seven young girls to king Minos in Crete as a tribute every nine years. This was a condition to settle the great rift that had existed between the two rulers and to also provide a lasting peace. There, the children would be sacrificed to the half man, half bull Minotaur that lived in the labyrinth of Knossos. Theseus set off for Crete as one of the boys to end this monstrosity, promising his father that his ships would bear white sails if he made it. Because of the nature of the trip, the Athenian ships carrying the fourteen children would have black sails of mourning.

Ariadne, daughter of King Minos, mistress of the labyrinth, skillful spinner, fell in love with the Athenian prince at first sight. She helped him by giving him a red ball of thread to tie to the entrance of the maze in order to find his way back. And this aid was offered with the promise that he would love and marry her in return. When Theseus had killed the Minotaur, he fled Crete with the girl at his side. They first landed on the holy island of Delos, where a party was held. Some say a wedding feast to honor the newly arrived couple. Later on, they sailed to the next island, Naxos, where Ariadne was left behind after falling asleep.

Because of the joy and celebration after this adventure, Theseus forgot to change the sails. When his father Aegeus sat on a rock looking for the ships, and saw the black sails approaching, he jumped from the rock into the sea, And in some myths, there is also a second suicide, that of Ariadne. In those accounts, the hero-prince grows tired of his new bride and deserts her on an island where she is left to grieve. Feeling betrayed, lonely and worthless, she kills herself by hanging from a tree.

My poem turns the myth around and claims another reason for The King's death, fear of Ariadne's bloodline. She was the daughter of a cruel and blood-thirsty man. What traits of character would prevail in his grandchidren? Having already seen (in a prophetic dream), his son's slaying of the Minotaur and safe exit from the labyrinth, he becomes haunted by the reason. That clue, that ball of twine represented more than a secure way of surviving the maze, it was an unraveling of lineage, an untangling of the birth question. Desperate to spare his family this fate, he prays to the Gods and gives his own life as proof of respect for and loyalty to their greatness; as well as evidence of a father's infinite love for his son.

Iris Undone

2011-04-14T13:44:00.001-07:00

In classic mythology, Iris is deity of the rainbow and serves as messenger to the Gods as well as serving girl to Hera, Queen of Mount Olympus. Her character is described as a beautiful maiden with devotional loyalty and virginal grace. Sometimes, she is companioned with a dove symbolizing her modesty and fair reputation. In The Iliad, her purpose is defined as harbinger and transporter of souls to the underworld. Often depicted on ancient vases with golden wings and a full pitcher of water in hand, she is seen more as flat decor than a dimensional goddess who determines fate or intercedes on behalf of humanity.

My poem , as suggested by the title, explores the willful side of Iris. She slows down from the fast-paced world of errands and heaven-bound duties, to vent her frustration. She grows tired of existing in the Aegean climate with no sense of self-identity or challenge. For ages, her function has been limited to the salvation of others. Now it’s time to redeem herself. She wants to feel the sensation of life, love with its risk, heat and fiery storm of both passion and release. She wants her name to have impact, to echo in the desert thunder, to have her presence prick the mind/heart with awareness, longing and need. She yearns to inhale the dust of earth and turn her divine breath sensuously mortal. And still, she craves to rise from any emotional or territorial bonds with an independent poise, supple and strong, manipulating to her own advantage, the influence of wind, water and light.

She ceased
to move, as one between desire and shame
Suspended.........Percy Bysshe Shelley

Enough of Cypress shade
and vineyards stepping down
toward the shore.

Enough of binding wrists
with bracelets of salt-weed
and ankles with currents
of swift wind.

Enough of running errands
between sea and sky
ship and porch-- I am more

than chaste handmaiden
to Queen Hera
always keeping
my pitcher full
but womb shallow.

Beyond the stone bath
of Portara, the pines of Samos
the stemless flowers of Crete

there is red clay
and cactus, a temple
of leaf cymbals
and thorns invoking

thunder, light fingernail
pricks of heat, foreplay of a storm.
And I will rise slowly

after the flame, lithe
bend of head and back,
my hair the rippling
tremor of wings ---
raven
rock dove
ravishing hawk.

Puck

2011-04-14T13:34:00.001-07:00

This poem based on the magic splendor of Marie-France’s painting, "Elf by night", looks at the folkloric character of Puck. Classically known in Shakespeare’s play and French legend as an impish boy, the subject’s voice and gender change ( in this verse) to show a female side of savvy mischief and romantic charm.

In a sassy dialogue with her viewers, the feminine sprite defines herself. She declares her shortened name is derived from pulchritude, a Latin-rooted word meaning of great beauty or graceful appeal. Yet, she prefers the sound and rhythmic quickness of her one-syllable identity. It energizes her confidence and flair.

Mid-Summer’s Eve is a time of enchantment when all logic is abandoned and delightful chaos erupts. Elf by night invites us to dream and perceive a shapely fairy in Puck’s mirror, a girl who flirtatiously turns myth and
literary tradition upside down.

PUCK

(In A world Turned Upside Down)

The Playwright thought
as others have
I am a prankster,
an elfin boy

who might braid
two horse tails together
or steal household goods;
matchsticks, spools of thread
or a new bride’s sanity.

But I am female,
part girl, part lace-wing moth
who rises from a candle flame
to spice dreams, deepen
the scent of fruit
and make hinges on a screen door

hum like a choral spell
enticing lovers
to come out and seize
the summer night.

Puck is rooted
in Pulchritude
and leaps so quickly
off the tongue

that I adore
the staccato plucking --
one syllable, one vocal string
that ignites a girdle
of stars, a galaxy
of feminine charms.
______________________________

Note -- The enchanting image is designed by French artist, Marie-France Riviere, and can be viewed with other lovely works at her online gallery --
www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Shitake Mushrooms

2011-04-12T10:16:00.000-07:00

A glance in the glass door
of the stereo cabinet,
and I see you, handsome chef
sautéing mushrooms.

Your hands juggle
sesame oil, sugar, garlic
and pepper mill -- not to mention
the cedar spoon.

I remember when your fingers
held the package of shitakes
and showed me this array
resembling the paper swirl
of umbrellas most women use
to avoid the sun in Asia

I loved the concept;
you adored their taste
and said they would make
the sirloin tips
sizzle with a sultry finesse.

I thought,
float me in that steel wok.
I'll become your hot girl
lazing in the buttery dazzle ,
the onions and spice -- my scent

irresistible and drifting
through your narrow bones, your
trim flesh.

I savored this --- until now
when my eyes water. Something
damp and darkly wooded
rises, musk mingling
With light smoke and the alarmed

look on your face as I rush
into the kitchen coughing,
the smell is strong
way too strong. You wonder
If we should eat these. Your sinuses
are clogged and can't process odor.

Then, you tell me
they were purchased in Madam Chung's
shop along the ocean front
where the sun drew its bitter slant
of lemon between sea gulls
and oysters gleaming on a fisherman's crate.

She took you inside, the back room
where she stored her specialties
and hunted for the item
while you observed a red urn
atop the closet.

She caught your admiration
and remarked it was an antique
from The Qing Dynasty, a good
place to contain grief and ashes

of a late husband. According to her,
he loved those mushrooms
and a sleek cut of meat ---
a tenderloin beauty.

An Anniversary Poem

2011-04-12T09:55:00.000-07:00

While you drive home --
the bush leaves are flowering
red and yellow like bell peppers
that line the market stands
along Rancho Vista Boulevard.

Sprinklers rinse the lawn. Water
twirls in the sun like a parasol
and I watch from the kitchen window.
Our guest who once painted
a woman in the garden at Saint Addresse
would like this scene. But he’s obsessed
with our walls and permanently haunts
the upstairs hallway.

I admire the lady in Claude’s painting.
She keeps her back to the viewer and leans
toward the skyline, blue pierced by poplar trees,
her heart by romantic thoughts.

And now my back is to you
watching our house from a distance. Soon
you will step inside, then discard the keys.
My body will spin on slender heels
and the light will gravitate a number
of degrees north , your tall presence
blocking the doorway while my lips
spread into sunset, a smile
that finalizes the day
with soft fire and this need to settle in.

Tundra Song

2011-04-12T09:44:00.000-07:00

The poem started out as an idea and was built from a haiku I wrote several years ago. Then I found myself reading up on Slavic folktales. My grandmother came from Slovakia and was an avid story teller. There is this water nymph or drowned female spirit called the Rusalka. The Rusalka is usually a young woman or girl who has drowned suddenly, her death is untimely. In some stories, it's due to hearbreak or an evil spell. But the female usally drowns in water and comes back as a spirit haunting rivers, lakes or wetlands. She sings to mortal men and other creatures, enticing them with her voice.In some versions, she is a malevolent character and in others, a rather poignant and tortured maiden.

In my version, it's a blend of several elements. Namely, it's a girl who lives in that cold part of the world on the verge of melting. She hears a sound similar to footsteps outside. Thinking it is her lover, a lean trapper, she rushes out and slips throught the thawing ice. While drowning ,she calls out to the moon goddess and asks to switch places. Knowing the moon is a huntress, she feels the sacred entity will have the intellectual skill and endurance to find a way out of the water's frozen underworld. And she ,herself, will become an ethereal being, something that lights the tundra and has influence over the tides, the land and animals. When the shift occurs, she comes in from the sea and seeks kinship with the white bears. They represent pure strength and resillence. Like them, she wants a heart that will prevail all things, sorrow, fate etc. There is also the hint of Spring existing beneath the slow thaw. Again, a force of birth and renewal.

Arctic version of the Rusalka
I

Candle left burning,
glass of wine half consumed
and this fur shawl draped

over the mantle,
as she runs out hearing
footsteps, but they're not his --

the lean trapper,
who loved and lavished her skin
with sweet oil before rubbing

his pelts of black seal and elk.
It’s just the shoreline
melting degree by degree,

the pine boughs trampled
by wind hauling its breath.
Everything shimmers.

Ice seeps through the girl
chilling her white bones and throat.
Water swallows hard

and she drowns praying
to the celestial huntress,
the air stark as her plea --

Come, take my place
and let me take yours,
let me take yours!

II

Large bodies of snow
sprawl over the mountain's rock --
Winter craves a black sky;

and the long shadow
of moonlight wanders between
untangling her hair

still wet from the sea
as she moves inland to find
kinship with the bears.

Her voice echoes low
dissolving their spell of sleep
and she sings to them --

Your heart braves all things,
and so will mine
so will mine!
____________________________________

This painting is a scene from the Norweigan classic --"East of The Sun and West of the Moon. The painting is by 19th century French artist/illustrator, Edmund Du Lac.

Songbird and Candles

2011-04-08T11:43:00.000-07:00

Nothing to see outside the boundaries.
Harper Lee

After the mocking bird
stopped singing,
people asked --

Where did she go?
Does she still write?

I stayed mute
and mellowed further
into womanhood.

Sometimes I made
a pilgrimage
to that stone convent
on the hill.

I bought candles
from the nuns who billowed
along the portico
like a curtain
draping the ruins of Bath.

I loved the white flow
of their garments
and found the same grace
in the silk linen
veiling my own tub.

There, I spent hours
behind the world
soaking with lit tapers
and washing off
the tom boy, the changeling
who had taken the place
Of Jean-Louise.

The beeswax burned
softly and slurred
into a throat of amber
where my best words
and impulses
melted down
to a history. Prayers

for new inspiration
failed. The sainted brides
mixed no holy magic
in their craft. Their honeycombed
vespers were only
flaming wick and tallow.

Still, I listened, listened
for the mocking bird
but feared success
would kill his song

and leave this southern woman
adrift, mourning him and her own
fledgling voice.
__________________________________

Note -- The painting is by American artist, Steve Hanks, entitled, "woman in a tub".

Evening On The Coast

2011-04-08T10:14:00.000-07:00

( A personal Oaisis)

We walk toward the garden,
calm with a lapse of wind.

You say the narrow moon
is a prawn dipped
in the cocktail shadow of night

and that star tingling light
beneath its tail -- ice
that chilled seafood;

or my bracelet charm
which caught your eye
as I fed you pineapple and shrimp,

the palm tree
dangling its diamond leaves
from my wrist

and hinting at the pool. Even now
this water stays warm, reflecting
lovers and the naked gleam
of marble.

____________________________________

The Beautiful painting showing a scene from a garden in Provence, "oaisis" is created by Renowned French artsit, Marie-France Riviere. More of her lovely work can be seen her at her on-line gallery --- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Brink

2011-04-07T14:34:00.001-07:00

Fear

of seeing him falter
steals the night. Its Latin bell --
carpe noctem,
almost shatters glass.

This man who appears young
in the mirror, a hand
testing the drum of his heart,
feels rhythm off-kilter, killer beat
and killer bees becoming the hum
of my breath. Frenzied.

Who will fall first?

Eve stung by the lung's hive
spinning love
so wild with worry,

or

her tall rib donor
leaning forward in pain
as hair shadows his brow
like the soft wing of a crow.

Contending With Her Own House Of Usher

2011-04-05T11:46:00.000-07:00

Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream
Edgar Allen Poe

That eeriness
descending the stairs of dusk
tinkers with the brass lock

of a woman sawn in half
by thought. Half awake,
half asleep. she hears the bolt
slide backwards, unfasten.
No one is in the house.

Footsteps pace the hall
staying on those planks
of Brazilian wood, not breaching
a boundary between rooms.

Hand clutching a rosary
she prays. Silence follows
until her tongue clicks
unconsciously. A clock hand
moves and something
is released, sent to reconcile

with an unseen force.
Her blood has been the lamp's oil,
burning with a hunger
for death ; but it's not the season
for palm brooms to sweep
a floor littered
with her dust and ashes.

Each night, the ritual
is resurrected. Solitude
burnt-out and sagging
like a candle wick, a crippled spine,
summons its own shadow
that comes as undertaker
to claim her anguish,

and leave the body to collapse
in rest, if only for a few
hours with a few stars
unstrung from a ring of planets.

Outside her window
they keep vigil-- while no one
no one trespasses in the house.

Seeking Peace In the High Desert

2011-04-05T10:42:00.001-07:00

I

The wolf hounds are barking next door.
Nothing in sight
but a half moon and Joshua trees
silhouetted against the sky.

Their voices blend, Cerberus
evokes the night flower's breath
of despair. Temperatures are cold;
the owners have locked the door.

I want to shake its brass handle
and cry, let them in, let me sleep;
but I turn toward the window.

The shade hangs
with Venetian slats strung together,
lines on tomorrow's pad
waiting for my pen
to draft a complaint.

Soon, the barking stops.
Silence grips the dark air
for several moments -- until
I hear a woman calling,
come here, come here.

II

Early morning, and the moon
has moved down, a gauze bag
steeping in the corner's blue darkness
while I stand drinking tea.

As the sky lightens,
a stranger appears dragging
her satchel across the field.

Head shawl and layered skirts
define a shamanic woman
who has drifted in with the smell
of wood smoke

I guess she is either mortal
or myth, a Si'oua
who has come with her bag of charms
to appease a hostile spirit.

Somehow, I know she is this
and her bundle of goods
a burlap sack of bones -- canine
hip, leg, rib and skull
whose teeth she might use
to card wool . My hands shiver.

I drink more Earl Grey
and wonder --
what was the time of death.
_______________________________

Terms --
Si'oua is a woman shaman in certain Indian cultures known to communicate with the dead, tame or appease hostile spirits and .aid women in child birth with medicinal charms.

Cerberus - is a large, three-headed dog from ancient mythology who guarded the gates of hell. From his saliva, a poisonous herb sprung up called "wolf bane."

Inside An Old Book of French Poems

2011-04-04T10:01:00.000-07:00

It is bunch of grapes from La Crau,
leaves and all, a peasant's offering.
Frederic Mistral

Part of me
lingers here,
a garment of loose script
on the fly leaf

hoping my unhemmed
draft will stray
into language
worthy of your tongue.

This book has been stitched
by hand, its paper
stiff but your voice
groomed with a typeface
called Garamond

sounding almost
like a Bohemian dance
from the South.

Your lines often sing
of an ocean wind, shore birds
and bell towers looming
over vineyards ripe
with black grapes, a maiden's love
for the basket maker.

Yet , that silence inbetween
tells me you are there
listening to songs outside
your valley beyond
the stone fortress
of Saintes-Maries-de-la Mer.

And maybe, you hear mine --
a girl tattered
in her own verse
struggling to show
some talent, gain closer
access to you.

So carefully, I thumb
through all these pages,
your breath fanned
in the lamplight -- emitting
a faint blend
of tobacco and dust.

__________________________________

The lovely painting is called " The Young Reader revisited" or "La Jeune Liseuse revisitee" by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her lovely work can be seen here -- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Seamstress

2011-03-28T11:14:00.000-07:00

sewn into the hem of memory;
fire......Carolyn Forché

March 25, 2011

Under Shade leaves, she is seen
in name only. Her grave
stands erect, a stone shirtwaist
without sleeves, floral embossing
around the collar and shoulders
while arms are buried beneath,
long, bone-pale and folded
over a womb that never gave birth.

At 6 pm, the cemetery gates
are locked with sun blazing
through spiked iron.
Scraps of cut grass and hedge
are heaped in a corner. Wind
scatters them in the red glare
of evening while shadows stretch
over the lawn, a stair case
with two figures kissing, a young man
and young woman framed
by a factory window.

As light softens to the glow
of street lamps, their presence
falls with the end of day
into thought. Someone writes --

Dusk turns the sky
to pavement strewn
with faint traces of charcoal

and remembers besides God
this day, this day
a hundred years ago
burned out early.

4:45 pm and sidewalks were left
smoldering. Pungent incense
that was partly hers, permeating
a fine thread count of hair
and blue-striped cotton.

Some people who pass the grave
wonder more about her name
than death. Its foreign echo
soft on the tongue --
Nachala.

Modeling Oneself

2011-03-25T09:33:00.001-07:00

Proper attention is our refuge now, our perch..
Charles Wright

I am flared enough
to fly --
ruffled in a white blouse,
pants pleated
with the speckled shimmer of silk.

You might say
Yves Saint Laurent
has freed
his passerine girl
and bid her to feed
off the sights of San Francisco.

But today
it is not about the bridge,
the wharf or watching
my figure become
a store reflection, a cafe shadow.

It's about looking
at where I stand,
the sidewalk a tablet
of indentations
where insects crawl,
seeds cluster, subsistence
fills the lost integrity
of stone.

There, I step
beyond concrete and feel
my confidence
chiseled out by rumors
and heartache.
The affair long over.
but I can't seem to spackle
the emptiness.

My hands slide further
into vast pockets;.
the left grasping a gold
cigarette lighter,

the right fingering slick
designer tags
I forget to snip, a noose
of black thread pressing
lightly against my thumb.
______________________________
The chic painting is by French Artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her lovely work can be viewed her at her on-line gallery -- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

From A Distant Shore

2011-03-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

I
( The prophecy )

White snow, Shinto bells
prompt a chill to fall
as they warn and weep.
Stones will shift
and waters will heap

waves of salt, wide sorrow
while strangers mourn, miles off
safe in their hills, tonight
tomorrow and beyond tomorrow.

II
( Coming of The Yūrei)

California,
your coastal gardens
own rock and cypress
but spare acreage
for the green bamboo.

Sprays of sunlight
diverge through the trees
while close behind,
a woman glides
concealing her form
in a long shroud of hair.

Not mortal
but mere shadow
she has been cast
by The Archipelago

Mother who once
chose to corset her soul
in stone and timber
rather than bone
and sinew

as she fell from the sky
shattering
into small islands.

The wind at hand
to give her breath
and weave fate
on a loom of climatic strings.

Hot, cold, dry wet,
wings, seed and scent
have all caused
diverse blends, decades
never the same. And now

California
your coastal gardens house
a dire figment of these --

she is prayer
she is need
she is grief

as you watch
with an eardrum catching
the rush of a morning sea.
_______________________________________
"Yūrei" is the Japanese concept of a ghost. The female apparition usually appears wearing a white kimono with her black hair loose and wind-swept. Most often, she has died in a sudden or violent manner without proper burial rites; or she is still (after death) influenced by powerful emotions that keep her earthbound until the conflict is resolved.

Under A Grand Influence

2011-02-25T14:35:00.000-08:00

(The writer defines her Winter home)

I live in a house haunted
by antique doorknobs
and white radiators.

I save soft flannel
to polish brass
and keep odd keys
in a bowl to bleed
the iron vertebrae.

As water drips, tension
is also drained
from my spine. The muse
returns to a warmer place.

Nerves relent, become receptive
to the room's mystique, its objects
imported scandal. The doorknobs
were shipped upstate
from the old Waldorf
Astoria that burned
in flames whisked from Fifth
Avenue to Market Street

Dorothy Parker's petite
fingers still grasp,
linger on
from the time
she turned her life
over to that suite
scented with amaretto.

Evening pulled in
like a dark limousine
delivering its round
of bathtub steam, candles
and cabaret lover.

Afterwards, she wrote --
My love is quick to come and go-
a little here, and then a little there...

And I sense it's quite
similar to the way
heat circulates through this house,
never full or constant
but needing to breathe
void of pressure, penetrating
the fragile skin, my own
pale, more wanting
than a tango rose.
________________________________

Note -- The painting is called, "Black Purse" by artist, Fabian Perez.

The Dove

2011-02-25T12:44:00.001-08:00

Marie-France’s feminine painting, “Poussez, poussez l'escarpolette." brought the idea for this poem to life. Suffused in soft pastels and wistful motion, the lady translates to a figment of memory, a younger self.

As the scene opens, the present woman is aged, drifting in and out of dementia. Occasionally, like a dove, she returns to that phase of her life which had tremendous impact. She steps toward the window, picks on the drapery cord nervously and then looks down at the wooden sill. It becomes her garden swing where she found solace and escape. Married to a great magician, she often found herself trying to forget his influence. Yet, while her body relaxed on the swing, her mind/soul was still flung into his grip.

She saw herself as the white dove he used for magic. Fragile and vulnerable, he used her to perform his art, to magnify his greatness. Yet, despite the soft sounds and hints of timidity, such a bird is reputed to possess, she was clever and knew the power of her own femininity. Though, he could make the bird appear and disappear at will, summon her service and dismiss it when through, she had more control, self-determination, the real power.

As wife and wise thinker, she could decide when she would leave and taunt him with threats of departure, hold him with a false sense of security and keep the man wondering. In the end, she would choose what season
and what time was conducive to a final flight.

The Dove

When the room is veiled
by afternoon's light
and age seems to fade
from its wood and silver,

she returns -- occasionally
remembering she has been
the wife and partner
of a great man.

Fingernails peck
at the drapery cord
while eyes land
On the window sill

narrow as the swing
she used to ride
in the garden wearing
a white gown and blossoms.

Her body oscillated
between the pines and vast sky,

her soul flung
into the magician’s hands
that made the fragile bird
appear then disappear –

only, she decided
which of her partings
would be real

or like flowers blooming
too early in the March fog–
a moment’s illusion,
a Spring time ploy.
________________________________
More of Marie-France Riviere's beautiful artwork ( all collections) can be viewed here, at her on-line gallery -- www.griviere.com/expo200.

Cygnus

2011-02-25T12:31:00.000-08:00

Why I was born three parts woman
and one part swan -- I will never know.

Without arms to carry, sweep or tend
a man like those village brides
wearing lace caps and wide skirts,

my wings are useless to a home
except when I shed. Then feathers
are gathered and stuffed
into pillows or quilts.

Yet, when evening throws her shadow
across the lawn, I fly.

Sleek and sensitive, my wings
skim moonlight off the wind
and fan the air
with something sensuous,

the scent of dew
penetrating white gardenias,

the burst of grapes
ripening on a hill's upper thigh,

and the need of a woman
to be touched by her husband.
_____________________________________

This poem is based on the mythical character of the
"Swan Maiden", found in several German and Russian
folk tales as well as Greek mythology. Traditionally,
the character transforms herself into a swan to either
avoid a suitor or to attain one, to escape an arranged
marriage or to promote a femme fatale persona that
entices prince or peasant. However, this poem is a
mutated version of the motif. It's about an
individual finding purpose when limited by the
strangeness of her birth and circumstances. Almost
human but lacking arms, she seems out of place in both
the world of woman and the world of birds. Though she
has inherited the desires and inclinations of a
female, she will not marry or assume the natural
duties of mother and wife. Therefore, she is almost
reduced to the functionality of season and household,
as her feathers will be used for the stuffing of
pillow and quilts. Yet, when evening approaches, she
is compelled to fly, to break free of her limitations.
Here, she finds her niche, her ability to stir the
darkness with something erotic, feelings of need and
want, passion and desire. Perhaps, she may never be a
bride but she awakens the sensual inspiration within a
woman. Like a muse, she is a catalyst that arouses
the female's sensual impulses. And that in ,itself,
becomes a talent, a rare and coveted skill.

Refrain Amidst Light, Stone And Water

2011-02-15T10:32:00.000-08:00

Silence is the sin
says a beautiful woman
turning her head from the bridge, canal
rippling with shadows of lantern
and palm leaf.

Like the water
her Egyptian hair
shimmers darkly -- light
caught from street lamps
arching along a road
that reaches for The Square

* * * * *
Other lamps
shine on her son's face
glistening with sweat.

Even a camera's light
mounted on an old shoe
reveals his grimace

while a gash enflames
his upper arm, an unstitched
wound, and to some --
blood sentence of the martyr.

For hours, He spoke against
the lack of provisions
for everyday, opportunity
weightless as the river
that yields more silt than fish.

He felt hunger
hurled in loaves of stone
that broke skin or glass, the pressure
for change rising
with fist and flag

* * * * * *

Silence is my sin
cries a beautiful woman
as she kneels to touch
her son's flesh, her voice
falling on the plaza

like a soft rag
soaked in oil, an echo
others may ignite.
__________________________________
Note -- Painting is called "Sorrow" by Egyptian artist, Fabia Badrawi. More of her fine and provocative work can be seen here --
www.fadiabadrawi.com/exhibits/mukhtar.html

Ghanaian

2011-02-15T09:41:00.001-08:00

The women meet on a roof top
where the hotel has a cafe
catering to tourists and a humid breeze.
Three Americans hug Niuma
a Gold Coast girl
who shares their race, light clothing
and ancestors who were enslaved
in different ways.

After some wine, the watch bell
prounouncing it's late, they leave
and dusk falls over the city

Her sisters dream of white stone
forming walls with a wooden door
that opens to the sea ---

while palm leaves
dangle in the wind, become long blades
that partially cut off
the evening sun.

As her sisters sleep,
they wind this place around
their spines feeling the strain
of internment. Yet, she glides

under shut eyelids
along this balcony shouldering
marble urns that bear the taste
of jasmine and clove.

An iron balustrade
guards the kept woman
and extends her freedom
a few feet toward the shore

where tides offer a journey
she will never take. Like the widow bird
she is long-tailed, her legs
trailing elegance on the veranda
while her scalp shines, a plume of hair
catching the ocean's breath.

Only through her hands and songs
can she fly weaving the story
of her tribe and custody here
in the pale master's house. Spared
the dungeons and possible death

sired by ships sailing West,
she serves the merchant who maintains
his residence in port. Tonight
like the oils rubbed on her skin
she has dissolved
into the scent of plants
inducing her descendent
to dream in a cotton slip, almost weightless.

____________________________________________

Painting is by French artist, Marie-France Riviere and more of her provocative and lovely work can be found here,
www.griviere.com/expo2000.

During Lent

2011-02-10T10:57:00.000-08:00

Light falling
through the eyelet
of a Venetian shade
lands on our bed.

How beautiful
this firefly
lying still, wings closed
but its electric pulse

sent to your lips
as you kiss
my throat and shoulder.

I am blessed
by a saint-pale lover
while somewhere
violets bloom
cloistered in snow.

________________________________________

Note --The painting is called, "Valley of The Roses" by artist, Jan Toorop.

Green Triumverate

2011-02-08T11:14:00.003-08:00

(Lady Absinthe in Three Roles)

Inspiration

She's outside searching
for the jade lantern
of a lightning bug,
essential to writing
her intended a poem.

Female ready to mate,
how can she express
her wish uniquely?

He calculates the cycles
of plant and insect,
and by observing
a firefly, she might acquire
field secrets on how
to engage him --- but instead

she enters the house
and pulls a glass
from the bar. Pale fingers
place a sugar cube
inside and pour green
liqueur over its sweetness.

Not quite perfect,
she turns the brass spigot
and drizzles water
over her drink

the same way
she might apply perfume
to her damsel neck,
a scent that would attract
and stun his senses
with a blend of herbs, wordless bouquet

a woman relies on
when her tongue falls dark,
flat as evening's shadow.

* * * * * * *

Jealousy

I watch lightning flash
the edge of her chartreuse wing,
the vein of her poisonous leaf,
the stutter of a tongue.

The last time
she appeared this intense,
I was sharing life
with Verlaine in Paris.

His balcony doors
were open, glass quartos
reflecting visions from the street,
and to my partner,
faces of younger artists
he loved besides me.

His confession
was faintly audible
until lightning flared
heightening the moment
and his tone of voice --

but my head turned.
I did not want to hear
Jules or Sophie filling
that blank space between
the glass and silveware,

his logic
and my lungs that longed
to simply inhale a storm.

* * * * * * *

Opiate

When they banned the green slyph
from a glass that washed down
the death of someone or something,
she found other ways
of wandering in.

After the snow,
rain mingled with leaves
in the villa courtyard
and gave rise to a spirit
seeking shape --- Spring

posessed my body, loosening
its sweetness like a pale
stick of sugar stiffened
from grief,

and I knew this was greener,
more addictive
than the original source
of sin.

________________________________________________

Note -- The lovely painting is entitled, "Reverie", by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her beautiful work can be seen here -- www.griviere.com/expo2000

Partage Du Matin

2011-01-28T14:13:00.000-08:00

Both the title and reflective image of a woman that Marie-France creates in her beautiful painting, "Voyage Immobile" inspired this poem. I thought of a poetic lady looking through her window at the sky and stone wall in the distance. She reflects on one of her favorite plays by French playwright, Paul Claudel. Her mind envisions the rock-built fence as the side of a ship's deck, a pleasure boat from the early part of the 20th Century. And she becomes one of its imaginary passengers observing the moods and habits of those characters from the drama, Partage de Midi or The Break of Noon.

In his famous work, Paul Claudel examines the complexity of human nature interacting with opulence, passionate sin and malaise. His characters not only cross over the international dateline while at sea, but also the boundary of temptation. My title,"Partage Du Matin", refers to that morning divide between dawn and midday, routine and retreat. The speaker is fascinated by the opulent life aboard ship and becomes a witness to the intrigue and adulterous flirtations. Yet, she feels isolated from the characters, apart from the action and confident she is blessed with a good and true husband. Her presence here is simply diversion's luxury, an indulgence in morning reverie and speculation. As they cross the meridian, she twists her wedding ring and returns to reality. She knows her husband is building a trellis for them in the garden and calls him in for breakfast. The simple but ritualistic act of grinding his coffee and peeling oranges becomes a pleasure, a testament to her happiness and delight in serving a partner who equally serves her. This outshines those sparkling trays of champagne; and she understands that her marriage has been a voyage of cherished years and mutual sacrifice.

The cohesive force in this poem that connects land and sea, dream and reality, is the presence of the blackbird. Poised on tangled vines, he welcomes the light and watches its intensity bloom into that illuminated window of imagination. When the wife debarks from her mental journey, he flies off, startled by the sound of hammered nails and signals that morning has resumed its normal routine, time is no longer suspended by thought.

Partage du Matin

(Traveling in modes of thought)

Besides the blackbird poised

on tangled vines that net

a flash of sun --

there is the east window.

* * * * *

This window with its shutters

open, launched for daylight,

views the sky and stone

wall changing to the side

of a ship's deck

that hosts the shuffle

of chairs and cards.

I am already there

sailing on Claudel's cruise

into the South China Sea.

I wear pearls and smile

confident my husband is loyal

while most characters cheat

gambling with a sacred trust.

Their noonday sun

is so hot that shadows seem

like stains of cardinal sin

on their nautical white

cuffs and pleats.

Champagne glitters

on silver trays. We cross

the meridian

into the next day, another scene

of decadence -- but I

twist my ring

as if turning a doorknob

and resume life in our Summer home.

* * * * *

The curtains ripple, full

of your shadow in the garden

and light hammering of nails.

A bird startled

and our trellis nearly built,

I call you in

for breakfast, grateful

to grind the coffee,

to peel cold fruit

for a man I love

so much more

than on the day I wove

orange blossoms through my hair.

_________________________________

Note -- The lovely painting is called "Voyage Immobile" by artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her evocative work can be seen here -- www.griviere.com/expo2000.

The Breatheable Quiet

2011-01-20T13:05:00.000-08:00

Tonight we swirl ourselves
into a warm dusk,
wine and firelight.

Your eyes the shade
of bay leaf
heighten the moment
with a keen awareness
of how insecure
I am.

It's not about the mirror
or lost coin
but feeling competent
enough to please.

I look at the moon
distant and half-full,
a white bowl of rice,
holy water
and bare grace

I never seem to taste
but still
you kiss my palm
and bless it
with such sweet approval.
____________________________________

The paintig is by artist, Fabian Perez, and is called, "The Proposal".

Guardians

2011-01-20T12:51:00.000-08:00

(Contemplating Yvon's Paris, 1920-1935)

His photographs
are gathered from rare
booksellers along the Seine.

Left too long
In light and dust
they reveal Paris
In a sallow haze.

The gargoyle
on Notre Dame’s brow
overlooks dawn, the cloud sprawl
low enough
to loosen rain

and camouflage a flock
of birds resettling
into Spring, old roof tops.

A man
leaning from his ladder
prunes the bush
of a Tuilleries’ urn,

possibly hears
the mouth of Marie
Antoinette moaning
her headdress is too bare.

And the table
with no patrons
just a glass
and girl’s face sketched
on paper

haunts that niche
of bistro where
inspiration
is safeguarded,

where my gaze
becomes the shock, shutter click
of recognition.
Her face is mine –

decades young,
portrayed as lonely
by some Louvre student
I can’t remember,

and this famous man
angling for scenes
in the distance, in a city’s
sequel to war.

______________________________________
Yvon also known as Pierre Yves Petit was a famous photographer who captured Paris in those decades between WWI and WWII. Characterized as a "flaneur" or person who strolls through any scene with a poetic eye , he defined the city through pictures that reflected the natural and human side of the urban landscape. He often preferred to use his camera during early or late hours of the day, the light was softer and more dramatic. Many of his subjects included Cathedral gargoyles, barges on the canal, garden scapes of Luxembourg/Tullieries, bistros and book stalls along the Parisian quais or river front. I have fictionalized his subject matter a bit with the description of the last photograph. It allows the speaker to interject herself into the moment, into the surprise of discovering she was inadvertently one of his subjects from a collective point of view, the corner table in a cafe. He angled his scenes with landmarks and people who were guardians of Parisian beauty, loneliness, whimsy, solitude and so much more. I was really spellbound by his work which can be found here --
http://www.higherpictures.com/Exhibition.aspx?c=39&i=6

In This Balmy Night

2011-01-17T09:21:00.001-08:00

In This Balmy Night
For poet, Carla Martin-Wood

Dark wood and glass lamps
let me rise
from the day's routine.
Hair rippling, hood shadowing
the arch of my neck,
I take center stage
like a wild maiden
from some Gothic verse..

I want to draw the breath
out of the audience
leaving them beguiled, possessed
by my words.
White egrets from Sanibel
The Glassmaker's Son
and Merman's Bride
slowly approach. Land and characters
love me well, nudge their way
to the top of my list --

but first, I am upstaged
by a cat who saunters in
to this old speak easy.
Lithe and luminous-eyed
she curls around my feet.
Usually, street or field mice,
sidewalk sparrows
become her prey, but tonight
she settles in, dusk silver
seeking to stalk my nerves,
snuff the uncertainty
in my voice.

Her purring begins.
I sense the sweet hum
of a Venetian aria
that softens the scene, loosens
the muscles of my lean throat.
and I suspect ---
.Ah! yes, Dear T.S.
must have sent her as a gift.
Somehow he knew
the harpist is ill, not here
to lend graceful comfort.

The gold frame
of her instrument loiters
behind the curtain. Its strings
subtly vibrate
with the rhythmic breath
of Grizabella --
or is it Lady Griddlebone. I can't tell
but her feline presence
will assure me
the small miracle of seeming
mysterious, spellbinding
the bored critic
who almost sucks the wireless
wedge of his cell, ringtone
murmuring ---

In quella tepida notte
In quella tepida notte
__________________________________________

Note -- The ending refrain is from an Itallian aria originally sung in the Broadway adaptation of T.S. Elliot's, Old Possum's Practical Book of Cats. It was a duet between the slender feline, Lady Griddlebone and ruffian counterpart, Growltiger. Loosely it translates to the title of this poem, "In This Balmy Night".

The painting is by artist, Fabian Perez, from his Venetian Collection.

Seemingly

2011-01-12T10:57:00.000-08:00

No twilit moon
or raw twinge
of air

only the light
snowfall dampening
scalp and coat
of a young man
walking home from work.

Like shredded remains
of a letter
evening's frost
clings to his person

and turns his thoughts
from chateau tourists
to the oval window
of an old building
sustained in stone
and black filigree.

A girl
playing piano
often illuminates
its antique glass

while tints
of her pale
coloring fall
on his shoulders

and pull him
intensely close
with or without a moon.

He perceives the snow
as Winter's love note -- torn
to breathless
confetti

and its subject --
a female playing
Für Elise

Each night
he has seen her alone
exorcising
Beethoven
from the keys

and hopes to draw
her attention
the same way
salvation summons
the gracious tilt
and gratified look

of women saints
gracing those rooms
he tours with guests
hungry for history
and its tragic splendor
told in paint or thread.

Tonight like other nights
his eyes balance
their version
of beautiful woman wronged
on dusk's window ledge

but that mirror
on the villa wall
reveals the same girl
arranging flowers
in a vase, her hand
lifts to lay aside
a long strand of hair

and he realizes
there are red roses
sent by someone.
The piano lid
is shut, a closed
casket of song.

Snow stops falling
and the air stiffens, starched
with ice and sheer glimmer
of a street lamp --

as he moves on.
_________________________________

Note -- Painting is called, "Man In A White Suit" by artist, Fabian Perez.

The Beautiful Irony

2011-01-04T12:32:00.001-08:00

(Palmdale, California 2011)

After we undressed the pine
and folded up its boughs,

snow fell
on the south land.

Palm leaves flared
like ghost fans

a geisha
may have swirled
during her stage dance
honoring Winter.

Inspired, I went out
and became dance child
of the high desert ---

no gliding
on barge-slow sandals, all

stray steps
in soaked tennis shoes.

And whirling there
under sky, umbrella
and sparrow's song,

I watched you smile,
a tall figure
handsome enough
to light the yard,

regal lamp
descending from The House
of Magyar

delivered from a street
I have always known
as Poetic.

Solitude

2011-01-02T08:38:00.000-08:00

I shape a sexton
with my arms
trying to imagine
the distance

between these stone cliffs
and in-coming tide.

How long do I have
to shadow no one
and leave my hair untethered
from her fragrance, free
to soak in sea spray
and sweet broom.

Miles off
She stands in a great house
with a grand piano
and many guests.

Silhouetted
in pale saffron --- the shade
of Madame Bovary's gown,
she flirts
among rich men

seeking compliments,
generous favors.

Yet, when their debt
overwhelms, she rushes
to the garden.
and summons me, her breath
quick and startling
as a night bird's rasp.

Cast in her image,
I become the solitude
that saves ---if only
to recall
a younger day, a younger self
when she loved one
of her art students
at the Sorbonne.

Who seduced whom
is irrevalnt, what's retained
is the refuge she found
behind velvet-drawn curtains

and his eye catching
her luminous face
like sea water
capturing the moon.
____________________
The beautiful artwork is called "Nuit de Decembre" of "December Night" by artist,
Marie-France Riviere. Please visit more of her lovely work at --
www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Madame Neige (Madame Snow)

2010-12-16T13:44:00.000-08:00

Madame Neige is a wry and whimsical look at the snow fall that besieged Paris in early December. Streets were blocked, motorists and travelers held hostage by the white tantrum of weather.

The speaker in the poem is viewing this wintry situation through her window. She compares the snow's entrance to that of a pale empress overtaking the area with commanding presence. This image is beautifully illustrated by Marie-France's painting, "Neige". Its swirled landscape and chilled grace complement the lines ---sailed in, swirling/ around Île-de-France / in her sabled cloak and gown.

As the poem progresses, the woman muses to herself that such a climatic invasion may be payback, avenging the campaign Napoleon launched to conquer Russia in 1812. And though "all avenues are blocked " and citizens "blend' into this waiting, she is hopeful the next day will be clearer. Her outlook predicts the sky will be "punctuated with a scant circling of birds, a breath of freedom, a pause in this run-on occurrence of snow and fog.

The east wind
curtsies with a nervous chill
and the river swallows
a lump of ice --

the pale empress
has sailed in, swirling
around Île-de-France
in her sabled cloak and gown.

Streets become a garland
of car lights
twisting through Paris
with agitated sparkle.

And from my window,
I smile. Napoleon
tried to invade Russia
with his grand army
but failed --

and now her ghost arrives
with a cold coup d'état
All avenues are blocked
and we blend
into this waiting, the skyline
an endless sentence
of fog. Tomorrow
it will be clearer, punctuated
with a scant circling
of birds.
_________________________________________________
The snow-laden landscape is a lovely, Winter painting by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Why The Sky Didn't Fall

2010-12-10T12:26:00.001-08:00

When your forehead fell
to solvent hands, hair hanging
like wild grass
over a fence rail

I knew
your anger had passed
and the humbler man, a moved artist
had entered -- hours

after leaning against
that massive door. Its timber
stained with moss
and a gaunt shadow
of prayer.
______________________________
Painting is called, "Waiting For Sky" by artist, Fabio Perez.

Insomnia, The Romantic Strain

2010-11-09T13:10:00.000-08:00

A strange melancholy was stealing over me,
a melancholy that I would not have interrupted
Joseph Sheridan La Fanu

Storm leaves borne
in the mouth of a stone bat
offer frail light

while houses lament their power
including mine. The gargoyle
seems more
than a rain spout, a beacon

drawing that distant face
of a lady veiled
in black silk, sheer
as the sky-fallen dusk.

I remember
following her shadow
verse after verse
lit by a table lamp
and glass of rosé.

I sucked on pear slices
between page four
and page five.
She bit the neck
of a priest and left
her quotation marks
in blood......signaling

words would rise later
when he moaned her name
and wanted a continuance
of love, of life
beyond Winter. The harvest
was still being gathered;
and only the best prospects
would be chosen, preserved
in her plasma.

Yellow quivers slightly
inside the jaws
of the Gothic bat, his wings
catching single
drops of rain, last details
from Clarimonde's song

that need to soak in,
and sate the bones
with that immortal ache
of longing, a pale trace
of mint.

_____________________________________

The gothic image is by artist, Linda Bergkvist.

From Corners Of The White House

2010-11-09T10:37:00.000-08:00

My poem, From Corners Of The White House, is divided into two sections; The President and The First Lady.

The first part attempts to define how the president guided people beyond the front gates of possibility. He inspired them with ideas and hope that surpassed the practical aspects of change. His noble vision was not incremental, it was spacious, filled with a magical enthusiasm.

His words told the nation we could fill the holes in the road to recovery, sweep away any sharp obstacles that would cut the foot of progress, impede our footsteps forward. Yet, his idealism with all of its noble intentions weighed too heavily on the mind of the people, on their view of personal freedom and the role of government in their personal lives. It weighed heavy as stone on the wing of the eagle and steeped the light of promise in a bitter tea.

And why did this happen? People were too impatient and did not take the time to contemplate his strategy or how change requires perseverance to combat times of doubt
or risk.Like the skill of the glass blower, dreams are meticulously crafted over time, they are spun and blown into a reflective purpose with patience and foresight.

Despite this setback, President Obama waits and determines his next move. Though his face lacks the beard of Abraham Lincoln or the beard of the freed Slave and freedom fighter, Frederick Douglass, he still embodies their heroic stance and like them, stands behind his own pillars of strength. Shadowed in a temple of thought, he poses as an isolated yet empathetic figure with his head bent forward and his fingertips pressed together in prayer, touching on the theme of compromise.

The second part of the poem, explores the perspective of The First Lady. Standing near a fanlight window , she views the garden in late afternoon. Light paves the lawn with a pale radiance Her eyes focus on the leaves of the grape arbor and memories of the campaign haunt her mind. She hears the voices of women and their children who asked for change, who wanted a better life and safer environment.

These requests are symbolized in the poem by a sieve to catch all the toxins that might fall into the river, that might pollute the water and the flow of humanity. Also by streets evenly lined with trees, not their green shade sheltering one select side or corner of a community, economy or faith.

She realizes that despite the efforts of her husband to satisfy their demands, they grew disillusioned, they shattered the hour glass and took away the resource of time. They became impatient, placed singular blame on The President and fell prey to vicious rumors. Gossip sifted through the months like falling sand and could ruin the stability of their own house and cause the dignity of The White House to sink further downward.

Saddened by this revelation, The First Lady wonders how a dream of hope becomes deferred. She straightens her silk dress and with this single gesture, providence concludes that her garments and her soul will never be free from the static cling of adversity or the influence of political life.

Nor will her style or role as First Lady escape those long shadows cast by the afternoon sun, by the ancestral figures of history, those First Women who arrived before her and still haunt corners of the nation's home, The White House.
_____________________________________________________________________________

And look'd forth
in the close of day, with its light spreading....
Walt Whitman

I
The President

He inspired them, led them far
beyond the front gates, beyond
the constructive reality
of change.

His words grabbed
any brokenglass
cutting the foot of progress,
and attempted to fill in
the roadside ditch.

Yet, his idealism
weighed stone-heavy
on the eagle's wing, steeped
the sun in bitter tea.

People could not grasp
how persevernce looms
over doubt, how dreams are spun
and blown into clarity
by time.

Now he waits, his face
lackng the beard
of Frederick or Abraham,
but like them, he stands
behind his own pillars
of strength, shadowed
in a temple of thought --

his head bent, his fingertips
pressed together
forming a steep ridge, a way
toward compromise.

II
The First Lady

Standing near that fan of glass,
she watchs light pave
her garden with pale silence.

The campaign haunts her mind
as she glances toward leaves
on the arched vine, past voices
of women ,their children
tunneling through.

They wanted change, a sieve
catching all the toxins
that might slip into the river,
streets lined evenly with trees, not
green shade fostering
a select corner or side.

Her husband has tried
to meet their demands
but they have shatteerd
the hour glass, rushed in
with impatience, singular blame.

Rumors have become
falling sand and a house,
their house
could sink wthin. She stands

wondering how a dream
becomes deferred, and straightens
her silk dress

which can never stay
entirely free
from static cling
or the presence
of long shadows.

The Writing

2010-11-01T12:14:00.000-07:00

(For Juanita and her Daughter.)

The afternoon lost its balance
when leaves began to palpitate.
A sea gull appeared
with the wind, his wings
gracefully etching the sky.

I thought of the fine script
on a glossy matchbook.
Diondra was written next
to the young man with whom
I had entrusted her life.

Bird, sky and pulsing leaves
grew more intense. I felt dizzy,
heard sirens in the distance.

Those match tips -- so red
flammable, struck my mind
then blood clots, a heart
slowly burned out

and I saw her blond hair caught
in a spider's web of glass,
a shattered wind shield
when my neighbor said

a car slammed
into a bus parked
along the shopping plaza
downtown.

The wind paused; and I knew
I would see that script again,
her name engraved
on a Wedgwood jar ---

soft blue, my daughter's breath
sifted into ash.
____________________________________________
Note -Painting is by artist, Jeanie Tomaneck.

Empathy

2010-10-28T10:33:00.000-07:00

The moon is always there
for company. She keeps track
of the nomadic swans,
the fallen leaves

and now full, she becomes
the shorn head
of a woman grieving
her young lover.
_____________________________

This stark but hauntingly beautiful painting is by artist, Jeanie Tomanek, her website can be found at -- http://www.jeanietomanek.com.

Blend

2010-10-27T12:09:00.001-07:00

...she is one of the many
and she is each of us.
Rita Dove

My palm
shows a long line
leading down
to sugar cane fields
and laced muslin.

Somewhere between
slave girl and slave master
mutiplied
by generations,
I evolved exotic --

aquamarine eyes,
mahagony hair
streaked with sun,
all natural. I am
the demi-tasse girl,
half of each
whose latte'd skin
dazzles the runway
and disturbs the southern
rebel who fears less
than a teaspoonful
of human coffee served
at his table

Bistro or bar room,
still, I drive to both
traveling the road
with a dotted line,
moving in and out
of broken limits, yellow bricks
that do not stretch
toward sweet home
or wizard land

but just divide
a tongue stuttering
traffic, this dirt road
paved over
yet rooted deep
in that wagon path
winding along the sea,
fanned by large leaves
elipsed by chain links
hinting there will be
more to come, much more.

II

My palm
bears a long vein, veta madre
splintering
into this ancestry
of dark night, pale dawn.

I am left
the molten candle
burning at some table,
my breath
a steady flame, my flesh
hot, breatheable
so the perfume
seeps in, and sometimes
the shame perspires
with its own brand
more costly
than the bottled illusion
of Chanel
or The Sacred Tears of Thebes.
I spill a little
on your skin. Stay still
and telll me how it feels, soaks
into a flawless stalk of bone.
__________________________________

The beautiful and compelling portrait above is called, "Tyra" by African-American artist, Garnett Thompkins.

Regarding Location

2010-10-22T11:16:00.001-07:00

He had returned from Soweto
and now stood there
wearing a white shirt and khaki pants,
his hair bleached by the sun, his tan
more of the golfer
than borderless physician.

We talked on the balcony
15 flights up, caged in the safe
elegance of verdigris iron. Some birds
were circling a street lamp.

Half listening, I was lost
in him and a glass of wine.
So when he spoke
of a girl soaking clothes
in rusted tin, scrubbing them
against a blue shutter torn
from its hinge-- I assumed
this was typical.

He glanced at a falcon
perched on the overhang
and mentioned how it seemed
out of place, misbegotten
in a large city that lacked
empathy for the wild.

His hand pointed
to the slate-blue shimmer
of plumes; and then his mind
retreated to the shutter,
how the sun electrified the paint
and made the homeless shadow
seem like a fisher-girl
swept in by a cruel
yet mythical tide.

Curious, I asked
whether she was from
the west or east side
of the African city.

He shook his head
and said lower Manhattan.
The girl , he explained,
was an Iraq War vet
living on the street, her anglo face
mottled with tears, some acne.

The sun blinked
into a dimmer light,
and as if the peregrine
understood; she cast her gothic frown
on that corner of my terrace.
We sipped our Chablis
and shuddered.
________________________________________________
Note -- The painting is called, "Sentinelle", by French artist, Marie-France Riviere and can be seen with more of her lovely, evocative work at this online gallery --
www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Redemption

2010-10-18T10:43:00.001-07:00

Scattering
everything, spells, cries
of the sybil she was
in her first life....
Shirley Kaufman

The wind turns brisk
and a match-flicker of sun
lights three crows perched
on a Joshua tree.

Their dark shine
offsets a pale woman
who wanders the field
gathering wild shrub blossoms.

Sage, burgundy
and lavender are bundled
with vine. She will crush
the plants into pigment
for dyeing wool -- and

at the same time, crumple
her secrets into dust
which the birds may sense
as smoke rising
in the thick of Autumn,

exasperation
from a woman oracled
in her own guilt. The Season
tells her to let go, expose her loom
to softer colors.
___________________________________________
Note-- The beautiful illustration is called "The Wind" by Victorian artist, Emma Florence Harrison.

Nocturne Fading Into Light

2010-10-13T09:59:00.001-07:00

insomnia is almost an oasis
in which those who have to think or suffer darkly take refuge.
Sedonie Gabrielle Colette

Listening to the long moan

of a train,

morning dark, pillows soft

near our window pane,

I breathe the cool scent

of dampness, your shirt

washed in deep pines.

Slim introvert,

I feign sleep reposing

next to you

and sense all of your dreams

journeying through

my mind as well.

They ride the early rail,

linked scenes moving

fast in shadow, spare detail.

My form bends with your bone-

sculptured grace.

You have suffered loss

but comfort leaves this space

for me to draw you close

whether you rest or rise.

The train song airs, your past

travels on with those skies

of night and paling dawn.

Here, my presence will remain

like water softening stone,

eroding a fine man's pain.

________________________________________

Note --The Lovely painting is called, Insomnia" by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her fine work can be seen at her online gallery --
www.grivere.com/expo2000.

Courtship With The Heat

2010-10-05T12:55:00.000-07:00

So the equinox has come
but these next hours say
more of the equator than Autumn:
white sun, sheer haze and salt marsh daisies
wilting on the coast.
The heat is back
sitting bare-legged
along the wharf, draped in a slinky wind.

Her presence dissolves
the pain in your shoulder,
lets you feel relaxed
like those birds gliding
over the low surf, steam-
pressing the air with their wings.

Tomrrow, she will be more intense
exposing more light, less breeze.
The ferris wheel on the pier
wil be deserted, a jaw-dropping stillness
that prompts the day
and everyone to guess
why she's back
breaking the city' record, dazzling statistics
with her impertinent stare.

Yet, you say she is cool, calm
defiance against the norm, a strength
you feel in your bones
and splintered pilings
that uphold this outlook
toward the sea.
____________________________________
The lovely image is by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. The painting is called, "Une Biche en Automne" or "A Hind in Autumn". More of her evocative work can be viewed at her on-line gallery, www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Plums For Ingrid

2010-09-28T12:34:00.000-07:00

Ripe and succulent, plums not only add beauty to a plate of fruit but also convey a spiritual sweetness. Marie-France's "Tendres Plums de Septembre" make the eye and tongue crave this sense of mellow satisfaction. I kept thinking about their flavor and also, a certain symbolism that arose from watching a television interview with Ingrid Betancourt,the woman who was held hostage in the Colombian Jungle for over six years.

While discussing her sub-human living conditions, she talked about the lack of fresh fruit, even the dream of tasting it. Upon her release, she resumed a normal life and frequented the produce aisles of the supermarket. She wanted to hold all sorts of fruit, taste their goodness and learn to appreciate the garden's miracle in a new way. This simple yet profound idea inspired my poem, Plums for Ingrid, along with this stunning painting.

My verse focuses on a freed woman standing in her own garden. The foliage wet and overwhelmingly green, reminds her of the rain forest, of her captivity in the jungle. She is disturbed by the memory yet recalls how a prayer to taste blue plums, to simply feel their sensation on her tongue, preserved her humanity. Her plea to The Virgin Mother, Our Lady of Guadalupe, strengthened her faith and resolve to survive with dignity and grace.

PLUMS FOR INGRID

The leaves are still green, too green
and wet from the recent rain.
They remind her of the jungle's roof --

sharp light
falling through the trees
like machete blades
her captors held
and often threatened
to hone against her frail neck.

She longs for Autumn
to blush the garden ripe
with deep and soft colors.
The fruit on her table
partially grants this wish.
Plums, peaches and grapes
smell sweet; and when eating them,
she lets the juice seep
into her palms
as if it were a saint's blood,
rare and blessed.

Even the pits seem desirable,
stones to stone dreams
of too much rice and beans,
arroz y frijoles
served day after day
with the rattle of a padlock
and hunger itching more
than her insect bites.

While she ate, a rubber band
held her long hair in place,
and a prayer asking
to taste blue plums
kept her humanity intact,
tender -- - Our Lady of Guadalupe
sustaining her soul then
and now as the marble patroness
of her garden.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Note -- Arroz y frijoles is the Spanish term for "rice and beans", and serves here as an echo of painful drudgery each day of survival incurred.

This painting along with other beautiful works by artist, Marie-France Riviere can be seen at her website gallery, www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Lady In Jack-D Minor

2010-09-22T09:08:00.001-07:00

You'll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley...
Sting

Long and hip-length
I wore my hair,
low and lacey
my blouse to bare

pale shoulders
part of my breast,
I was number
seven -- the best.

Mix of sunlight
and ripe, barley scent,
Jack bottled me
in his lament

for the soft lady
who slipped away
beyond the fields
watching church bells sway

toward the havest sun;
its flight of birds,
of milkweed's breath, some dead
madam's drifting words.

She said I'd become
the sweet pulse of drink,
muse of the whiskey king,
a haunting clink

of glassware, smooth ice.
They'd all toast Tennesee,
girl with a parasol,
and her identity

left undisclosed --that
shadow beyond the door
where the candle's throat
stutters in flame --- paramour.
_____________________________________________

Note- The beautiful image is called , "Nostalgia" by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. Visit her gallery for more paintings of this high and evocative calibre. www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Reoccurence

2010-09-15T10:15:00.000-07:00

I wept under water, salt seeking salt,
for her beauty had fallen on me like a sword
Derek Walcott

A man stands on the island
watching storm waves charge
the pier --- white flounces
of a woman's gown whirling

beneath a sky gray
as the stone of the Bastille.
He has seen this same frenzy
shaping old paintings
by Spanish or French artists.
he passionately adores.

Often, a peasant girl
or goddess leads the mob,
her dress ripped, her features
luminous with rage. All brushstrokes
become a hurricane force
of breath that pushes beyond
the canvass into the observer's skin.

Last month, he watched his wife
turn the wall into a tableau
as she gripped the shutters,
her knuckles blanched, her hands
desperate to rip off
the window's ribs and puncture
clouds blown full with air, maybe
the cicada's pitch too,
that sounded like her own song
of insanity.

Though riven with voices
she wanted her original
soul back, untouched
so she could write music
and share a margarita
with the piano, rise
from a tomb while the pills
stayed piled in their plastic
bottles gathering attention
from her husband and the lamplight.

Dazed, he stood gleaming
as he does now
in his dress shirt and gray pants,
a titanium brace
that could only hold her so long,
offer loving support

until she decided to fall away
flailing her arms
before the moon, an attempt
to prune its pull
on the ocean and her own
unbalanced state of gravity.
________________________________________

Note -- The painting is called, "Alone" by 19th Century illustrator, Edmund Du Lac.

Late September

2010-09-10T09:13:00.000-07:00

The blood comes in a rush
let everything fall where it will.
Jane Kenyon

The golden rod has dimmed and drags itself
toward the ground. Last week
tassels dangled in the wind. A woman thought
they resembled the braided gold
on her nursery pillows. She took this
as a sign and felt the season
would yield more than sumac
apples and leaves. Too much red
enflames the field and branches,
seeps through the moon's pale eye
and her underskirts sheer
as the milkweed's gauze.

All Summer, she chewed wild herbs,
prayed to saints and made love
at ripe intervals. Still, nothing formed,
only condensation on the windows
and dust on the cradle.

Patience withered
leaving these flowers heaped
rough and brown like burlap.
If she touches them, fingers
might be scratched, skin
barely pricked but drawing tears
constant as the rain
that flooded her garden last night.

Makeover

2010-09-03T09:04:00.001-07:00

The windmill
turns in shadow
casting a black-eyed susan
on the barn wall.

Along the field,
a newsletter flaps
revealing
the woodcut grace
of women gathered
in a yard.

Headlines infer
they share a passion
for goat cheese
medallions, some Anjou pears.

Both go on sale
at The Peddler's Market
late this afternoon
but it's still a.m.

as the steel flower
spins faster
and this breeze kicks up
keeping pace
with a young horse drinking water.

His stone trough
is battered
like my porcelain tub;
and I stand here,
Sprint cell in hand,
waiting for the glazer
to call.

White or almond,
I haven't decided
on the shade
but somehow feel

the sun
sees me floating
beneath the glare
re-emerging
in tones of sepia,

restored
to a spare presence
of unbleached muslin
and candlestick phone.

After The Harvest

2010-09-02T12:15:00.001-07:00

Candles burn, their fingertips
scent the room with wild grapes.

A woman pours through death
like water through cracked stone;
and silently she stains
the house in sorrow

while a hoop of vines
dwindles on the back door.
Birds consumed its fruit
long before she stole the garden's cord

and wove Autumn into something
oval like her face, her eyes
and nails shading a sweet skin
some holy man may kiss
but never acknowledge
as the touch of a sorceress.

Autumn Moving In From The Coast

2010-08-31T10:10:00.000-07:00

The season unsettles, a sorceress
Calling up her wanton form
from coastal rock, wave and cypress tree.
She awakens my inner storm...
Nina Tai-Ling

You come wearing a crinoline
of winds blowing
crisp and cool,

your hair a loose twirl
of sequoia leaves,

your hands scented
with ocean salt and pine.

The high desert
did not expect you
so early.

Your arrival
takes us all by surprise:

The raven drops
a worm from his beak,

The sunflower
some dried seeds
from her jaw,

and I cast my shadow
under your brisk feet.

So walk-in and draw
the arid breath
from my lungs, exchange
your soul for mine.

Monterey woman, Monterey Fall --
the man of this house
needs a sea gypsy

to light the bath candles,
shape the bedsheets,
and most of all, to breathe --
wildly breathe.

----------------------------------------------
Note -- The painting is called, "embrasement au soleil couchant" or "Ablaze by the setting sun". The arist is Marie-France Riviere and her gallery can be viewed at this website, www.griviere.com/expo2000.

Spanning Time

2010-08-27T08:46:00.000-07:00

At six-thirty,
the sun rises
grasping bell towers and palm leaves
in its flame.

Slowly, it stretches
further down
brightening the beach
and the back of a young man
pedaling his bike.

Rays of light
shadow his knapsack
pointing toward
the personal contents
inside; some bread, some cheese
and a book.

Last night, he turned
five pages and read
poems on old parchment,
learned of a lady
who entered the sea.

She carried the shore bird's song
on her shoulders
and round stones in her bodice.
She placed them beneath
the tight lacing
to mark her last moments on earth,

the weight of love
calibrated by sad tears,

of candlelight
haunting Autumn
from a dark piano

and her bare feet
rubbing against the wet
intimacy of sand

which should have been
her lover's torso
muscular and lean.

But it was merely sand
that would soon become
drifting time, even glass
spun into mirrors

reflecting back
the loneliness felt
in girl or season,

and currently, this coast --
line propelling
the tourist to ride
along the sea
shaping words into a ghost.

Intent, he looks for her
floating in between
bell song and palm sway,
the morning's air transformed

into human breath -- hers
soft and intimately close
as the French bread, the breast-white
ounces of Camembert
______________________________________________

Spanning Time is a poem depicting the lonely but quiet coastline after sunrise. Inspired by the wistful shading and lovely detail in Marie-France’s painting, “Il est cinq heures..”, this verse follows the morning light and focuses on a young man bicycling along the beach. The contents of his knapsack are revealed with special emphasis on a book of poems. He has read several pages and becomes infatuated with their main character –- a lady who walked into the sea suffering from despair and desertion by her lover.

According to the poems, she wandered the shore collecting stones to signify her “last moments on earth” and carried the grievous song of the sea gull on her shoulders, The bird’s plaintive cry matched the anguish she felt within. She ached from the weight of love, candlelit music echoing Autumn’s melancholy mood and her feet rubbing against the sand, the sand which was warm and softly wet like the remembered body of her partner. As she walked barefoot toward the waves , she knew the sand would eventually turn to drifting time; and perhaps, be used to make glass, mirrors that could reflect back all the loneliness captured within the drama of the coastline and her life.

And her instincts prove true as the vacationer rides along the sea imagining her figure floating between the palm leaves and bell towers. It’s early morning and the sweet air becomes her breath clinging close to him as the fresh bread and creamy cheese in his knapsack.

Note--- As my blog entry indicates, the lovely painting is called, "Il est cinq heures" or "five hours since", by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. More of her lovely work can be viewed at this website, www.griviere.com/expo2000.
.

Imaginative (The Fifth Trait)

2010-08-10T09:29:00.001-07:00

Ione
appears young,
lovely girl with the taut skin
and long neck

using mushrooms, sea sponge
and volcanic clay
to uphold the myth.

Yet, her mind
is owned by a song
two thousand years away

that turns her skull
when evening tides wash in
from white bone to shell
spiraling down

to shadows lacquered
on an urn,
to shafts of grain
brushing the moon’s eyelid
which drew the goddess
and bridled deer
home at dawn.

Here, she wanders
a weightless nymph
submerged in the saltwater
fields of Atlantis.

She can feel her taste
strewn among the wheat
and olives, drawn
to the tall hero
with the steel bow
and tender heel.

His weakness the wound
of pride, Her find
the grace of staying
eternal.
_______________________

The painting is called "Sea Shell: by French artist, Marie-France Riviere.
More of her evocative and lovely work can be found here, www.griviere.com/expo2000.

August Wren

2010-08-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

I attune my coffee break to watching
the south window. I know she might come
making landfall where a branch
of chokeberries dangle their abacus
in the sunlight. She prefers odd-numbered days
when nothing appears equal and more time
is given to breath than stillness
as wind scatters seed and leaf
across the ledge. I have known her throughout
these Summer days, pecking at garden scraps
and pausing to distract me
when she wants to sing --
I am love's familiar , memory's bookmark.

Her wings impersonate the shade
of weathered timber, the same
mottled grain that comprised
the gazebo we sat in last weekend
lip reading the flowers and the clouds.
Rain fell quickly like a spray
of wedding rice , and we were christened
Jubilant, preserved
as the afternoon stayed cool
clinging to the height of evergreens
and the mountains' puckered stone.
_________________________________________________
Note-- the painting is called, "Captive's Return" by Henry Ryland.

Ghaliyah

2010-08-09T10:26:00.001-07:00

A woman, secluded in her white hijab, writes as morning spreads a rug of palm shadows across the floor. She worries about her daughter, that silence wailing behind shutters, coffee sips and leaves fanning streets where rain barely falls. Pensive, her poem describes the girl with some distance, some wishful thinking..

Crumbled stone and blood-stained moss,
she has seen too much
to veil the day in prayer.

Balloons are gathered,
black as clustered grapes
then released ---- a flock of crows
to count for the dead.

This offers nothing,
for my daughter, my youngest one.
She needs to feel a star
steal her breath
as it flowers on the sea
without a flash
of gunfire mocking the sun.

She is tired of talk,
broken ties ---- a winding wall
that divides shelled houses
from a host of olive trees.

So in these last weeks of March,
she moves to Spain, fills her hair
with the scent of blossoms

and lets it float her soul
like a sweet parachute
over hills until she lands
inside the gates of Alhambra.

Ravens Who Never Returned

2010-08-04T13:06:00.001-07:00

unable to steer
any other course but
away.
Carla Martin-Wood

When time was not measured
by the watch bell or wheel's shadow,
ravens flew pale
glimmering like corn
that silvered in the Summer sun

or the limbs of Susannah
scrubbed to sea pearl whiteness
as she washed in the solitude
of her bower. Her intent
not yet defiled by The Elders.

These birds hungered simply,
roots, vines, flower seeds
pine cones even straw.
They did not kill for meat,
claw the heart
or peck the eye.

They clutched dreams,
delivered them with wings
gliding easily on the wind.
Their darkness evolved
later when The Elders
condemned their desire for flight,
their need to explore,

when The Judges
stripped the right of self
from a Hebrew wife
who dared to dismiss
her handmaidens
while bathing at dusk.

Their lust became her fault,
their excuse to control.
And so it was the same
with any free spirit
that flew east beyond
their garden wall,
their guiding hand.

The birds soon changed
as the weather warmed too quickly,
their fair plumes
falling to albino ash
and a stealth darkness
left shining iridescent in the light,
a bruised radiance
reverberating in the hair
of the Hebrew woman,
the Bedouin veil
and the small lungs of girls
afraid to breathe
dreading the next turn
of a doorknob,
the motioning flame
of a lamp.

.

Aspects of The Singer Child

2010-08-04T10:19:00.001-07:00

( A wayside village in Normandy, 1914)

The stray purr of her song
wanders between the circus wagons.
She sings
because she will not cry.

Tears inflame the eyes with salt
and there is already enough fire
in her hair.

Some call her, the tangerine girl ---
daughter of the contortionist
who beguiles the crowd
as he changes his body
from jointed spider to sculptured bird.

His oddity
entertains the public
but her own
instills fear, face
of the fairy child
shadowed by wind, transfixed
darkly whenever she sees
a spirit or saint.

Last week
she saw Saint Theresa
in a meteorite shower,
flaming blossoms
that fell earthward
and cooled to stone.

When her father asked
what it all meant,
she did not reply
but sang Dame Tartine,

her eyes staring
at a woman's veil stitched
with glittering thread, an embroidered date
evoking Summer, so many

sunflowers rouged in blood,
fields rutted by cannon wheels
and ashes scattered
like dirty bread mocking
the taste of wine, sweet butter.
________________________________________________

Note -- "Dame Tartine" is an old French folksong meaning "Lady Bread and Butter". It's popularity orignated in the countryside and was a favorite among children. Here, the child sings it as a defense against a grim and prophetic reality she has been fated to forsee.

Scene Enacted Toward The Back Of The House

2010-07-29T10:54:00.001-07:00

I am about to slant
the shutters downward
but you knock, your handsome face
captured on evening's window.

I perceive more of you now
in this after light
when dusk dims the stress
of a business day,

and the moon draws out
the poet, his eyes
that see it floating large
as a water opal
in the desert sky.

They invite me to join
the gazing, to step
beyond the door
and let my shadow dissolve
with yours, transfigured in the trees
as Saguaro pillars
cast their temple on the ground.
__________________________________

The painting is called "Summer Evening" by Edward Hopper.

Girl On A Country Lake

2010-07-28T09:38:00.001-07:00

She is done bathing
and slips into the hillside view
where a convent drags time
through ghostly ruins of limestone.
The blue tower is mute, its bell cut down
during the war. Morning begins
with her hands wringing out
long hair, water sung
in a high, soprano shine by the sun.
___________________________________________________
The lovely painting is by French artist, Marie-France Riviere. Please visit her website at www.griviere.com/expo2000. It is well worth the visit to her beautiful gallery of images.

Torchiere

2010-07-28T09:33:00.000-07:00

though a fierce wind, I caught her
centered in thought, whirling flight --
this female lamp, this spirit
of flame, contagious light!
Nina Tai Ling

Let the wind loosen
and drag away
anything that binds --

barrett, bodice
an obsession with
staying bone-thin, skin-pale
love-spared.

Let me whirl, hair-long
into the hot breath
of Summer
serving risk, calling down
the scavenger bird
not a savior dove.

Let the wind level
my defense, unleash
the light of bones,
their bright marrow burning
inside this female
torchiere, her presence
stretching boundless
as shadows on the sand.
_____________________________
Based on Marie-France's gorgeous and free-spirited painting, "Le Chapeau de Mireille" and its allusion to the fierce, Mistral winds of Southern France. View the painting here --
http://www.griviere.com/expo2000/mfr9p7/mfr607.jpg

Marie-France's beautiful painting, Le Chapeau de Mireille, captured my imagination with its wild impulse and feminine freedom. I loved the swirling motion of the wind and the young woman caught up in its raw power. This became the inspiration for "Torchiere". My poem studies a woman who is confined by her fear of passion and life. She has kept herself from sunbathing on the beach, falling in love and indulging in food that could cause a slight weight gain. She has been obsessed with staying safe, untouched by risk until now when her need to break free overwhelms everything else. Her heart wants to beat with an exciting rhythm. Her bones yearn to be lit by a vibrant flame springing from the rich marrow within. Her figure whirls into the gusty air; and she is transformed into a slender torchiere, a female lamp whose presence is seen, felt and destined to influence others beyond the boundaries of location and time. Her confidence is strong as the ocean wind and her breath of light, contagious!

Baring The Soul Of Modigliani's Nude

2010-07-22T11:46:00.001-07:00

He treated women like his bottle
of green liqueur, something to consume
his need and interest. His painting
was a process which required
compliance from the model, the room,
the brush, itself.

Yet when he angled her
bare against an oak headboard,
her face resting
on shoulders carved
from bone-deep despair,
he seated a woman
leaning against her cross,

The Female Nude. Her features
expressed the geometry of sides.
Her view of why
she slept with strange men.
Survival at first, later adoration.
Society's view -- an actress
who was too ambitious.
The church's view -- inherent sin.
Her mother
never baptized the love-child
or sent her to the nuns
for salvation and proper schooling.

And perhaps, a fourth view,
the artist. He needed financing
and asked her to sleep
with his patrons
out of love, out of sacrifice
for their future. Perspiring

she must have agreed
reluctantly, turned her head
downward with hair
falling damp as mist
against those walls
washed in storm-cloud blue.

Paint was still peeling
in the corners. Some hair pins
had fallen; and between her feet,
they lay scattered
like tortoise shell nails --
serrated and probing

Naming The Undeniable

2010-07-22T10:35:00.000-07:00

some need is in me
struggling to roar through my
mouth into a name...
Lucille Clifton

She beckons every few hours --
an urge, a whirl of smoke
scenting the terrace.

Lightly pencilled in, her languid shape
evokes the ghost
of Carmen swirling her skirts
from one side to the other,
smoker to quitter
and round again.

Her smile flares, each corner
stealing its red allure
from the toreador's cape.

You cannot resist
her song of pleasure
as she turns
and throws a blossom of embers,
this hot bird-of paradise
flying from her hand
to your showered feet
gleaming on the door sill.

If you step down
reaching for that token,
her menthol hem
snagged on your tongue,
I will not blame
or love you less
as a man --
but understand how
I am drawn to you.

It's not flirtation
rolled up in bedsheets
or Roman shades
when the sun arrives;
but a desire inhaled
and matured to a passion
I do not wish to curb
or watch dissipate
like the ache
of prayer bells
numbing slowly into twilight.
_________________________________

This poem, based on Marie-France's beautiful picture, " Carmen à la rose ", studies temptation and addiction. The female speaker addresses her husband's cigarette habit and its haunting effects. She personifies the temptation to smoke as Bizet's Carmen, the gypsy girl who seduced men with her wanton charm and dangerous smile.

The wife knows her partner has tried to quit but is always lured back by the seductive scent of tobacco. She envisions this temptress dancing on the terrace, calling her husband outside to indulge in the splendor, to become stimulated by a token tossed at his feet, that "blossom of embers", that treasured flower of menthol and nicotine.

And as she reflects on this influence, she realizes no blame should be issued toward the man or no love lessened because of his need to smoke. It's intense, addictive and very much like the need she has for him. Her own affection is rooted in a sacred passion to belong to him, to feel the hunger and dependency that deep emotion can command. In fact, she concludes that she has inhaled this desire for him and never wishes for its ache or joy to dissipate like the poignant echo of prayer bells fading in the twilight.

To see more of Marie-France's beautiful artwork, please visit her gallery at
www.griviere.com/expo2000.