Beetle Joyce, Irish Kafka

   i fell into a field of flowers
and lingered here for ten long hours
because on every petaled face
caressly lips  i could retrace;

my swiftly simple soul was spilt
as i watched  one flower wilt:
as each petal    soft as felt
fell to the Earth where i was knelt,

     i realized how cruel time
  steams up the ridge of pantomime
 whereby the tracks,  upon the lip
 of the hill, we toil and somewhen slip

   and fall off the trecherous tracks
into the languid flowers. on our backs,
  yawning  exhaustly  from the fall,
 too timidly tired to utter a call,

 we stare  into the freckled blue
sky high above this flowered view-
ing bed; we listen to the distant   whistles
with ourselves amidst the stamen and the pistils

   as now here i nestle,  sitting
with the empty stem of love spitting
      hard, dry petals  at my hand,
   holding my body  to the land

   again   i will not rise un-
     til the face of the luminous sun
   crests the western rise of pine
    and oak, until her eyes shine

    on my precarious body
     against this sod.  me,
   with what memory whispers
¡ah, crescendo! in lead-lined slippers,

   i left my work, my hammer
   i left the cracked tracks clamor
   to sift memory  from the day
   to knead the bread of heart; i say,

   i fell into a field of flowers
and lingered here for ten long hours
because on every petaled face
caressly lips i could retrace.

I’m sensing a lot of brosterone at this show.

“Dear Savior”
she whispered as the evening wandered off

she laced her fingers, squeezed
until her snowy knuckles ached

the heat of her prayers
peeling the paint off the pipes

it was a small hiding place

what has wit
which never nods
at even odds
with deftly gods
rummaging through
the other
round sound
falling down
the bobbing buoys
dancing
on the over-crowded ocean’s
sidelong silvery silhouette?

certainly something spectacular.

write a poem
says she

write one
about a lion who sleeps

and there’s a cave
and preening of course
… of course

and hunting — lots of delicious hunting
… yes

because cats love to hunt
… yes

big cats
… yes

meow Continue reading write a poem says she →

In the world of the very small
A syllable and a symbol met and agreed
Seventeen and seventeen are not equal.

I’ve never done
an etching
nor a chalk
drawing
nor painted with pastels, but—
I’ve done other things—
and I don’t much like being called an artist
especially by
thems who claims they ain’t
and especially too
by thems who claims they is